Part 2

In some cases they got information from French villagers whom they had bought before they retreated. I saw one such case myself. We were bivouacked in a ruined village, and a lot of us were sleeping in and around a cottage that hadn't been damaged. We were downstairs, while the owner of the cottage and his wife and kid had the upstairs room. One of our boys happened to go outside in the night and, by jingo! he saw the fellow coolly signaling with a lamp behind his curtain. He went along and told the Captain, who was at the schoolhouse, and they came back with a couple of under officers and arrested them red-handed. He tried to hide under the bed, and howled for mercy when they pulled him out. His wife never turned a hair--the Sergeant told me she looked as if she was glad he'd been caught. They shot him there and then in his own yard, and his wife was around in the morning just as if nothing had happened.

_"Pluckiest Thing in the War."_

After that we always used to be very suspicious of any house or village that wasn't devastated when everything round had been chewed up; there was nearly always a spy concealed somewhere not far off. To give you a case in point: There was a fine big château near Craonelle, where our trenches were, that hadn't been bombarded, though they had stripped most of the furniture and stuff out of it. Well, one fine day the General commanding our section thought it would be a convenient place to hold a big pow-wow. He and his staff had only been seated at the table about ten minutes when a whacking great 310-millimeter shell burst right on top of the darned place, followed by a perfect hail of others. The General and his staff ran for their lives; luckily none of them were badly hurt, though they got the deuce of a scare.

After the bombardment some of us went along to look at what was left of the château, and--will you believe me?--we found a little old Dutch sous-off half choked in the cellar, but still hanging on to the business end of a telephone. I call that the pluckiest thing I've seen at the war, and I can tell you we were mighty sorry to have to shoot him. He never turned a hair, either, and we didn't even suggest bandaging his eyes. He knew what was coming to him from the start; that he was as good as a dead man from the moment he got into the cellar. He told us he had been there a week, just waiting for some confiding bunch of French officers to come along and hold a meeting.

It's funny how some men meet death, anyway. We had one nigger prize fighter along with us named Bob Scanlon. He was the blackest coon you ever saw, until one day there came a great big "marmite" that burst almost on top of him and buried him in the mud. We dug him out, and he wasn't even scratched, but ever afterward he has been a kind of mulatto color, he was so darned scared by the narrowness of his escape.

_Good Way to Die._

Another boy, an Englishman, got out of the trench one day to stretch his legs, as he said he was tired of sitting still. Some one called to him to come down and not be a fool, as the Germans were keeping up a constant rifle fire, and after a minute or two he jumped back into the trench. "They didn't get you, did they?" called out some one. "Oh, no!" he answered, sitting down. Then all of a sudden he just keeled over slowly sideways without a sound, and, believe me, when they went to pick him up he was as dead as David--plugged clean through the heart. He never even felt the shock of it. If they do ever get me, that's the way I hope to die.

BERT HALL.

FRENCHMAN MEETS THAT STRANGE BEING, TOMMY ATKINS.

LATTER'S UN-FRENCH WAYS AMUSINGLY DEPICTED BY PARISIAN JOURNALIST FOR HIS READERS.

The thousands of English soldiers now on French soil are, to Frenchmen, strange, exotic creatures, the study of which is full of delightful surprises. Recently a French journalist traveled to the trenches, interviewed several specimens of the genus Tommy Atkins, and published the results in a Paris newspaper.

One Tommy was "of the species crane," with thin legs and arms like telegraph wires, by no means as taciturn as the Frenchman had believed Englishmen to be. He told the Frenchman some tall yarns.

"In one fight our battalion lost five hundred men," he vouchsafed. "One bullet, which just scratched my nose, killed my pal beside me."

Another Tommy dwelt on the awful fact that he had been "twenty-two days on water without any tea in it." He, too, had been in the thick of the fray and had killed several of the enemy with his own hand, which, recounts the Frenchman, filled him with "a gentle joy."

"Are the inhabitants of this part of France hospitable?" the journalist inquired of another Englishman.

"Awfully nice!" replied the soldier. These words the correspondent, after giving them in English, to show how strange they look, translates: "Terriblement aimable"--a combination which must appear perfectly incomprehensible to Frenchmen, who do not see how a thing can be "awful" and "nice" at the same time.

At a village in Northern France the newspaper man found some English soldiers instructing a lot of village boys in the rudiments of football.

"When the French team scored a point," he writes, "I said to one of the Englishmen: 'But aren't you ashamed to let them beat you at your own game?' To which the Briton replied: 'Ah, but we want to encourage the people of France to take up sports!'"

Football was being played wherever there were Englishmen. Often the games were between teams of English and French soldiers. Where a ball was not to be had, the players were quite content to kick about a bundle of clothes.

When not thus engaged, the English soldier finds time to enter the lists of Cupid. The French writer tells of one Tommy whom he saw "promenading proudly before the awe-struck glances of the villagers with three girls on his arm!"

"The English? Oh, they're good fellows!" remarked a villager in whose house a number of the allies of France were quartered. "They're in bed snoring every night at eight. They get together in my kitchen while I make their tea and sing sentimental songs. They're all musical." The journalist adds, in corroboration of this statement, that he himself heard Tommies "singing discordantly to the accompaniment of the cannon."

Also he found that Tommy had a sense of humor. On one occasion, he learned, a German officer came charging at the head of his men into an English trench. Leaping over the edge of it, he fell headlong into a sea of black mud, from which he picked himself up, black and dripping, and exclaimed:

"What a confounded nuisance this old war is, isn't it?"

Whereupon a Tommy, about to run his bayonet through the intruder, burst into roars of laughter, and made him a prisoner instead.

"And the Tommies are philosophers, too," writes the Frenchman. "I heard one of them say solemnly to a comrade: 'If you have any money, spend it all to-day. You may be dead to-morrow!'"

ONE YOUNG SOLDIER WHO PROVED A HERO.

"Jean Berger, 'simple soldat' of the Second Regiment of Infantry, should, after the war, be Jean Berger, V. C. He is a Frenchman--yes; but listen to this story:

"He, a boy of about eighteen years of age, lies in hospital here, wounded badly, but not dangerously, in the side and also in the hand.

"Jean belongs to an old Alsatian family. After the war against Prussia, his grandfather refused to submit to the rule of the conquerors, and left the province to settle in Normandy. He passed his hatred of the Prussians on to his son, and the son instilled it in the four grandchildren.

"When war broke out, two of the sons were already in the army, one as an officer, and the father, calling to him the two boys who were not yet of age to be called upon by the military authorities, said to them: 'Go and enlist! And be sure to join regiments which will operate on the Alsatian frontier.'

"Jean joined the Second Regiment of Infantry, which was soon under orders for Upper Alsace. Before it arrived at the scene of operations, however, fresh instructions were received, and the Second went to operate with the English on the left. He went through the terrible ordeal of the battle of the Marne, and, with his regiment, now sadly diminished in numbers, but with its dash and spirit as of old, he formed one of the stupendous line drawn up to face the Germans in their tremendously strong positions on the Aisne.

"It was during one of the almost innumerable fights which, battles in themselves, are making up that Homeric struggle of the nations on the River Aisne that the Colonel leading the gallant Second was shot down. Machine guns were raking the quickly thrown-up trenches; showers of rifle bullets were falling everywhere around. With that heroism which takes account of nothing save the object in view, Jean rushed out of his shelter to carry his Colonel to safety.

"Through a rain of leaden death he passed scatheless, reached his Colonel, and carried him to safety.

_Back Through Hail of Lead._

"As he was performing his glorious act, he passed an officer of the Grenadier Guards wounded severely in the leg who called out for water.

"'All right!' cried Jean. 'I'll be back in a minute or two.'

"He put the Colonel in the shelter of a trench where the Red Cross men were at work, procured some wine from one of the doctors, and set forth again to face the bullet showers. And again he went out untouched.

"Reaching the English officer, Jean held up the flask to the wounded man's lips, but, before he could drink, a bullet struck the young Frenchman in the hand, carrying away three fingers, and the flask fell to the ground. Quickly, as though the flask had merely slipped out of one hand by accident, Jean picked it up with the other; and, supported by the young Frenchman, the English officer drank.

"While he was doing so, a bullet drilled Jean through the side. Yet, in spite of the intense pain, he managed to take off his knapsack, and, searching in it, discovered some food, which he gave to his English comrade.

"'But what about you, yourself?' asked the officer.

"'Oh,' replied Jean brightly, 'it's not long since I had a good meal!'

"As the Guardsman was eating, he and Jean discovered that near them was a wounded German soldier, who, recovering from the delirium of wounds, was crying out for food and drink. The Englishman, taking the flask, which had still some wine in it, and also the remainder of the food from the Frenchman's knapsack, managed, though suffering great pain, to roll himself along till he reached the spot where the German soldier lay. There, however, he found he was, by himself, too weak to give the poor fellow anything.

"So he shouted to Jean to come to his assistance, and, though movement could only be at the cost of great pain, the young Frenchman managed, too, to reach the place, and together, Englishman and Frenchman, succored the dying German. One held him up while the other poured wine between his parched lips.

_All Fall in a Heap._

"Then human nature could stand no more, and all three fell, utterly exhausted, in a heap together. All through the long night, a night continuously broken by the roar of cannon, death watched over that strange sleeping place of the three comrades of three great warring nations.

"In the morning, shells bursting near them aroused the English officer and the French soldier. Their German neighbor was dead, and for a long time they could only wonder how the day of battle was going. When the forenoon was well advanced, they saw Germans advancing.

"Jean, who can speak German, called out: 'We are thirsty; please give us something to drink.' He was heard by some officer of Uhlans, who rode up, and, dismounting and covering them with his revolver, asked what was the matter.

"'We are thirsty,' replied Jean.

"The German looked at the little group. He saw his countryman lying dead with an empty flask beside him, and guessed what was the scene of comradeship and bravery which the spot had witnessed. He gave instructions to an orderly, and wine was brought and given to the two wounded men. Surely that is a scene and a deed which will wipe out many a bitter thought and memory of war!

"Just then the cannonade burst forth again with tremendous fury, and the German force which had come up had to retire. Shells were soon bursting all around, and fragments struck the English officer. He became delirious with pain, and the young Frenchman--stiff, feverish, and weak himself--saw that it was necessary to do something to bring the officer to a place where he would be safe and would receive attention.

"Jean tried to lift the Englishman, but found that he had not sufficient strength left to take his comrade on his shoulder. So, half lifting him, and dragging and rolling him at times, the gallant little piou-piou brought the wounded English officer nearer and nearer to safety and help. The journey was two miles long! * * * But at last it was over."

_May Get Victoria Cross._

"The two men came upon some trenches occupied by the allied forces; they were recognized and taken in charge by an officer of the English Red Cross. They had both just enough strength left to shake hands and say good-by.

"'If I live through this,' said the officer of the Guards, 'I shall do my best to get you the British Victoria Cross. I've your number and that of your regiment. God bless you, mon camarade!' And the Guardsman lost consciousness.

"Jean Berger lies in hospital here in Angers; he is expected to recover.

"That is the story; and that is why I believe that England will think that Jean Berger, 'simple soldat' of the Second Regiment of Infantry, should become Jean Berger, V. C.

"For the two nations have become one by blood shed and bravery displayed, and, in addition, a little incident which I can relate will show that there is a precedent for a union of honors as there is evidence of a complete union of hearts.

"In the British Expeditionary Force there is an English soldier, a member of a cyclist corps, who is proud to wear upon his breast the 'médaille militaire' of the French Army.

"The story of the stirring incident has been told to me by Henri Roger, a young soldier of the Fifth Infantry who saw it from the trenches and who is now lying wounded in hospital here.

"During one of the engagements last week on the River Aisne, the Fifth was holding an intrenched position and was faced in the distance by a strong force of the enemy. To the right and left of the opposing forces were large clumps of trees, in one of which a force of English troops had taken up a position, a fact regarding which the Germans were unaware. In the other wood, it was soon discovered, lay a considerable body of German infantry with several machine gun sections.

_Cyclist Wins Decoration._

"A road ran beside the wood in which the enemy lay hidden, and along it a force of French infantry was seen to be advancing. How were they to be saved from the ambush into which they were marching? That was the problem, and it was a difficult one.

"Every time the French troops in the trenches endeavored to signal to their oncoming comrades hidden German sharpshooters picked off the signalers. Soon the position seemed to be almost desperate; every moment the intrenched French soldiers expected to hear the hideous swish of the Maxims mowing down their unsuspecting comrades.

"Suddenly, however, something happened which attracted the attention of the French and German trenches. From the wood where the English lay hidden a cyclist dashed--the English, too, had seen the danger, and a cyclist had been ordered to carry a message of warning to the advancing French column, several hundreds strong.

"The cyclist bent low in his saddle and darted forward; he had not gone a hundred yards before he fell, killed by a well-aimed German bullet. A minute later another cyclist appeared, only, in a second or two, to share his comrade's fate.

"Then a third--the thing had to be done! The bullets whizzed round him, but on he went over the fire-swept zone. The Frenchmen held their breath as they watched the gallant cyclist speeding toward the French column; puffs of smoke from the wood where the Germans were showed that the sharpshooters were redoubling their efforts. But the cyclist held on and soon passed beyond some high ground where he was sheltered from the Germans, but could still be seen by the intrenched French.

"The Frenchmen could not resist a loud 'Hurrah!' when they saw the daring cyclist dismount on reaching the officer in command of the troops which he had dared death to save.

"The officer heard the message and took in the position at a glance. He gave an order or two instantly, and turned to the Englishman.

"Then there was a fine but simple battle picture which should live.

"The deed which had saved hundreds of lives was one of those which bring glory as of old back to the horror of modern warfare. Courage, and courage alone, had triumphed, unsupported by any of the murderous machinery of the armies of to-day.

"That was what the French officer recognized. He saluted the gallant fellow standing by the cycle. Then, with a simple movement, took the 'médaille militaire'--the Victoria Cross of France--from his own tunic and pinned it on the coat of the Englishman.

"'I am glad,' young Roger told me when he had finished relating the story, 'to have lived to see that deed. It was glorious!'"

DR. MARY CRAWFORD OF BROOKLYN TELLS OF AMERICAN AMBULANCE WORK IN A PARIS HOSPITAL.

TRAGEDY AND HUMOR MIXED.

Dr. Mary Merritt Crawford, who in 1907 became widely known as Brooklyn's first woman ambulance surgeon, and who has established for herself since that time an enviable reputation in the medical profession, served in the American Ambulance Hospital at Neuilly-Sur-Seine under Dr. du Bouchet and Dr. Joseph Blake. Her letters recounting her experiences among the wounded describe in the most graphic manner the terrible nature of the wounds inflicted in modern warfare.

She writes:

"We have been getting so many men with frozen feet from the trenches. They have had much snow near Ypres, they say, and the cold is terrible. Last night one poor Frenchman, who had been in the trenches for several weeks before he was wounded, was told he would be sent away to-morrow. His regiment is still up north and he would be sent there. He went almost mad with despair and tried to kill himself. This is the only case I've come directly in contact with, although I've heard of others. I wonder there aren't more. Most of the little 'piou-pious' take it with wonderful stoicism. It is fate, and they accept it, but no one wants to go back to trench fighting. I don't blame them for anything they do. Human flesh and blood cannot stand it beyond a certain point."

* * * * *

"Two days ago we had a poor wretch admitted, who had, by actual count, 150 shrapnel wounds on him. You never saw anything so ghastly as he was. The shell had burst so close that all his hair was singed, and he was literally peppered with pieces of shell. He died to-night and I couldn't help but be glad a little, for his suffering would have been so awful and long-drawn out had he lived.

"To-day I'm dismissing one of my little zou-zous (Zouaves). He gave me one of his buttons as a souvenir, and when I gave him 2 francs he wouldn't take it until I told him to keep it as a souvenir, not as money. Then he did finally consent. He had to go out in the same dirty uniform, all blood-stained and with the bullet hole in his coat. The French Government is making the gray-blue clothes as fast as possible. I've seen a number when walking in Paris. They are the same cut as before, not as trim and compact as our service clothes, but the men inside are splendid, and as patients, ideal."

* * * * *

_A Dog That Saved His Master._

"I must write you just one story that came to me at the ambulance just before Christmas, even though it is a little late. We had a French soldier brought in frightfully wounded. He came from the region around St. Mihiel. One leg had to be amputated, and, besides that, he had half a dozen other wounds. His dog came with him--hunting dog of some kind. This dog had saved his master's life. They were in the trenches together, when a shell burst in such a way as to collapse the whole trench. Every one in it was killed or buried in the collapse, and this dog dug and dug until he got his master's face free, so that he could breathe, and then he sat by him until some reinforcements came and dug them all out. Every one was dead but this man. We have both the dog and the man with us. The dog has a little house all to himself in the court, and he has blankets and lots of petting, and every day he is allowed to be with his master for a little while."

* * * * *

"I am very tired to-night. For some time now I've had charge of the dental cases, in addition to my regular work. Just now I have nine of them. They are the men who have fractures of the upper or lower jaws besides other wounds. The American dentists here are doing wonderful work--some of the most brilliant that is done in any department. Such deformities you never saw. The whole front of one man's face is gone, and how we are going to build him a new one I don't see, but as soon as he is ready we'll begin grafting and plastic work generally. One of these men is a black boy, the saddest figure in the whole hospital to me. His identification tag was lost in transit. He doesn't read or write or speak a word of French and none of our Senegalesi, Moroccans, Algerians, or Tunisians can talk to him. He is utterly alone and lost. In the course of time the Government will place him, but it will be a long process. His wound is ghastly. The bullet hit his front teeth, but as his lips must have been drawn back in a snarl or laugh at the time, no wound appears there. The whole of his left upper and lower teeth were blown out, upper and lower jaw fractured and literally his whole left cheek blown away. You can put your fingers right into his mouth from just in front of his ear and see the inner side of his lips. It is awful taking care of him, but he is as patient as some poor dog who knows you are trying to help him.

* * * * *

"Next week I am going to have all my jaw cases photographed together. Their deformities are frightful, but they are cheery. One man whose whole front face is almost gone is now radiant. You see he couldn't smoke because he couldn't suck in the air, having no upper teeth or lip. Well, the dentists built him a kind of 'false front' of soft rubber, and now he is 'très gentil,' as he says, and can smoke nicely. My poor black boy is much better. Dr. Blake did a marvelous operation on his face and closed in most of the gap. Suddenly to-day we discovered he was talking French. Before he wouldn't say a word--couldn't, poor fellow!--and seemed not to understand. He says his name is Hramess ben something or other. Also he says that he fought for three days with that ghastly, blown-to-pieces face, and didn't give up until he got the bullet in his back. Did I tell you we got the bullet out, and he has it as a souvenir? He nearly died of mortification because we had thought he was a Senegalesi--he is so dark. He says he is an Algerian, and has told us his regiment.

"I must finish this letter with an attempted account of our wonderful fête de Noël, which was held here this afternoon [this letter was written on Christmas Eve], and which will terminate at midnight with a mass in the chapel. A famous opera singer is to sing Gounod's 'Ave Maria,' and I'm going to prop open my weary eyes and attend it.