AUTHOR OF “WITH THE ALLIES” ILLUSTRATED   NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 1916 Copyright , 1916, By CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS Published April, 1916...

This book was written during the three last months of 1915 and the first month of this year in the form of letters from France, Greece, Serbia, and England. The writer visited ten of the twelve sectors of the French front, seeing most of them from the first trench, and was also on the French-British front in the Balkans. Outside of Paris the French cities visited were Verdun, Amiens, St. Die, Arras, Chalons, Nancy, and Rheims. What he saw served to strengthen his admiration for the French army a

Paris , October, 1915. W hile still six hundred miles from the French coast the passengers on the Chicago of the French line entered what was supposed to be the war zone. In those same waters, just as though the reputation of the Bay of Biscay was not sufficiently scandalous, two ships of the line had been torpedoed. So, in preparation for what the captain tactfully called an “accident,” we rehearsed abandoning ship. It was like the fire-drills in our public schools. It seemed a most sensible pr

Amiens , October, 1915. I n England it is “business as usual”; in France it is “war as usual.” The English tradesman can assure his customers that with such an “old-established” firm as his not even war can interfere; but France, with war actually on her soil, has gone further and has accepted war as part of her daily life. She has not merely swallowed, but digested it. It is like the line in Pinero’s play, where one woman says she cannot go to the opera because of her neuralgia. Her friend repl

Paris, October, 1915. I n Artois we were “personally conducted.” In a way, we were the guests of the war department; in any case, we tried to behave as such. It was no more proper for us to see what we were not invited to see than to bring our own wine to another man’s dinner. In Champagne it was entirely different. I was alone with a car and a chauffeur and a blue slip of paper. It permitted me to remain in a “certain place” inside the war zone for ten days. I did not believe it was true. I rec

Athens, November, 1915. A t home we talk glibly of a world war. But beyond speculating in munitions and as to how many Americans will be killed by the next submarine, and how many notes the President will write about it, we hardly appreciate that this actually is a war of the world, that all over the globe, every ship of state, even though it may be trying to steer a straight course, is being violently rocked by it. Even the individual, as he moves from country to country, is rocked by it, not v

Athens, November, 1915. W e are not allowed to tell what the situation is here. But, in spite of the censor, I am going to tell what the situation is. It is involved. That is not because no one will explain it. In Greece at present, explaining the situation is the national pastime. Since arriving yesterday I have had the situation explained to me by members of the Cabinet, guides to the Acropolis, generals in the army, Teofani, the cigarette king, three ministers plenipotentiary, the man from St

Salonika, December, 1915. W e left Athens on the first ship that was listed for Salonika. She was a strange ship. During many years on various vessels in various seas, she was the most remarkable. Every Greek loves to gamble; but for some reason, or for that very reason, for him to gamble on shore is by law made difficult. In consequence, as soon as the Hermoupolis raised anchor she became a floating gambling-hell. There were twenty-four first-class passengers who were in every way first class;

Salonika, December, 1915. O n the day the retreat began from Krivolak, General Sarrail, commanding the Allies in Serbia, gave us permission to visit the French and English front. The French advanced position, and a large amount of ammunition, six hundred shells to each gun, were then at Krivolak, and the English base at Doiran. We left the train at Doiran, but our French “guide” had not informed the English a “mission militaire” was descending upon them, and in consequence at Doiran there were n

Salonika, December, 1915. T he chauffeur of an army automobile must make his way against cavalry, artillery, motor-trucks, motor-cycles, men marching, and ambulances filled with wounded, over a road torn by thousand-ton lorries and excavated by washouts and Jack Johnsons. It is therefore necessary for him to drive with care. So he drives at sixty miles an hour, and tries to scrape the mud from every wheel he meets. In these days of his downfall the greatest danger to the life of the war correspo

Paris, January, 1916. I t is an old saying that the busiest man always seems to have the most leisure. It is another way of complimenting him on his genius for organization. When you visit a real man of affairs you seldom find him surrounded by secretaries, stenographers, and a battery of telephones. As a rule, there is nothing on his desk save a photograph of his wife and a rose in a glass of water. Outside the headquarters of the general there were no gendarmes, no sentries, no panting automob

Paris, January, 1916. W hen speaking of their five hundred miles of front, the French General Staff divide it into twelve sectors. The names of these do not appear on maps. They are family names and titles, not of certain places, but of districts with imaginary boundaries. These nicknames seem to thrive best in countries where the same race of people have lived for many centuries. With us, it is usually when we speak of mountains, as “in the Rockies,” “in the Adirondacks,” that under one name we

Paris, January, 1916. A t home people who read of some splendid act of courage or self-sacrifice on the part of the Allies, are often moved to exclaim: “I wish I could help! I wish I could do something!” This is to tell them how easily, at what bargain prices, at what little cost to themselves that wish can be gratified. In the United States, owing to the war, many have grown suddenly rich; those already wealthy are increasing their fortunes. Here in France the war has robbed every one; the rich

February, 1916. A year ago you could leave the Continent and enter England by showing a passport and a steamer ticket. To-day it is as hard to leave Paris, and no one ever wants to leave Paris, as to get out of jail; as difficult to invade England as for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. To leave Paris for London you must obtain the permission of the police, the English consul-general, and the American consul-general. That gets you only to Havre. The Paris train arrives at Havre at nine