Part 9

The _Lanfranc_ was attacked by a submarine about 7:30 Tuesday evening just as we had finished dinner. A few of us were strolling to and fro on the deck when there was a crash which shook the liner violently. This was followed by an explosion, and glass and splinters of wood flew in all directions. I had a narrow escape from being pitched overboard and only regained my feet with difficulty. In a few minutes the engine had stopped and the _Lanfranc_ appeared to be sinking rapidly, but to our surprise she steadied herself and after a while remained perfectly motionless. We had on board nearly 200 wounded prisoners belonging to the Prussian Guard, and about twice as many British wounded, many being very bad cases. The moment the torpedo struck the _Lanfranc_, many of the slightly wounded Prussians made a mad rush for the lifeboats. One of their officers came up to a boat close to which I was standing. I shouted to him to go back, whereupon he stood and scowled. "You must save us," he begged. I told him to wait his turn.

Meanwhile the crew and the staff had gone to their posts. The stretcher cases were brought on deck as quickly as possible and the first boats were lowered without delay. Help had been summoned, and many vessels were hurrying to our assistance. In these moments, while wounded Tommies--many of them as helpless as little children--lay in their cots unaided, the Prussian morale dropped to zero. They made another crazy effort to get into a lifeboat. They managed to crowd into one, but no sooner had it been lowered than it toppled over. The Prussians were thrown into the water, and they fought each other in order to reach another boat containing a number of gravely wounded soldiers.

The behavior of our own lads I shall never forget. Crippled as many of them were, they tried to stand at attention while the more serious cases were being looked after. And those who could lend a hand hurried below to help in saving friend or enemy. I have never seen so many individual illustrations of genuine chivalry and comradeship. One man I saw had had a leg severed and his head was heavily bandaged. He was lifting himself up a staircase by the hands and was just as keen on summoning help for Fritz as on saving himself. He whistled to a mate to come and aid a Prussian who was unable to move owing to internal injuries. Another Tommy limped painfully along with a Prussian officer on his arm, and helped the latter to a boat. It is impossible to give adequate praise to the crew and staff. They were all heroes. They remained at their posts until the last man had been taken off, and some of them took off articles of their clothing and threw them into the lifeboats for the benefit of those who were in need of warm clothing. The same spirit manifested itself as we moved away from the scene of outrage. I saw a sergeant take his tunic off and make a pillow of it for a wounded German. There was a private who had his arms around an enemy, trying hard to make the best of an uncomfortable resting place.

In the midst of all this tragedy the element of comedy was not wanting. A cockney lad struck up a ditty, and the boat's company joined in the chorus of Raymond Hitchcock's "All Dressed Up and Nowheres to Go." Then we had "Take Me Back to Blighty," and as a French vessel came along to our rescue, the boys sang "Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag and Smile, Smile, Smile." The French displayed unforgettable hospitality. As soon as they took our wounded on board, they improvised beds and stripped themselves almost bare that English and German alike might be comfortable.

The destruction of the _Llandovery Castle_ was as bad or worse than those already described. For a time the Huns ceased to sink hospital ships running from France to England, but when they learned, through spies, that the _Warilda_ carried no Germans, she was sunk early in August, 1918, with a loss of one hundred and twenty-three doctors, nurses, and wounded. After the _Llandovery Castle_, after the Warilda, there could be no further German pretense that Germany was waging any other than a barbarian war.

Such inhumanity seems like the work of madmen. Is the Kaiser insane? Are the German war leaders insane? Or are the German people, all, entirely different from the people we consider sane?

Let us remember that a Roman writer said many centuries ago, "Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad."

When the Huns are losing, they show themselves at their very worst. When they were winning in the first stages of the war, they committed deeds blacker than those of the barbarians who sacked Rome, but after the tide turned against them, then they became even worse and began to use the red cross as a target in bombing hospitals and torpedoing hospital ships.

Moreover, at the Second Battle of the Marne, orders were issued to the German soldiers, who were being driven back with great loss, that seemed too inhuman even for the modern Huns. They were as follows: "Henceforth the enemy is not to be allowed to recover his dead and wounded except behind his own position, even under the Red Cross flag. If stretcher bearers go out, a warning shot is to be fired. If no attention is paid to the shot, the enemy must be thoroughly engaged at once."

As the _Philadelphia Public Ledger_ says, "This is typical of Prussian militarism. It is precisely the sort of thing that our young men have sailed away across the Atlantic to uproot and finally destroy."

* * * * *

We do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy.

SHAKESPEARE.

"THEY SHALL NOT PASS"

The caves described in the Arabian Nights are not more wonderful than the rock citadel of Verdun; in many ways they are not so marvelous. The old citadel is now like a deserted cave, but a cave lighted by electricity and with a passenger elevator to carry one from the lowest floor to the top of the rock, a hundred feet above. In former wars it was a hive of soldiers.

Blasted out of the solid rock-hill are rooms, great halls, passages, hospitals, storerooms, and barracks. The heaviest shells of the enemy fall harmless from the natural rock. Here, one would think, a few soldiers could hold the town and the Meuse valley against greatly superior numbers. And this would be true if it were not for the fact that modern long-range guns can be placed by an enemy on the surrounding hills, once they have won them, and prevent food, ammunition, or supplies being brought to the citadel. Leaving these guns with enough men to work them, the great body of the enemy could then advance towards Paris, for the Meuse valley at Verdun is the highway from Metz to Paris.

The French generals realized long ago that the city and the valley could not, because of the increased power of big guns, be defended from the citadel. So they built great forts several miles from the city upon the hills which surrounded it, to halt the Germans when they should advance, as France knew they would when they were ready.

For an army to get from Germany into France and to the plains east of Paris, it was necessary to pass down the valley of the Meuse and through Verdun, and for this reason France spent vast sums of money to make these forts impregnable.

After the opening weeks of the World War had shown how easy it was for the German big guns to destroy the finest modern forts, like those at Liége, Namur, and Antwerp, the French command removed the garrisons from the forts protecting Verdun and placed them in trenches farther away from the city and the citadel, upon the second range of hills.

There was another way for the Germans to reach the plains of Champagne and of Châlons, which by treaty they had agreed not to use. That way was through Belgium. When the Huns declared this treaty only "a scrap of paper" to be torn up whenever their plans required it, and, to the surprise of all honorable nations, went through Belgium, they were soon able to reach the plains east and north of Paris, and Verdun ceased to be a key position. Verdun was about one hundred and fifty miles from Paris, and the Germans were already less than half that distance from the city. So when it was learned that the enemy had determined to capture Verdun, the forts surrounding it, and the highway through the river valley, the French command decided it was not worth holding at the cost in lives that would be necessary. To capture it would help the Germans very little, and to retire from it would greatly improve the French lines.

The Germans doubtless realized that this would be the decision of the French and that they would have an easy, an almost bloodless, victory. They also knew that all Germans and all Frenchmen had for centuries looked upon Verdun as a second Gibraltar and as one of the chief defenses of Paris and northern France, one which had been made--as the French thought--impregnable by the expenditure of vast sums of money. For this reason the Germans believed its loss would be taken as a terrible blow by the French people, and would be considered by the German populace as the greatest victory of the war. They hoped it might be the last straw, or one of the last, that would break the backbone of the French resistance. In order to give credit for this great victory to their future Kaiser, the armies of the Crown Prince were selected for the easy task.

The French command, it is said, had already issued the first orders for the retreat to stronger positions, when the French civic leaders realized Germany's game by which she hoped to win a great moral victory and to add to the hopes and courage of the German people; and although General Joffre believed it was a mistake, the French decided to remain just where they were.

The Germans were so sure of everything going as they had planned that they had advertised their coming victory in every corner of Germany and even in the Allied countries. When they found they were to be opposed, they brought up larger forces and when these were not strong enough to win, they increased them, until the Battle of Verdun, in which the Germans lost nearly half a million men in killed, wounded, and prisoners, became probably the greatest battle in the history of the world. It continued for six months.

Is it not strange that this, the greatest of all battles, was not a conflict waged to secure some territory, some river crossing, some fort, or some city absolutely necessary to win further progress, but a battle to add strength to the German mind and soul and to weaken the spirit of the French? Think of these modern Huns, who believe in the force of might and of material things, fighting for a victory over the spirit, which is never really broken by such things and is never _conquered_ by them, but is to be won only by justice, mercy, friendship, love, and other spiritual forces.

And the French spirit did not flinch or weaken. The French people and the French soldiers said, "They shall not pass," and they did not pass. The Germans brought their big guns near enough to destroy the city, but the citadel laughed at them. They captured Fort Douaumont and Fort Vaux, but later had to give them up to the French.

All of Hunland rejoiced when the Brandenburgers captured Fort Douaumont, and the disappointment of the French people made every one realize that to have given up the city and the citadel without a fight, even though it was wise from a military point of view, would have been a grave mistake. But before the long battle was over, the French soldiers made one of their most remarkable charges back of waves of shell fire and swept the Germans from the hill upon which the fort was built. They recaptured the fort, taking six thousand prisoners, and sent thrills and cheers through France and the civilized world.

No, they did not pass. The soul of France with her flaming sword stood in the way. The Huns were trained to fight things that they could see, that they could touch, that they could measure, and especially things that they could frighten and kill. The soul of France they could not see, just as they could not, at the opening of the war, see or understand the soul of Belgium, and just as they did not believe in or comprehend the soul of America, later. But the soul of France barred their way and they did not pass, for they could neither frighten her nor kill her.

For though the giant ages heave the hill And break the shore, and evermore Make and break and work their will; Though world on world in myriad myriads roll Round us, each with different powers And other forms of life than ours, What know we greater than the soul?

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The right is more precious than peace. We shall fight for the things which we have always carried nearest our hearts. To such a task we dedicate our lives.

WOODROW WILSON, 1917.

VERDUN

She is a wall of brass; You shall not pass! You shall not pass! Spring up like summer grass, Surge at her, mass on mass, Still shall you break like glass, Splinter and break like shivered glass, But pass? You shall not pass! Germans, you shall not, shall not pass! God's hand has written on the wall of brass-- You shall not pass! You shall not pass!

The valleys are quaking, The torn hills are shaking, The earth and the sky seem breaking. But unbroken, undoubting, a wonder and sign, She stands, France stands, and still holds to the line. She counts her wounded and her dead; You shall not pass! She sets her teeth, she bows her head; You shall not pass! Till the last soul in the fierce line has fled, You shall not pass!

Help France? Help France? Who would not, thanking God for this great chance, Stretch out his hands and run to succor France?

HAROLD BEGBIE.

THE BEAST IN MAN

A German leader once said, "The oldest right in the world is the right of the strongest." This is true and will always continue to be true as long as the world is made up only of inanimate matter and lifeless forces and of living, thinking beings who consider "the strongest" as meaning the powers or things that can cause the greatest destruction and the most terrible evil. The beasts recognize these as the strongest, and without question admit that the oldest right in the world is the chief right in the world.

But as men have become civilized, they have come to fear destruction, and even the loss of life, less and less, and have learned to feel the strength of beauty, truth, justice, mercy, purity, and innocence. So it comes to pass that Robert Burns mourns when his plow turns under a mountain daisy or destroys the home of a field mouse. Because he feels the influence of the innocent and the helpless, the "wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower" and the "wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie," he gives us two of the most beautiful poems in the English language, poems that, by the power of their tenderness, truth, and beauty, have brought tears to the eyes of many a strong, brave man who feared no enemy.

Such was the power of Joan of Arc when she led the French soldiers to battle and to victory,--simply the power of her belief and her faith, for she was a simple, untrained peasant girl, knowing nothing of how battles are to be won.

Such is the power of the English nurse, Edith Cavell, executed by the Germans as a spy, because she helped English and Belgians to escape from the German horrors in Belgium by crossing the line into Holland.

Such is the power of the murdered mothers and children on the _Lusitania_, the memory of whose wrongs cause English and American soldiers to go "over the top," crying "Lusitania! Lusitania!"

Such is the power of undaunted Cardinal Mercier, who in the very midst of German officers and troops, denounces German atrocities in Belgium, and yet is himself untouched.

The exercise of the right of the strongest, the _right_ which comes through _might_, brings about war. General Sherman, who knew the terrors of war from what he saw in our Civil War, said, "War is hell." He could not describe its horrors and so he used the one word that means to most people the most horrible state and place in which human beings can suffer. For many years most men have realized that war is the most dreadful scourge of the human race, and that it should be abolished. But as is always the case, men cannot agree,--which is, of course, the chief reason why there are wars. In the face of terrible calamities, disasters, and great crises, men will agree. Perhaps the World War will prove the great disaster that will lead men to do away forever with war.

For twenty-five years before the world's peace was rudely broken by the ambitions of Germany, the people of other countries had been urgently seeking some means of doing away with war. Peace societies had been organized and wealthy men had donated money to be used in efforts to secure the permanent peace of the world. A Peace Palace had been erected at The Hague from funds donated by the American multi-millionaire, Andrew Carnegie, who had also set aside a fund of $10,000,000 for the purpose of keeping the world at peace. The Nobel prize of $40,000 was awarded annually to the person anywhere in the world who had done the most for peace. Theodore Roosevelt, while President, won this by settling the Russian-Japanese War. The Tsar of Russia had proposed at one of the conferences of nations held at the Peace Palace that the nations should gradually do away with military preparations. We can see now why all these efforts failed. Germany had her mind and heart set on war and on conquering the world.

Most men agree that war is unnecessary, and before the German attack upon Belgium and upon the liberty of the world, many leaders of thought in other countries were sure a great war could never occur in modern times. One group argued that its cost in money would be so great that no nation could meet it for more than a few months. But the United States is, in 1918, spending nearly $50,000,000 a day for war, and she can continue to do so for some years, if necessary. The cost in dollars will never prevent war nor make a great war a very brief one.

But think of what the cost of the war for one year would accomplish if spent for the purposes of peace, for construction instead of destruction. Ten billion dollars, the approximate cost of the war for the United States for the year 1918, if put at interest at four per cent, would earn $400,000,000, or about the cost of the Panama Canal. This interest would send 500,000 young men and women to college each year, and pay all their necessary expenses. It would do away with all the slums and poverty of our great cities. If the cost to one nation for one year would, as a permanent fund, accomplish this, it is easy to realize that the world could almost be made an ideal one in which to live, if the money that all the nations spend upon the World War could have been saved and made a permanent fund for the betterment of world conditions.

Another group said, "Modern science has made war so terrible and so destructive that men will not take part in it, or if this is not true now, it soon will be." When we think of what has occurred and is occurring every day in the present war, this seems also unlikely.

When we read of guns that will carry a shell weighing a ton for over twenty-five miles which will, when it explodes, destroy everything within an eighth of a mile, and of guns less destructive that will carry over seventy-five miles, almost wholly destroying a church and killing sixty-five men, women, and children; when we read of bombs dropped from the sky, killing innocent women and children, hundreds of miles from the field of battle; of the terrible work of poison gases and of liquid fire; of battles above the clouds from which men fall to death in blazing air-planes, and of battles beneath the waves in which men sink in submarines to be suffocated to death; of an entire ridge being undermined and blown up by tons of dynamite, with an explosion heard nearly one hundred miles away and killing thousands: how can we believe that war is likely soon to become so terrible that men will not engage in it, if they are willing to do so now? Sir Gilbert Parker well says: "Guns have been invented before which the stoutest fortresses shrivel into fiery dust; shells destroy men in platoons, blow them to pieces, bury them alive; death pours from the clouds and spouts upward through the sea; motor-power hurls armies of men on points of attack in masses never hitherto employed; concealment is made well nigh impossible. These things, however, have but made war more difficult and dreadful; they have not made it impossible. They have only succeeded in plumbing profounder depths of human courage, and evoking higher qualities of endurance than have ever been seen before."

No, most people who are thinking about the subject to-day are agreed that wars will not end because of the destructive power of men, but through the constructive power of human feeling and intellect. When the great majority of men recognize, as so many do now, that as the world exists to-day, no nation can ever gain by a war of aggression, but that the nation at war loses her best, her young and strong, and has left only the old and defective who cannot fight, that she loses her industrial and commercial prosperity as well, and through these losses loses more than she can ever gain by conquest; when all nations realize that the destruction of great cathedrals like Rheims, of the beautiful town hall at Lille, of the unique Cloth Market at Ypres, and of a University like that of Louvain makes the whole world poorer beyond measure, then will men agree that no small group of men, and no single nation shall, in the future, be allowed to cause war; and then they will organize some power strong enough to prevent war.

Then will come the League of Nations to Enforce Peace, or the Parliament of Man of which Tennyson wrote in "Locksley Hall" seventy-five years ago. The poet seemed as in a vision to see the present World War with its terrors and its battles in the air. Perhaps his vision of the abolition of war and the federation of the world is equally true.

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales;

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue;

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunder storm;

Till the war drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle flags were furled In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.

WHEN GERMANY LOST THE WAR[4]

No man knows exactly when and where the three and twenty allies will win the war, but all men know when and where Germany lost it. It was four years ago this morning, at a point near Gemmenich, a village southwest of Aix-la-Chapelle. It was then and there that the first gray uniform crossed the frontier from Germany into Belgium.