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 Social Sciences & Humanities Library 
 
 University of California, San Diego 
 Please Note: This item is subject to recall. 
 
 Date Due 
 
 DEC 2 1997 
 
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 CI 39 (5/97) 
 
 UCSD Lib.
 
 " WE'LL STICK TO THE FINISH ! " 
 
 "C'est la Guerre' 
 
 (It is the War)
 
 Photo by Garo 
 
 JOE MITCHELL CHAPPLE 
 
 Photograph taken with Gas Mask
 
 m^mmmimmmmmmmimmmmmmmmm*m***m~m~ up* •mm> 
 
 "WE'LL STICK 
 
 TO THE FINISH! " 
 
 'C'est la Guerre' 
 
 (It is the War) 
 
 A Voice from the Soldiers and 
 Sailors Overseas — People and 
 Places Visited in the War Zones 
 
 by 
 
 Joe Mitchell Chapple 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 CHAPPLE PUBLISHING COMPANY, Limited 
 
 1918
 
 Copyright, 1918 
 
 BY 
 
 Job Mitchell Chapplb
 
 lefcuatefc 
 
 TO THE 
 
 &olbier0 anb bailors of ttje rUliesf 
 
 WHOSE IMMORTAL DEEDS 
 
 ARE RECORDED 
 
 IN SELF-SACRIFICE 
 
 AND BLOOD
 
 List of Illustrations 
 
 The Author Frontispiece 
 
 Facing Page 
 
 Woodrow Wilson, President of the United States. ... 16 
 
 Col. Edward M. House 17 
 
 Premier Clemenceau of France 32 
 
 French "75" Bombarding German Trench 33 
 
 Clemenceau, "The Tiger," Reviewing British Troops . 33 
 
 "Do with Us as You Like" 48 
 
 General John J. ("Fighting Jack") Pershing 49 
 
 In the Front Lines 64 
 
 In No Man's Land 64 
 
 On Their Way 65 
 
 German Prisoners on Way to Prison Camp 65 
 
 Henry P. Davison, Chairman American Red Cross. . 80 
 
 American Red Cross Rest House Behind Italian Front 80 
 
 Map Showing American Red Cross Activities in Italy 81 
 Report of the Author's Address which appeared in the 
 
 Leading Newspaper of Rome 96 
 
 General Diaz, Commander in Chief of Italian Army . . 97 
 
 Orlando, Premier of Italy 112 
 
 Guglielmo Marconi, Senator and Inventor 113 
 
 Nite — Italian Minister of Finance 128 
 
 Conveying Supplies in Besieged Venice 129 
 
 Luncheon in Paris 129 
 
 Andre Citroen, France's Foremost Munition Manu- 
 facturer 144 
 
 Le Marechal Joff re 145 
 
 Sir Douglas Haig, Commander in Chief of British 
 
 Army 160 
 
 (Tii)
 
 List of Illustrations 
 
 Lloyd George, Premier of England 160 
 
 Generalissimo Foch, Commander in Chief of Allied 
 
 Armies 161 
 
 Sir Eric Geddes, Britain's First Lord of the Admiralty 176 
 
 Admiral William S. Sims, U. S. N 177 
 
 Hon. Newton D. Baker, Secretary of War, U. S. A. . . 192 
 
 Hon. Josephus Daniels, Secretary of Navy, U. S. A. . . 192 
 
 Lord Leverhulme, the Creator of Port Sunlight 193 
 
 Hon. W. G. Sharpe, American Ambassador to France. 208 
 Hon. Walter Hines Page, American Ambassador to 
 
 the Court of St. James 209 
 
 Hon. Thomas Nelson Page, American Ambassador to 
 
 Italy 224 
 
 Area Miss Storey's Hot Comforts Fund 225 
 
 King Albert of Belgium 240 
 
 His Majesty, George V of England 241 
 
 President Poincare of France 256 
 
 Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy 257 
 
 viii )
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 I. C'est la Guerre — It is the War 1 
 
 II. Sailing for France 8 
 
 III. Paris under Bombardment 14 
 
 IV. Face to Face with Clemenceau — "The Tiger" 22 
 V. With Pershing and His Men 34 
 
 VI. With the American Troops in a Gas Mask. 50 
 
 VII. Under the Red Cross Banner in France ... 68 
 
 VIII. A Sunday Visit with Marshal Joffre 83 
 
 IX. Ancient Rome in Modern War Times 92 
 
 X. Orlando and Italy's Lawmakers 107 
 
 XI. Sieged Venice by Night and Day 115 
 
 XII. Along the Italian Front 127 
 
 XIII. With the Rolling Canteen in Italy 144 
 
 XIV. Andre Citroen, an Industrial Leader of 
 
 France 153 
 
 XV. Generalissimo Foch, the Strategist 161 
 
 XVI. Sir Douglas Haig, British Commander 166 
 
 XVII. Lloyd George— The Lion of No. 10 Down- 
 ing Street 171 
 
 XVIII. "The Admiralty" and Admiral Sims 181 
 
 XIX. A Visit to the Grand Fleet 194 
 
 XX. With the American Destroyers — The Doom 
 
 of the Submarine 209 
 
 XXI. Lord Leverhulme and the Six-Hour-Day. . 225 
 
 XXII. American Ambassadors in Warring Europe. 237 
 
 XXIII. Among the Workers Behind the Lines 252 
 
 XXIV. King Albert in His Trenched Domain 273 
 
 XXV. London in War times 284 
 
 XXVI. Homeward Bound— Smoke Talk 296 
 
 (ix)
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 THIS book was never planned — it grew. I 
 went to the Western Front in the capacity 
 of a magazine editor, largely to see things, 
 to feel the spirit of our men overseas, to talk 
 with them in a friendly and informal way, to mix 
 with them, live their life, eat their food, and to 
 know at first-hand something of Pershing and his 
 men; of Sims and his sailors. 
 
 The purpose has grown with the book. It has 
 broadened until my travels have covered all fronts, 
 from Flanders Field to the highest peak of the 
 Alps, and the seas from Ireland to Scotland. 
 
 I have lived and talked with British Tommies, 
 Canadian and Australian Colonials, French Poilus, 
 Italian Bersagliere, and Yankee Americans. On 
 land and on sea I saw soldiers and sailors mingling 
 in a New World comradeship. On the battlefields 
 they were brigaded in such a "oneness" that only 
 the uniform they wore furnished identity. On
 
 Foreword 
 
 the sea, at least two great nations had so merged 
 that the flag of each dipped as one. 
 
 Not only did I see the big guns of the field and 
 the fleet, but the great men of the Allied nations 
 as well — looked into their eyes, heard their senti- 
 ments and felt their purpose. Some of their in- 
 spiring utterances I have brought back with me. 
 
 My chief aim was to see our own boys, to hear 
 their words, to see them under fire, and to know 
 how it fared with them in the great conflict. 
 What I heard and saw constitutes a message — a 
 message which is like fire shut up in my bones. 
 It is too sacred for personal knowledge alone. 
 Within me is an all-compelling must. 
 
 Not for authorial pride, but to stimulate col- 
 lective patriotism in my own country — to hearten 
 the parents, relatives and sweethearts. To induce 
 them, if possible, to keep flying the white letters 
 of cheer, not once a week merely, but once a day; 
 to keep before our brave soldiers at the front the 
 knowledge that the home fires are brightly burning, 
 and to inspire them with the nobleness of their 
 service and the glory of their sacrifice. This is 
 the whole reason for a book, furnishing, as it does, 
 one of the great channels of communication. 
 
 To me was given the unexpected privilege of 
 talking to the boys singly, in groups and in mass 
 
 xii)
 
 Foreword 
 
 meetings — of talking to them in plain clothes, in 
 plain language, and of giving them a plain message. 
 I wanted them to feel, not that I was an official 
 or on an accredited mission, but rather just a 
 feller from home, sorry for only one thing — that 
 I was not actually one of them. 
 
 How readily they responded! Rushing about 
 me, almost the whole burden of their question 
 was: "Are you going back home?" And many 
 were the addresses I brought back — of parents or 
 relatives to be remembered, even the shy word 
 "to the sweetest little girl in the world." 
 
 My message in this book is in the same plain 
 language I used with the boys. Its sentences will 
 need no interpreter. 
 
 I wish to return deepest gratitude to those at 
 home who in so many ways made my oversea trip 
 possible, and to the great number abroad who by 
 innumerable acts of courtesy and kindness helped 
 to make my stay the most thrilling experience of 
 my life. To Secretary Daniels, who made possible 
 the trip; to Secretary Lansing and to Secretary 
 Baker, who greatly facilitated it; to Vice-Presi- 
 dent Marshall, whose words about me I should be 
 proud to have in my biography; to George Creel, 
 Theodore Roosevelt, Admiral McGowan, and 
 Colonel House, whose friendly words opened many 
 
 <*iii)
 
 Foreword 
 
 a door; to numerous other personal friends whose 
 deeds transcend their names; and especially to 
 one friend, who stood sponsor for the book, and 
 who would not permit the mention of his name, 
 yet who purchased the first one thousand copies, 
 insisting that he was inspired purely by patriotic 
 motives in placing these in the hands of soldiers 
 and sailors. 
 
 To Woodrow Wilson, President of the United 
 States, whose inspiring utterances and patriotic 
 spirit helped so largely in accrediting me all 
 through Europe as an American citizen. 
 
 (xiv)
 
 WE'LL STICK TO THE FINISH!" 
 
 "C'est la Guerre' 
 
 {It is the War)
 
 C'EST LA GUERRE— IT IS THE WAR 
 
 THE universal phrase, "C'est la Guerre/' (say- 
 lu-gair), comes hot from the heart of France. 
 It covers the various emotions of the war. 
 The wailing pacifist shakes his head declaring "C'est 
 la Guerre"; the chic merrymaker of Paris with 
 a swing of the arms, declares, "C'est laGuerre"; the 
 embittered cynic sneers, "C'est la Guerre"; the 
 sorrowing man, woman and child resignedly say, 
 "C'est la Guerre"; but its climax is reached when 
 the soldier, his soul aflame, rushes into the fray or 
 into No Man's Land where the ghostly gloom is 
 lighted only by the cannon's flare, exultingly 
 shouting, "C'est la Guerre." In that cry is the 
 hope of civilization. 
 
 Because it voices every angle of the greatest 
 struggle in the world, we use the French phrase 
 "C'est la Guerre" — for in all history this is the war. 
 
 Peering into the impenetrable distance are the 
 eyes of the great family -fraternity who have fathers,
 
 2 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 husbands, sons and sweethearts in the conflict, 
 and who welcome not only what is defined knowl- 
 edge, but the merest fragments of information as 
 to whereabouts and doings of their own. 
 
 There is something in the contemplation of 
 war which is sobering in itself, but when we con- 
 sider the scope of this struggle, how inconsequential 
 are all those things we thought greatest in life. 
 And what are the stakes? Not markets, not 
 territory, but life and death. It is the crucial 
 hour of the world. 
 
 In the United States, we have come gradually 
 to the realization that we are at war and have 
 taken our place by the side of heroic Allies. The 
 die is cast. The liberties of free peoples must be 
 written for the ages in the blood of our own soldiers. 
 
 Americans in France, accustomed to the con- 
 templation of big things, find the proportions of 
 this war to be overwhelming. Armies of a million 
 are but a dot on the map. The actual fighting 
 line reaches a distance equal to that from Boston 
 to Buffalo. Five tons of supplies must go three 
 thousand miles with every American soldier. 
 Yankee genius has provided bakeries producing a 
 million loaves a day. Every device in the rear of 
 the line is being used to conserve the precious 
 drops of American blood. Drinking water is
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 3 
 
 analyzed in the laboratories every day. The 
 health of the soldier is paramount. The slime and 
 mud of the trench is lessened when the soldier is 
 "fit." The health of the American soldier is good 
 to see and his spirits correspond. Here in the 
 making is a new type of citizenship — void of caste 
 and social distinctions — the sublime task is making 
 comrades of all. 
 
 Nothing we ever saw or read before in ancient 
 lore equals the courage manifested by our soldiers 
 in France. There are moments, to be sure, when, 
 face to face with death, there are gulping throats, 
 but they are philosophical even then. 
 
 The boys are not to be censured because they 
 do not write; their time is full and there is action 
 in every moment. Even in the rest billets is the 
 subconsciousness which comes with realization 
 that grim Death hovers everywhere. 
 
 We used to speak of our soldiers as "boys," but 
 in France they have grown to the full stature of 
 manhood. What a thrill it gave me to see in per- 
 son those whose pictures a year or two ago mothers 
 had put into my hands. 
 
 In the mile after mile of troops I saw going to 
 the trenches, not one countenance reflected regret, 
 not one face carried the sullen aspect of engaging 
 in an unwilling task.
 
 4 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 The dominant thought of all is — to win the war, 
 to stick to the finish. Not one wishes to return 
 until the job is done. There is no complaining 
 about food or accommodations. Everything is 
 accepted with soldierly fortitude. The only ex- 
 pressed wish I heard was for candy, cigarettes and 
 socks. There is not sufficient leisure in the camp 
 for the smoking of pipes or for the solacing 
 cigar, but a cigarette is quickly lighted and seems 
 to offer a soothing sedative when shrapnel is 
 falling. 
 
 The desolation of "No Man's Land" cannot be 
 described. Side by side with fields of living green, 
 spangled with flowers, cheered by the songs of 
 birds, is that black, churned, barren strip of land, 
 over which nothing stalks but Death. 
 
 To visit the war front from siege -stricken 
 Venice, Padua, and Asiago in the Tyrol Alps; 
 Verdun with its valorous Poilus; sectors held by 
 brave British, intrepid Americans, and fearless 
 Colonials, Canadians and Belgians; to see the 
 battle grounds where wave after wave of the 
 fiendish Huns have been met, together with the 
 great hospitals, aviation camps, the Grand Fleet 
 at the Firth, and the destroyer flotilla at Queens- 
 town, is to be overwhelmed with the magnitude 
 of the struggle.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 5 
 
 Not only on the earth but in the sky are the 
 forces struggling. Observation balloons, night 
 raids, long range guns, and flying squadrons 
 are now a part of war's machinery. Thrilling it 
 was and touching to see the A. E. F. from far-off 
 America — stars of manhood from every state and 
 territory in the Union. Their parade through 
 the streets of London moved the sturdy Britishers 
 to fervent enthusiasm. Nor were the French to 
 be outdone in their admiration for the American 
 troops — the finest of America's sons poured out 
 on the sacrificial altar. Yet "c'est la guerre." 
 
 In all the camps I visited I never indulged in 
 poetical rhapsodies about the war. There was a 
 practical job to do and no poetry about it. It 
 was a matter of business to direct the great flow- 
 ing tides of American and British khaki, French 
 blue and Italian green. Moving trains everywhere 
 were laden with guns and soldiers. Men accus- 
 tomed to Pullmans, and once churlish in taking 
 an upper berth were now glad to have room to 
 move their feet, to say nothing of lying down. 
 The carriages in most cases were freight cars — 
 hommes, 40; cheveaux, 8. Armies moved to and 
 fro in a new world comradeship; Italians coming 
 to the north, and British moving south to the 
 plateau of Asiago. The wounded were pouring
 
 6 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 into "Blighty," that haven for dauntless Cana- 
 dians, courageous Colonials and heroic British. 
 
 The result of the war resolves itself into a 
 matter of mathematical calculation where the 
 forces with the longest range guns and the largest 
 number of men in reserve have the advantage. 
 
 But there is another element, sometimes over- 
 looked, which in this war may well prove to be 
 the deciding factor, and that is, the morale. 
 Should this be so, as manifest by the sublime 
 spirit of the Allied troops, the future is full of 
 hope. 
 
 The most impressive picture of my entire 
 journey was the salute of a young American 
 commander of a machine gun company as he 
 reported at headquarters, with a gashing wound 
 in his arm, "My men are at the guns." When 
 the supporting troops were sent, they found every 
 man at the guns, but — they were dead. There 
 were no chains on the wrists of these boys. In 
 the hospital trains or on the cars of wounded, 
 there is little complaint, although men are bleed- 
 ing and dying. At most there may be the pitiful 
 call for "mother," yet "cest la guerre." 
 
 The evidences of war's ravages are legion. 
 There is the tottering cripple, the mangled form, 
 and the groping blind — yet even in these is a
 
 Cest la Guerre — It is the War 7 
 
 radiance which speaks of souls burning with a 
 great purpose. It is for people on this side of the 
 water, possessed of physical health and enjoying 
 the comforts of home, to pour out unstintingly 
 of all they possess — their time, thought, energy 
 and money — but, above all, to give themselves, 
 unreservedly as our soldiers are doing — to win the 
 war!
 
 II 
 
 SAILING FOR FRANCE 
 
 SAILING for France!" What a new and 
 strange significance that sentence has in the 
 year, A. D. 1918. 
 Clad in a cutaway, a two-year-old Chesterfield 
 summer overcoat with flowing skirt, I sailed away, 
 prouder than I had ever been in a dress suit. 
 Today the most precious heritage I have is that 
 old coat, for I not only wore it on all the battle- 
 fronts, but — how sacred it seems! — it has been 
 touched with the blood of some of our American 
 boys! 
 
 On the S. S. Espagne were Americans, English, 
 French, and Italians — people representing nearly 
 all allied and neutral countries. Each passport 
 was concrete in its directions, and each passenger 
 specific in his declaration, ''I sail with a purpose." 
 Business and pleasure were of the past. Life biog- 
 raphies were recited and explanations made; 
 missions were magnified and exploited in the quick 
 
 (8)
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 9 
 
 acquaintance of shipmates. At the first table 
 before reaching the rolling seas, I had a toothache, 
 which caused me to list my head to port. The lady 
 opposite thought she had drawn a grouch, when I 
 confessed — "a toothache." It was a French ship, a 
 French crew, and a French cook. The cook, with 
 his soups, stews and salads, soon won our hearts 
 and reconciled us to war rations. I found my 
 French was not working well. Asking, in a 
 bilious tone, for eggs at breakfast, I was handed 
 a lemon. 
 
 My steward, Jean Gardin of the 220th French 
 Infantry, was wounded five times in the Marne 
 campaign and in the assaults of Verdun in 1914 
 and 191G, and had received the War Cross. He lost 
 one eye on his twenty-ninth birthday at Verdun, 
 but he sees more than many with two eyes. He 
 was honorably discharged and detailed to help on 
 steamships ; every wounded soldier finds something 
 to do. When I heard his story I felt like getting 
 up and waiting on him. 
 
 The personnel of the passenger list was inter- 
 esting, indicating a variety of purpose. Mary 
 Garden was singing for the soldiers on the lower 
 deck. She greeted them all with a kiss (by proxy) . 
 The lucky man was introduced and given the 
 osculatory salute to pass on — in spirit. Hurrahs
 
 10 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 for the famous American prima donna rang over 
 the decks. 
 
 Miss Boardman presided at all the Red Cross 
 meetings, Chaplain Smith at the Y. M. C. A. 
 gatherings, and Burton Stevenson at the Library 
 rallies. Everything pertaining to the war was 
 discussed. Pictures of the scenes referred to were 
 envisioned. 
 
 Miss Anne Morgan rehearsed the rehabilitation 
 plans at the deck gatherings. "This is not the 
 time for writing about what we are going to do — 
 it is the time for doing things," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Cashman and Mrs. Coleman du Pont of 
 the Y. W. C. A. were enroute to visit the hostess 
 houses. General Rodiquet, a veteran of the 
 Franco-Prussian campaign, who served with Joffre 
 in two wars, corrected me with military precision : 
 
 "Marechal Joffre — no longer General." 
 
 Red Cross meetings were held (weather permit- 
 ting) every day in the lounge. Y. M. C. A. gath- 
 erings were scheduled with regularity. Nearly 
 every state was represented in the personnel, 
 including stenographers struggling with French 
 and slow appetites, chauffeurs, canteen workers, 
 nurses in military cloaks with red lining, Red 
 Cross workers, Y. M. C. A. recruits, Salvation 
 Army officers, Camp Community helpers, women
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 11 
 
 for the Y. W. C. A. hostess houses; in fact, every 
 branch of war activities was in evidence, all 
 uniformed and enthusiastic — if the sea was not 
 too rolling. The first query was: "Where is your 
 home?" Everyone seemed to find somebody he 
 had met or who had met someone he knew. 
 
 Well out of sight of land, soldiers in brown blos- 
 somed on the decks below, fore and aft. The old 
 demands for ship-service as in peace days were 
 silenced and transformed into a slogan of help- 
 service for everybody. The luxurious salons and 
 promenade decks were thrown open to the soldiers, 
 while cigarettes and baskets of candy were show- 
 ered upon them. It was a voyage exemplifying 
 the mellowing influences of democracy in war 
 times. 
 
 Approaching Europe, the fever of expectancy 
 as to submarines increased. Drills with life pre- 
 servers were called the first day out. As each 
 assembled, every one looked his lifeboat mates 
 over with curious social concern. Some appeared 
 in unsinkable suits, like ghostly spectres from 
 subterranean depths. All speculated as to just 
 what they were going to do in the event of "six 
 sharp whistles." I was a member of Boat 8, 
 which, with several stout gentlemen and a few 
 ladies to match, had an impressive crew. The
 
 12 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 stout people at once formed a firm and fast alliance, 
 holding regular meetings on starboard boat deck. 
 
 The first glimpse of land brought a quiver like 
 that Columbus must have felt when he sighted 
 the shores of San Salvador. The dashing American 
 destroyer hove in sight, and we immediately had 
 a feeling of complete safety when we saw the 
 Stars and Stripes astern the craft. A rim of land, 
 with tiled roofs skirting the distant shore, brought 
 a welcome relief after eight tense days on perilous 
 seas. Miles and miles of new docks were included 
 in the vista. A veritable forest of piling already 
 driven to provide for endless wharves on which to 
 land troops and supplies, brought to mind the tri- 
 umph of American constructive genius at Panama. 
 
 What a welcome sight actually to see Uncle 
 Sam's uniform in France! Hails of welcome came 
 from both shores as the boat sailed up the river. 
 
 "Where are you from?" was the greeting across 
 the water, from every nook and corner, from the 
 tops of houses — all in our own tongue! This 
 brought a thrill. 
 
 Landing at Bordeaux and at night, the air was 
 heavy with the fumes of wine. There was no 
 question — this was Bordeaux! The open parks 
 and available spaces on the streets were filled with 
 cases of automobiles and supplies on their way to
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 13 
 
 the front. The whole city seemed like a giant 
 camp behind the lines. The quaint little Hotel 
 Pyrenees was a haven, and I hastened to dinner. 
 The lilacs were in bloom, distilling in the dining 
 hall their soft fragrance at eventide. And yet as I 
 sat there it seemed suddenly lonely. Just then a 
 wee tot of four, with large brown eyes, orphan of a 
 French soldier, unconscious of the grim realities of 
 war, climbed up to my knee. Her childish chatter 
 in French was like music. "J'vu zaim" (I love 
 you), she confided. Then added sadly, "Papa 
 parti" (papa gone), "Maman perdue" (mamma 
 lost). When she threw her little arms around my 
 neck and kissed me, France had won my heart!
 
 Ill 
 
 PARIS UNDER BOMBARDMENT 
 
 THE soft slumber of the night ended rather 
 abruptly in Bordeaux next morning by the 
 crashing strains of a French military band. 
 They seemed to be calling me to Paris. Paris in 
 war time! What wonder that my blood flowed fast? 
 For a moment I indulged in a reverie — thinking 
 of La Belle France and the little tot of the night 
 before, who this very day was to embark for my 
 own America! 
 
 There was little time for dreaming, for "Boots" 
 bounded into my room, showing in his broad smile 
 teeth rivaling the shine he had put on my shoes. 
 He was a diplomat in the full sense of the word; 
 what else could I do except pay him well when 
 he addressed me as "A Big Gun from America?" 
 But "big guns" was the absorbing thought in the 
 mind of ^every^ Frenchman. 
 
 He started to tell me of the long-range "Bertha," 
 but before I had time to comprehend, I was made 
 
 (14)
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 15 
 
 to realize that even a civilian tourist is on a war 
 footing and subject to call. 
 
 The 'phone rang, and in muffled tones a pleading 
 voice — accent decidedly American — asked, "Can 
 you come to my room?" Entering, I had visions 
 of some great over-night secret, when there fell on 
 my ears this distressed question: "Joe, can you 
 
 help me put on these d d puttees? You must 
 
 or I'm 'sub'd,' and can't report to headquarters." 
 
 It was a fellow-member of the fat men's alliance 
 of life boat No. 8. He couldn't manage the spring 
 clutch. At least I began the day well, for I saved 
 the dignity of a Red Cross major. 
 
 Before proceeding to Paris, short excursions 
 were made in the rural sections of Bordeaux, largely 
 to feel the pulse of the people outside of official 
 circles. In these journeys one thing stands out 
 pre-eminent, and that is the French woman. 
 Nearly every one you meet wears mourning. Their 
 faces are bathed in a chaste resignation. You see 
 them on street cars and trams, for here they act 
 as motorwomen and conductors, although retain- 
 ing their accustomed preference for skirts. They 
 are everywhere, in the fields following the plow, 
 for they, too, are truly "in the trenches." 
 
 Now we are on toward Paris, through the 
 chateau district, with its touches of the ancient
 
 16 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 nobility of France. Everywhere Americans are 
 arriving. It was nightfall when we reached Paris. 
 It was practically in darkness. The few lights to 
 baffle bombers were shaded a ghastly blue. The 
 Stygian blackness was a decided contrast to the 
 brilliant glare of peace times. It was hard to 
 believe that this was the Paris of long ago. Not 
 one bright light anywhere. The curtains in the 
 railway trains and in every house were drawn 
 tight, for a light at night is criminal. It was as 
 if we were in another world. 
 
 The railway station presented a scene of inde- 
 scribable confusion. The German long-range gun 
 was busy. Hundreds of thousands of people, 
 realizing that Paris was being shelled from Ger- 
 man territory rather than bombed from airplanes 
 in the sky, were fleeing the city for safety. They 
 stood in long lines before the ticket window, or 
 sat on their baggage surrounding the line, the 
 trunks and bags looking like miniature fortifica- 
 tions. They had been waiting all day for a ticket 
 of leave. Mothers with families were there. It 
 was like a land rush in Oklahoma. Certain ones 
 brought food to those in line in order that the 
 "waiters" should not lose their places. Emerging 
 through the station we sighted a vacant omnibus 
 in the darkness, which was chartered after an
 
 WOODROW WILSON, PRESIDENT OE THE UNITED STATES
 
 Copyright, Elliott & Fry, Ltd., London, W. 
 
 COL. EDWARD M. HOUSE
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 17 
 
 hour's parley. Rumbling through the once gay 
 Rue de Rivoli, faintly before us gleamed the 
 golden bronze statue of Jeanne d'Arc — the only 
 ray of light — typifying the unconquerable spirit of 
 France. Scattered here and there were green buoy 
 lights bearing the inscription "Abri 80 persons." 
 These were refuge places in times of raid. 
 
 The boulevard was as silent^as Ta churchyard, 
 except that the "big Bertha" shells boomed every 
 twenty minutes like a death knell. In the hotel 
 was a strange silence. A solemn few loitered 
 late over coffee. The streets were deserted except 
 for stragglers here and there, who unconsciously 
 either whistled a warning or uttered some sound 
 as they approached. That night an air raid was 
 on, but afterwards, when the "all clear" signal 
 was given, there came a quietude like that of the 
 old farm which only the crickets disturb, except 
 in this instance it was broken by the occasional 
 honking of automobiles, sounding like a school of 
 barking walrus. Shiveringly I crawled into bed, 
 not knowing what the night would bring. I came 
 to the mental decision, "Well, if the bombs 
 are coming, they'll come," and, kicking off the 
 young feather bed, I slept soundly in bombarded 
 Paris. 
 
 Morning found me without a bread ticket. The
 
 18 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 cafe chairs outside on the pavement looked like 
 spectres. The waiter could not understand my 
 English, nor would he understand my hungry 
 motions. I had to report to the Prefecture of 
 Police, and before I had complied with the regu- 
 lations of a civilian stranger entering Paris I had 
 spent forty -nine francs in taxi fares. 
 
 In the basement of a dingy old municipal build- 
 ing, famous as the quarters of Voltaire, I received 
 a pain ticket which looked like a calendar. For 
 each day there was a coupon to clip off, and I felt 
 like a Croesus as I enjoyed my first legalized bread 
 in Paris. There was no butter or sugar. They 
 handed me a bottle of saccharine, and the first cup 
 was properly loaded; but the second cup caught 
 the pearly drops from a cruse of vinegar nearby, 
 mistaken for saccharine, and one cup of chicory 
 was lost. 
 
 Champs Ely sees, now covered with war huts, 
 recalled memories of the laughing throngs of former 
 days. Few people were to be seen in any of the 
 parks. Any American who had been in Paris three 
 or four months was a veteran with a great wealth 
 of incidents as to the sufferings and deprivations 
 he and others had endured. 
 
 A young American officer with some friends 
 invited me to lunch. He said, "We will go to
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 19 
 
 Maxim's and see how it compares with the 
 good old days, and if it looks like the stage 
 setting in the 'Merry Widow.' " He hailed a cab. 
 We entered with a lordly air, the cab started, 
 wheeled around the corner, and — we were at 
 Maxim's — the next door. I am told that the 
 American Red Cross is utilizing the two upper 
 floors and that these gay environments also serve 
 as quarters for the chaplains. Maxim's was a 
 war meal in name only. There was nothing lacking 
 in the way of food, providing there is a maximum 
 bank roll to match. The real difficulty in getting 
 something to eat in Paris is in the morning, for the 
 cafes do not open until nine — the old leisure hours 
 are not entirely gone. 
 
 In my journeys among the French people, 
 outside the purely political and cafe centers, 
 especially in the little stores or homes and village 
 plazas, I obtained some insight into the mind 
 of the masses as it exists after four years of 
 the most cruel war. With an alert interpreter, 
 many of their comments were noted, especially 
 those favorable and unfavorable ones about the fat 
 American. The valorous spirit of France was 
 omnipresent. A group around a coffee table was 
 discussing in subdued and earnest voices the 
 mystery of the big gun. One officer in the group
 
 20 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 was later dismissed for repeating a false rumor of 
 victory. Comment, on the part of soldiers, is es- 
 pecially forbidden. When the big gun first boomed, 
 it was thought to be some new kind of air raid, but 
 Paris was becoming accustomed to these. When the 
 alarm is given by the siren whistle and the fire 
 department is in action, people rush to the abri, 
 or into metro or subway tubes, where they remain 
 until the safety signal is given. When the truth 
 was realized, due to the regularity of the firing, 
 and with no airplanes in sight, the long-range gun 
 brought a shudder, especially in one district within 
 the range. 
 
 There was something weird in the "dud" or shell 
 of the "La Belle Bertha" found in Paris. A "dud" is 
 a shell which did not explode. The bombardment 
 killed more people than the siege of Paris in the 
 Franco-Prussian war. That does not mean as 
 many fatalities, because in the siege deaths 
 were mostly from starvation. The British had a 
 gun in 1885 that carried sixty miles, but this 
 gun had a range of approximately seventy miles. 
 The long-range "Bertha" is not a mystery. It is 
 an eight-and-one-quarter shell fired from a fifteen- 
 inch gun, very thin, with brass rims to protect the 
 gas. The skill was in calculating the range. It 
 was fired eighteen miles high at an angle of 66
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 21 
 
 degrees. The rarified atmosphere at this tremen- 
 dous height offered less resistance than lower 
 altitudes and the shell fell at an angle of 60 degrees. 
 
 The wonder of it all is that the Germans were 
 able to find the target and make their calculations. 
 They could not change their aim readily, and 
 that is why the shells nearly all fell in one particu- 
 lar district of Paris, and why there were busy 
 times moving to get outside of the firing line. 
 When the gun was silenced for a few nights, there 
 was a relief, but then another "Bertha" bombed 
 forth. 
 
 When the residents started to leave the city, as 
 this big gun began to deposit shells with frightful 
 regularity, some of the French defeatists began 
 crying, "C'est fini" — it is finished!" They prayed 
 the government to again move the capital to 
 Bordeaux. One man stood adamant — it was the 
 "Tiger" — Clemenceau. In the turbulent ups and 
 downs of his stormy public life, Clemenceau had 
 added another chapter to the story of his 
 career. He became the man of the hour. He 
 refused even to argue, declaring, "No, this is the 
 capital of France; we do not leave. If you go, 
 you may be shot as deserters." 
 
 The crisis passed, for Clemenceau knows no fear.
 
 IV 
 
 FACE TO FACE WITH CLEMENCEAU— 
 "THE TIGER" 
 
 FOR years in far-off America I heard of a 
 man, prominent in French affairs, a teacher 
 in a New England institution in early life, 
 and one of the outstanding figures I wished to 
 meet. On this side of the water people do not 
 realize the power of that personality in the present 
 world conflict. The moment you are on French 
 soil, among the soldiers and workers, you hear 
 the name before you leave the dock. It gathers 
 lustre every hour of your journey and haunts 
 you after you have come away — and that name 
 is Clemenceau! 
 
 On the train I met a peasant woman who had a 
 basket of eggs. She gave me one, and together we 
 enjoyed the trick of sucking the contents through 
 a pinhole — and that old French woman voiced 
 the same sentiment when she said to my inter- 
 preter, "Tell the American our hope is in Clemen- 
 ceau." Nearby sat a pensive young woman in 
 
 (22)
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 23 
 
 weeds. There was a tender melancholy in her 
 dark eyes that one could not forget. She had 
 been suffering, having lost her husband, father, 
 and four brothers. She ate her simple luncheon 
 in silence, but at the name of Clemenceau her eyes 
 brightened. Then, too, there was a young French 
 boy of sixteen, testing his English, who told me, 
 in broken accents, young as he was, how anxious 
 he was to take the place of his father who was 
 killed at the Marne, adding: 
 
 "I seem to hear the voice of Clemenceau calling 
 me to fight." 
 
 In the cafes and on the streets there was the 
 same talk of Clemenceau. All this recalled an 
 interview I had with the late W. T. Stead (who 
 went down with the Titanic), at his home in 
 Wimbledon, in England, in 1906. The wizard 
 interviewer of world celebrities referred to Clemen- 
 ceau as the "Warwick of French Politics." 
 
 My first question to the American Ambassador 
 in Paris was: 
 
 "Do you think you could arrange for me to 
 see Clemenceau?" 
 
 Mr. Sharpe replied: "I'll try— but I think not." 
 
 His telephonic message to the W 7 ar Department 
 did not promise much, although the Ambassador 
 sent in my name and graciously offered to go with
 
 24 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 me in person. Remembering the tribute which 
 "Boots" had paid me, I was still determined to try. 
 
 The appearance of Clemenceau in the Chamber 
 of Deputies is an event, and the people flock to 
 hear him and always read his every utterance. 
 Seated on the upper bench, ready for all comers, 
 shielding himself in tantalizing tersity, Clemenceau 
 fearlessly meets every situation face to face. 
 
 More by chance than anything else, a day or 
 two later I wandered into the Chamber of Depu- 
 ties, an ancient building, dating back to the time 
 of the Louis'. Large throngs were waiting for 
 admittance long before the hour the Chamber 
 convened, many of them speculating what Cle- 
 menceau would do. The admission card to the 
 gallery from the Ambassador acted like magic, 
 for the usher, in evening dress, with a chain about 
 his neck (the insignia of his office), conducted me 
 into the plush-lined box directly opposite the 
 presiding officer. There I saw the members, seated 
 on small benches rising above each other in narrow 
 tiers which formed a semi-circle. The glass roof 
 and rather dim light made me think of our Ameri- 
 can Senate Chamber. There was some excitement 
 in the debate, although it involved but the inter- 
 pretation of a word in the Pension Bill, as to 
 whether a soldier should have a pension if
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 25 
 
 imprudence could be proved — the old question of 
 contributory negligence. The members did not rise 
 during a colloquy and everybody seemed to talk 
 at once, without the courtesy of addressing one 
 another. High up on a bench sat the presiding 
 officer with a bell — not unlike the old dinner 
 bell — which he would ring for order when the 
 discussion became too riotous. 
 
 While I could not understand the drift of the 
 discussion, action and gesture spoke louder than 
 words. On the elevated benches behind the 
 speaker were the few members of the cabinet. 
 A startling revelation came to me as I glanced over 
 the Chamber — there was no flag of France in 
 sight — and to the American mind this was a shock, 
 recalling the great flag which hangs in the House 
 of Representatives and the American devotion 
 to the national colors. The gallery seemed to lack 
 interest — for Clemenceau was not there. 
 
 Where he was I did not know. Perhaps he had 
 been putting in most of the day at the front, for 
 it was his custom to go out at dawn and hold 
 conferences with Generals Foch, Petain and Persh- 
 ing. He forms the connecting link between the 
 armies in the field and the Chamber of Deputies. 
 Whatever he finds is needed at the front he goes 
 to the Chamber to see that it is provided. His
 
 26 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 visits to the American troops are memorable occa- 
 sions. The American boys crowd around him and 
 he has a greeting for all. 
 
 The Chamber of Deputies meets at two o'clock 
 in the afternoon, and it was rare in the old days 
 that Clemenceau did not appear. Like Mann and 
 Kitchen of the House of Representatives, or 
 Gallinger and Overman of the United States 
 Senate, Clemenceau seemed to know every feeling 
 and caprice of passing legislation. He sensed 
 the hour when parliamentary squalls were coming. 
 
 From the boy of nineteen, when he was arrested 
 at the foot of the Bastile column for shouting 
 "Vive la Rcpublique" on to the time when, at the 
 siege of Paris, he returned to be elected maire 
 of the 18th arrondissement, and even up to the 
 present, he was being fitted for the glorious sunset 
 of his career. The allied struggle is providing 
 the setting for the admonition which his father 
 once gave him. When his sire was arrested at the 
 time of Napoleon's coup d'etat in 1851, young 
 Clemenceau, his soul aflame, said to his father: 
 "Father, I will avenge you!" "If you want to 
 avenge me," cried the sire — "work." Retiring 
 at eight every evening and rising at three every 
 morning, it may be questioned if any other man 
 in conspicuous public life adds greater luster to
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 27 
 
 the word "work" than the ever-active French 
 Premier. 
 
 The ups and downs of his public career have 
 been many. He, with others, was embroiled in 
 the Panama Canal scandal, but he came out un- 
 scathed. He laid all his private accounts before 
 his accusers which revealed that he had even 
 borrowed money of a notary in order to live, and 
 was unable to give his daughter a marriage portion, 
 being obliged to live for years in the same house, 
 paying for his furnishings on the yearly instalment 
 plan. 
 
 The dramatic story of the Chamber of Deputies 
 for the last forty-seven years finds no more con- 
 spicuous figure than Clemenceau. He belongs to 
 the severe French school of literature. In speaking 
 and writing, his style is as polished as a rapier, 
 and he meets his opponents with the art of a 
 fencer, having engaged in many physical duels. 
 
 From the day, seventy-seven years ago, when 
 he was born in Brittany, in the little village of 
 La Vendee, where the granite promontory thrusts 
 itself out into the sea, its ragged rocks ever battling 
 with wave and tide, Clemenceau has exemplified 
 in private and public life those rugged physical 
 and mental qualities suggestive of the place of his 
 birth.
 
 28 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 As I wandered back through the corridors and 
 secured my hat and coat from the check room 
 (the same as leaving a theater), I went down to 
 the lobby where the members of the Chamber 
 gather after adjournment. Here my courier, Pace, 
 took me in hand. 
 
 I told him I must see Clemenceau. He shook 
 his head. I said again I must. He took my re- 
 marks literally, and almost before I knew it we 
 were passing through an old corridor alongside a 
 wall, and through a gate into another ante-room. 
 At each gate my passports and letters were 
 examined. Finally we crossed a courtyard and 
 entered a rambling low building which was the 
 headquarters of the Minister de Guerre. As Presi- 
 dent of the Chamber, the Premier of France is the 
 real ruler of the republic, and it is given to every 
 premier to choose his own portfolio. Clemenceau 
 naturally decided to head the War Department. 
 Inside another room, where a covered billiard table 
 indicated relaxation in peace days, my card was 
 again taken in, and I indulged in a hurried 
 glance around. A voice speaking in English in 
 the adjoining room was heard. Just then the 
 same voice was saying; and supplementing the 
 words in French; "That's persistence; show him 
 in."
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 29 
 
 Little did I realize that this was the voice of 
 Clemenceau. 
 
 I entered a somewhat darkened room. In an 
 open grate smoldered a dingy coal fire. A medium- 
 sized figure was moving toward me. On his head 
 was a small, round hat with triangular earlaps 
 tied overhead. As I neared I saw a certain ironical 
 smile on his face. But there was no mistaking the 
 countenance. In less time than it takes to tell it, 
 I was face to face with Clemenceau — "the Tiger." 
 
 I had no sooner extended greetings from America 
 than immediately a warm hand was thrust into 
 mine, and he said, with a power which thrilled me: 
 "I love America." Clemenceau is not a man of 
 words. In no sense does he pass for what is called 
 a polite man. Yet there was such a ring of sin- 
 cerity in his words that I was strongly drawn 
 to him. 
 
 When I announced that I was in France to get 
 some good stuff for the American people to read, 
 and asked him what he read, he interrupted 
 quickly, saying: 
 
 "Read? I read nothing. Newspapers, maga- 
 zines, nothing! This is no time for me to read — 
 it is time to work and act — work to win the war." 
 
 As his clear, and to me surprisingly, epigram- 
 matic English fell on my ears, I was ready myself
 
 30 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 to go out and fight for this man. With a wave of 
 his hand, he proffered a chair. In seeking for some 
 common ground on which to stand, I found myself 
 searching for a touch of gentleness which he 
 had portrayed in the one novel ("Le Plus Fort") 
 which he has written on the philosophy of 
 superman. 
 
 As he squared himself and I looked into his eyes, 
 I saw a face of rugged strength. I recalled his 
 christening with the sobriquet which he bears 
 today. As Clemenceau entered his editorial den 
 one night, a French journalist turned to his friends 
 and said: "Here comes the Tiger." And from 
 that day to this the name has been spelled with a 
 big T rather than a little one. 
 
 His face is round, made massive by high cheek 
 bones, his eyes, deep-set, flash with the glint of 
 steel, though at times are liquid with tenderness. 
 His brow is broad and high. A drooping mus- 
 tache covers what I knew to be a strong mouth. 
 His head is bald, set off at the height of his ears 
 by silken gray hair. His gestures consisted largely 
 of a sweep of the hand across and in front of him, 
 as if pointing out the whole field of action. Occa- 
 sionally he brought his fists down like a hammer, 
 every movement indicating a dynamic man, full of 
 power and electric energy. The wisdom of age and
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 31 
 
 the strength of youth in rare combination. No 
 wonder Germany fears him! 
 
 Some who have talked with him have remarked 
 about his flippancy. There was none of it apparent 
 in my glimpse of the man. He was in dead earnest 
 about everything. The only trace of lightness in 
 his speech was when I pointed to a portrait on 
 the wall saying: 
 
 "A great man, I suppose?" 
 
 "An ass!" he jerked. 
 
 Pointing to another, he anticipated my question, 
 and said: 
 
 "A very great man. We must have contrasts." 
 
 "Our American boys are arriving," I ventured. 
 
 "Yes," said he, "and they are learning to dig, 
 like our own Poilus. It is better to lose four men 
 than four hundred." 
 
 His secretary entered and said something to 
 him. Then I noticed the clear, legible writing of 
 the Premier as he made a few notes. When I indi- 
 cated that I sometimes made speeches, he said: 
 
 "I make no more speeches. It is time to work. 
 No time to talk. 'Yes' and 'No' cover essentials." 
 
 Evidently he carries out that conviction. At 
 the Allied Conference in Paris, the one man who 
 could have talked made the shortest speech on 
 record. "We're here to work; let us work."
 
 32 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 When the question of politics seeped into our 
 conversation he snapped, "I do not like politicians, 
 I like patriots." 
 
 No wonder the French people recalled him to 
 lead their destinies in this, their hour of greatest 
 crisis! A hater of shams, a lover of realities, a 
 patriot, in no sense a partisan, this Spartan has 
 only one consideration — his country. 
 
 How fortunate, indeed, is France to have him. 
 His active life covers two great wars. When the 
 King Charles' peace letter, making overtures 
 looking toward the autonomy of Alsace-Lorraine 
 was mentioned, he said: 
 
 "I know the German tricks — and so does the 
 United States." 
 
 He probably, as no other living man, is alert 
 for Prussian intrigues. Schooled in literature, in 
 medicine, in science, in politics, in diplomacy, he 
 brings his vast knowledge to bear on the one 
 vital purpose — the triumph of Democracy. 
 
 As I saw him, whether standing, sitting in a 
 chair, or perched on the edge of a table dangling 
 his feet, he acted as if he were accustomed to 
 premiership. 
 
 Some dispatches were brought in. Taking them 
 up, he made his notations on each with a plebeian 
 lead pencil — a word or two at most — and passed
 
 Copyright by Underwood & Underwood 
 
 PREMIER CLEMENCEAU OF FRANCE
 
 Copyright by American Press Association 
 
 FRENCH "75" BOMBARDING GERMANTTRENCH 
 
 Copyright by Underwood & Underwood 
 
 CLEMENCEAU, "THE TIGER," REVIEWING BRITISH TROOPS
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 33 
 
 them on. No fuss, no haste. Every movement 
 strong, determined, clear. "I may be dead," he 
 said, glancing up, "when this war is won, but — it 
 will be won!" 
 
 I ventured to ask him if he had met any of the 
 Commission from America looking toward post- 
 war conditions. 
 
 4 'Yes," he said, "but this is not the time for me 
 to think of that. The work of the war comes first." 
 
 Then drawing his chair so close to me that his 
 knees touched mine, putting one hand on my 
 shoulder and clenching his fist, he assumed an 
 attitude like that of the tiger he is. There was 
 fire in his eyes. His great jaw set; he said: 
 
 "It is the supreme thing in my life to win the 
 war." 
 
 I arose to go. The slanting sun shone through 
 the window of the old building. 
 
 "Have you any message to send to America?" 
 I ventured. 
 
 With a pathos like that of a benediction and as 
 comforting, he said: 
 
 "Tell them I love America."
 
 WITH PERSHING AND HIS MEN 
 
 NATURALLY the first man I wanted to see 
 on arriving in France was General John J. 
 Pershing. What American wouldn't? For- 
 tunately for me, he had just arrived in Paris from 
 the front. The message that he would see me no 
 sooner came than I was off. 
 
 His pretentious headquarters are located in the 
 palace built by Napoleon's old guard, Marshal 
 Lanes. The monogram M. L. still stands in the 
 gable of the roof. The approach is by a crescent 
 driveway. A great array of chalk-covered auto- 
 mobiles stood about, giving evidence of having 
 just come in from the front. The house is owned 
 by Mrs. Ogden Reed of New York, who graciously 
 turned it over to the government for General 
 Pershing's headquarters. 
 
 As you enter the spacious reception hall, an 
 information desk stands at the extreme end and 
 over it on one side is the tri-color of France, and 
 
 (34)
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 35 
 
 on the other the Stars and Stripes, so placed that 
 their folds join in clinging embrace — eloquent 
 emblems of the affectionate unity of the two 
 republics. 
 
 Colonel Boyd met me and took me for a hurried 
 glance around. The pictures hanging on the 
 walls were covered, as was also the luxurious 
 furniture. All the splendor of the old palace was 
 shrouded in the gray monotone of war times. 
 
 Through one of the rooms used with others for 
 conferences, I was conducted to the rear and into 
 a luxuriant rustic garden — the scene of many a 
 social function in the old Empire days. In the 
 center stood a small tea-house surrounded with 
 irregular benches. Trees of great age pushed out 
 of the sod. Shrubs graced the nooks and walks. 
 All were resplendent in golden spring green. 
 Birds even were singing in the trees. It was a 
 delightful sylvan retreat in the very heart of Paris. 
 
 It was in the dining-room to the right of the 
 reception hall that I stood in the presence of Gen- 
 eral Pershing — the man on whom rest the eyes 
 of all America. Can I ever forget the moment or 
 the wave of emotion which swept over me! As 
 he advanced to greet me, I forgot for the time the 
 great general he was. His manner was so simple, so 
 cordial, so characteristically American, he seemed
 
 36 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 more like a brother. Clad in a plain khaki 
 uniform adorned simply with the insignia of his 
 rank, on his breast was the prismatic service 
 ribbon. The fine lines of his face were drawn into 
 a determination I had never before seen. Even 
 his mustache was croppy and bristling. His 
 movements and words were few. Responsibility 
 rested heavily upon him. Yet underneath all 
 radiated a marked tenderness and gentle regard. 
 
 Every moment of his time contained such a 
 deposit of duty that I merely told him I was 
 the bearer of a flag sent by the women of Boston 
 for the 26th Division. I recited to him the occa- 
 sion when, at a brilliant military ball at the Copley- 
 Plaza in Boston, the commission to deliver the 
 flag was imposed upon me. He had received 
 newspaper clippings of the event and was some- 
 what familiar with the import of my mission. 
 When I told him that in speaking on this occasion 
 I had talked on "Chivalry," he arose quickly from 
 the round table and impassionately said : "Chival- 
 ry — that's the thing! There is not a man in the 
 ranks who has not the thought of some woman in 
 his breast, and that woman is thinking of him. 
 That's the anchorage of the American Army 
 today — the American woman." 
 
 Then relaxing for a moment, as if duty called, 

 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 37 
 
 he said: "Are you ready to go to the front?" I 
 assented. Suddenly pointing outside, he said: 
 "See this beautiful garden. Here is my oasis. I 
 come here often for a glimpse of this restful spot, 
 even for only a moment, before returning to the 
 chalky roads which lead to the front." 
 
 We turned away from the garden to the 
 dining-room. On the table, among other things, 
 was a pie sent by an American woman for the 
 General. 
 
 "That brings back visions of old Missouri," 
 said the General. And for the first, and only time 
 I think, I saw a smile on his face. 
 
 Just at this time a message came for him. I 
 saw the lines deepen on his face as he said, "I 
 must be off to the front." 
 
 The world will not soon forget his speech to 
 Generalissimo Foch, delivered during those memor- 
 able days in March and April, 1918, when the 
 German waves were washing over the barriers 
 of the British and French, and when, sinking all 
 pride in his own separate army, he offered all the 
 forces of the United States in what are destined 
 to be immortal words: "Do with us as you like." 
 That utterance will live alongside Lincoln's Gettys- 
 burg speech as long as American history is recited. 
 
 It was made on March 28th, the darkest day
 
 38 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 of the war, and was magical in its effect on France 
 and the Allies. 
 
 ( Translation ) 
 "DO WITH US AS YOU LIKE" 
 
 In the course of a reunion, which was held on the 18th 
 of March, 1918, at the front, to which General Petain, 
 M. Clemenceau and M. Loucheur were present, General 
 Pershing was presented to General Foch and said to him: 
 
 "I come to say to you that the American people will 
 consider it a great honor that our troops may engage in 
 the present battle. I ask it in my name and in theirs. At 
 this time there is no question but to fight. The infantry, 
 the artillery, and the aviation — all that we have, is yours. 
 Do with us as you like. Other troops will be coming in 
 such numbers as will be found necessary. 
 
 "I am come expressly to say to you that the American 
 people will be proud to engage in this greatest battle of 
 history." 
 
 Pershing's speech has been printed in French 
 on a small card which just fits into the pocket. 
 The General's picture is at the top and underneath 
 the famous sentence, "Do with us as you like." 
 It is not an unusual thing to see soldiers take 
 this card out of their pockets saying, "This is our 
 French text-book." 
 
 Shortly after my arrival, I met a young officer 
 who had returned from one of the gatherings where 
 Pershing delivered one of his classic addresses to 
 his officers. His face was aglow. He said: "Any-
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 39 
 
 one who wouldn't be ready to go to glory for the 
 old flag after hearing Pershing talk is not an 
 American." 
 
 Other officers, as they came out of the barracks, 
 were imbued with the same spirit, and in them 
 there was evidence of a reconsecration to a great 
 cause. 
 
 To read his famous speech to Foch, one can 
 easily imagine the kind of talk he gives to his 
 officers. 
 
 Leaving the headquarters, I made my way 
 to the office of the Provost Marshal at Rue Ste. 
 Anne, located in an old hotel. Every American 
 who goes to the war zone and every soldier who 
 comes to Paris must report here. I wanted a 
 military pass to the zone of operations. It was 
 given only after every detail had been covered. 
 It was stamped and re-stamped. Here all the 
 American communiques are given out, and the 
 censoring of mail is done. While standing there I 
 heard a colonel giving and saw officers receiving 
 telephone messages from the front. It was as if 
 they were talking with some one in a far-off land, 
 and in my imagination I could almost hear the 
 roar of the cannon. 
 
 Scattered along the streets were American 
 soldiers, the first I had seen in any considerable
 
 40 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 numbers. Only one thousand American soldiers 
 are allowed in Paris at a time. In the hotel I saw 
 them sitting at a big mess table eating their chow. 
 
 Ste. Anne's is the first place soldiers go on 
 arriving in France, and it is a jocular saying 
 commonly heard among newcomers, "Have you 
 been up to Anne's?" 
 
 Once out on the boulevard I made haste for the 
 train. American soldiers with bands marked 
 M. P. on their arms looked up in surprise when I 
 approached. They did not expect to see an 
 American in civilian clothes. When addressed 
 they would smile and say: "When did you arrive?" 
 "When do you expect to go back home?" 
 
 I came near missing my train in taking the 
 addresses of those to whom they wished to be 
 remembered. 
 
 As I passed Hotel Mediterranean it seemed 
 familiar to see soldiers from the Quartermaster's 
 Department playing baseball in the park. Though 
 I had but a moment, I could not resist pausing 
 and joining in the well-known shouts. Reaching 
 the gate at the station, I found to my embarass- 
 ment I had stowed away my pass so carefully that 
 not until I had turned some twenty-two pockets 
 inside out, could I find it, and then it was in the 
 first pocket I had searched. Such is the perversity
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 41 
 
 of a military pass. Because I kept the procession 
 waiting, the gate-keeper directed somewhat em- 
 phatic French at me. 
 
 Once on the train, I found myself surrounded 
 with soldiers, one of whom was a lieutenant from 
 Minnesota. On his arm were two stripes, in- 
 dicating that he had already been wounded 
 twice at the front. I listened to the incidents 
 he told in open-mouthed wonder, yet they were 
 related in the most matter-of-fact way. 
 
 At last I was off to the front. A fever of 
 interest grew with every mile. In a short time 
 we were skirting the Marne, looking at the now 
 historic battlefield where the surging tides of steel 
 had met. The early spring verdure was aglow 
 and Nature was making a brave attempt to hide 
 the ugly scars of the terrible conflict. Here and 
 there was a clump of trees, their white hearts still 
 torn open as if to indicate where the scourge 
 swept on. There were the roads along which 
 Galleni's hastily organized taxi-cab troops rushed 
 at the critical moment to stem the helmeted Hun 
 and save Paris. Later I stood in the fields where 
 hundreds of thousands had died. The Marne 
 coursed its way onward to the sea placid and 
 serene, giving little indication of the tumult that 
 had surged around it. At far-off Amiens and Arras
 
 42 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 the guns were booming in the effort to check the 
 thrust toward the Channel. 
 
 Winding our way through the valleys, there 
 were fresh evidences of war's devastation. On 
 the little railroads flat cars loaded with men and 
 guns were making their way toward the battle 
 front; on other trains French troops on a furlough 
 were going home. 
 
 Leaving the train at Gondrecourt, we took a 
 motor for the zone of operations. Out across 
 flat plains, suggestive of the prairies of Dakota, 
 our car sped on. The distant boom of the guns, 
 faint at first, increased in number and tone with 
 every mile of the journey. Now and then our car 
 would edge past lines of troops going to the front — 
 and they were our boys, too! As I went by I felt 
 ashamed to ride. I wanted to get out and walk 
 with them. Then we would encounter artillery 
 as it rattled along. The soldiers always saluted 
 and we felt proud to return it. Sometimes I saw 
 them in the French villages fraternizing with the 
 natives, picking up and exchanging phrases and 
 winning popularity. Now and then motor-cycles 
 flew on, the riders covered with white chalk of the 
 roads. Orderlies, goggle-eyed and dust-covered, 
 looked like beetles as they whirred away to and 
 from headquarters.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 43 
 
 This was the Valley of the Meuse, dotted with 
 farm-houses that were grouped in little villages. At 
 Domremy we found the birthplace of Jeanne d'Arc. 
 
 "Let's sing it," suggested Bristol, and out rang 
 the popular song of "Joan of Arc." It ended with 
 the stirring refrain of the "Marseillaise." 
 
 Approaching farms, it was rather shocking to 
 the esthetic taste to find manure piles in the front 
 yard rather than in the rear of the barn as in 
 America. Yet the question of fertilizer is an 
 important one, and the size of the manure heap is 
 an indication of the wealth of the farmer. The 
 natives seem to be well accustomed to living 
 rooms adjoining stables. 
 
 It was in this primitive village, far from the 
 gay life of the city, that the Maid of Orleans was 
 born. Her home stands sheltered by a group of 
 scraggly trees. Children were playing in the yard, 
 seemingly all unconscious of the historic setting. 
 Nearby is the church where she was baptized, 
 while yonder on the crest of the hill stand the 
 beautiful memorial towers erected on the spot 
 where she saw the vision and went away to 
 lead the armies of France. Here the flower of 
 young American manhood was coming to shed its 
 blood to help save the France she had defended. 
 In this sector held by American troops, the spirit
 
 44 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 of Jeanne d'Arc will linger and find a worthy 
 reincarnation in the soldiers from over seas. 
 
 After two hours' ride over circular roads and 
 across wide stretching plains, through village after 
 village, we came at last to Neuf chateau. The first 
 Yankee Division was stationed here. The quaint 
 little old buildings, shops and courtways are today 
 familiar objects to our American soldiers. The 
 "M. P." is at the street corners directing the 
 surging traffic the same as on Broadway. Every- 
 thing in the army is designated by initials. Over 
 one office is the "A. O.," and over another "C. O." 
 and so on, each combination having its own 
 meaning. 
 
 At Neufchateau the billets of the American 
 soldiers were in barns where cattle had previously 
 been stabled. With customary regard for sanitary 
 conditions, these structures had been cleaned 
 until the group of buildings resembled a dairy 
 lunch kitchen. 
 
 At Boucq I visited the quarters of Sibley, of 
 the Boston Globe. It furnishes a good sample of 
 the billets occupied by some soldiers. It is situ- 
 ated on a crag at the corner of a road. A narrow 
 hall runs through the middle of the building, 
 opening off of which is Sib's bedroom. Directly 
 across the hall on the same floor is the cow's room.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 45 
 
 Chickens have the right of way in the houses. 
 When "Sib" retired the previous night he found 
 two chickens roosting on the high post at the head 
 of the bed. 
 
 Standing on the high hill or parapet at Boucq 
 at night and overlooking the Valley of the Meuse, 
 I had my first glimpse of a creeping barrage. In 
 the distant darkness the line of fire could be clearly 
 seen. It was like spraying fluid flame from a 
 nozzle or a crackling prairie fire. It was one of 
 the most haunting spectacles I ever witnessed. 
 On the night of my arrival at Neufchateau I 
 thought I might have to come back to headquar- 
 ters, but my chauffeur told me I could stay with 
 him. He was from Waco, Texas. He said: "I 
 came down here to break horses for the cavalry, 
 but there is no cavalry and so I am breaking 
 automobiles instead." 
 
 It was dark when we set out for what he spoke 
 of as his sleeping quarters. We had no lights, and 
 he drove with a devil-may-care spirit, making the 
 telephone poles whizz past in a continuous stream, 
 and lighting up the darkness with lurid profanity, 
 arriving in front of a pretentious stone house at 
 one a.m. Going in he led me to the front room in 
 which there was a piano, paintings on the walls, 
 and a carpet on the floor. On one side stood a
 
 46 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 high-posted ancestral bed and on it I noticed an 
 eiderdown quilt. "This is my room," he said. 
 
 "How do you manage it?" I queried. 
 
 "Oh, a snap," he answered. "Room and break- 
 fast, eight francs a week!" 
 
 In the morning I learned the reason. There was 
 a knock at the door and the kindly-faced matron, 
 wife of a French captain at the front, appeared 
 to ascertain why my companion was still sleeping. 
 I was up and shaving. Going to the bed and 
 waking him with motherly solicitude, she pointed 
 to the clock to signify he was late in getting up. 
 In his broken French he tried to tell her that 
 he was late in getting in. Quickly jumping into 
 his clothes and while winding his puttees, three 
 girls passed the door which the elderly woman 
 had left open. They called out to my companion, 
 "Bonjour! Monsieur." And then, as if to explain 
 how he happened to have such quarters, he said: 
 "I'm engaged to one of them, but I'll be darned 
 if I know which one it is." 
 
 But a night in the trenches! There's not much 
 humor there. It was sable night as I entered. I 
 could have wished for a moon, but that would 
 mean a raid. The stars shone with double magni- 
 tude. It was gruesome business stumbling over the 
 duck boards, perhaps missing and going knee-deep
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 47 
 
 in the mud. Except for an occasional sentry, 
 there is next to nothing to see or do except just 
 grope. Even after the sentry gets your password 
 and spirits himself into darkness, there is no sound 
 save splashing feet. 
 
 Coming to the first firing shelf, it may be that 
 Fritz has accommodatingly thrown up a flare, 
 revealing a white face peering into the lighted 
 gloom — but even he does not turn to look. The 
 Germans have a star-shell with a parachute, which 
 floats over the lines for a long time — a devilish 
 contrivance, lending picturesqueness to the scene. 
 Firing posts multiply, and in each there are eyes 
 watching, not you, but out into the darkness. 
 
 Moving on you know there are countless sol- 
 diers near, but you see them not. They are down 
 in the dugouts asleep, or consuming the smoke of 
 a smouldering fire. A night in the trenches! The 
 tensity of it all no tongue can tell! 
 
 And dawn? How eagerly eyes look for the first 
 spires of light in the distant horizon! In that 
 semi-darkness it is as if you were looking over a 
 dead sea — wave after wave rolls away, but all 
 are motionless. 
 
 Imagination works on high speed, and over that 
 field of death Boches are coming straight toward 
 you, not one but many. The plop of the machine
 
 48 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 gun, the waking mortar, the whinny of the bullet 
 causes a heart throb to answer every explosion. 
 No wonder eager eyes look for the dawn! 
 
 One soldier said to me, "I've seen more sunrises 
 in France than I ever saw in my whole life before." 
 
 Yet even in the trenches there is some humor. 
 One incident I shall never forget. Seated on 
 one of the sand bags was a soldier who proved to 
 be a Scotchman. He was distinguished from the 
 others by the sweep of his hand downward and 
 over his coat. At first I thought he was brushing 
 off the dust and the mud, but while I watched the 
 wincing movements of his shoulders, I suspected 
 it was something else. It dawned upon me in a 
 jiffy — they were "cooties." As he continued 
 brushing, I said, "Getting rid of them, Jock?" 
 
 With a rich Scotch burr, he replied, "Oh no; 
 just taking them as they come." 
 
 Aside from the mud, it was about the only thing 
 I brought away from the trenches. Jock was 
 getting ready to go back of the lines for a "dip," 
 which means that while he is getting his "dip," 
 his clothes are "dipped" also. 
 
 As I came away, the air was filled with planes, 
 circling to and fro and humming like a reaper in a 
 distant harvest field, taking, it may be, their toll 
 of death. Sausage balloons were forming a line in
 
 DISPOSEZ DE NOUS 
 COMME IL VOUS PLAIRA 
 
 Au cours d'une reunion qui fut tenue le 28 mars 1918, 
 sur le front et a laquelle assistaient le general Petain, 
 M. Clemenceau et M. Loucheur, le general Pershing 
 s'est presente au general Foch et Iui a dit: 
 
 Je viens pour vous dire que le peuple ameri- 
 cain tiendrait a grand honneur que nos troupes 
 fussent engagees dans la presente bataille. Je vous 
 le demande en mon nom et au sien. II n'y a pas 
 en ce moment d'autre question que de combattre. 
 L'infanterie, l'artillerie, l'aviation, tout ce que nous 
 avons est a vous. Disposez-en comme il vousplaira. 
 II en viendra encore d'autres, aussi nombreux 
 qu'il sera necessaire. 
 
 Je suis venu tout expres pour vous dire que le 
 peuple americain serait fier d'etre engage dans la 
 plus belle bataille de* l'Histoire. 
 
 "DO WITH US AS YOU LIKE" 
 
 Printed in French, these famous words of Pershing's are given wide 
 
 circulation (See page 38)
 
 Copyright by Committee on Public Information 
 
 GENERAL JOHN J. ("FIGHTING JACK") PERSHING 
 
 The telegram he is reading interests him — it tells of an American advance
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 49 
 
 the sky, indicating the battle line below. With 
 sky alive with destruction, and earth rocking with 
 explosives, I needed nothing more to realize — this 
 was war.
 
 VI 
 
 WITH THE AMERICAN TROOPS 
 IN A GAS MASK 
 
 AFTER a few hours in the zone of operations, 
 I began to feel like a regular soldier, for I 
 was now given my own gas mask, duly 
 initialed. Soldiers are as careful about their gas 
 masks as they are about their tooth brushes. Woe 
 to the man who appropriates another's gas mask, 
 or carries off his match box — an unwritten law 
 soon learned. 
 
 On this day everyone was ordered to take his 
 gas mask. There was a full attendance at the 
 rehearsal, the time consumed in adjusting it 
 varying from four to forty seconds. The forties 
 were left behind. 
 
 Only one in the party was ununiformed, but he 
 had qualified, and when they saw him sailing past 
 in the motor car, the coat tails of his summer 
 overcoat flying, they said: "He looks like a real 
 lady." 
 
 The mask is carried in a knapsack, slung 
 
 (50)
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 51 
 
 over the shoulder like a hunter's pouch. Some 
 of the soldiers had two, a short-lived one for emer- 
 gency, and another capable of enduring for a 
 longer period. 
 
 I began experimenting with my gas mask to see 
 if I could break my record of twenty-three. The 
 same shudder came over me as I adjusted it and 
 took the rubber bit in my teeth, for it must be 
 held firmly in the mouth. The nose grip put an 
 end to any breathing I had known before. All 
 air must come through the neutralizer and be 
 drawn into the mouth through the rubber tube. 
 The first sensation is that of smothering, especially 
 if the contrivance is not adjusted properly. 
 
 Remembering my speech of the night before, 
 one of the lieutenants said: "Now we've got you 
 fixed properly; we're protected for awhile anyhow." 
 
 I had just taken it off, saying, "What's the 
 use of practicing when there's no chance to use 
 it?" Our motor buzzed on. 
 
 Our laughter suddenly ceased. For through 
 the air came a strange sound, an intermittent 
 "zip," "zip," "zip." The chauffeur chucked on 
 the emergency, shouting, "There's a gas shell 
 now! Dive quick!" The masks were on before 
 we reached the ground. In a ditch by the side of 
 the road, close to Mother Earth, we waited.
 
 52 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 Lying face down, looking through the goggles 
 at the beetles in the grass, I had never been so 
 close to nature before. Just then I felt like bugs and 
 little ants, with whom I had something in common. 
 I had often used the expression "Mother Earth," 
 but had never understood it before. For the first 
 time I realized that it would not be so hard to 
 be buried in her arms after all. For was she not 
 even now protecting me from Heinie's mustard 
 gas? 
 
 Feeling a little cramped, I found courage to 
 move one leg, when I heard something — a "z-zish- 
 h-h-h" in the air — which sounded like the Twen- 
 tieth Century Limited rushing by. Again I sought 
 a closer acquaintance with the creeping things 
 and dirt. 
 
 It was not necessary for anyone to tell me that 
 it was a '75 or better. It doesn't take long to 
 learn the peculiar song of the shells. 
 
 My close study in entomology, which seemed 
 hours in duration, was interrupted by the lieuten- 
 ant, who called out, "All clear." When I pulled 
 off the mask, just common air never seemed so 
 good before. 
 
 The roads were lined with piles of crushed 
 stone to be used for repair at a moment's notice. 
 Trees planted by order of Napoleon had been
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 53 
 
 ruthlessly cut down to supply timber. Gaunt 
 stumps haunted the highways. Roads used for 
 centuries were sunken under the strain of traffic. 
 On either side of the highways farmers were at 
 work in the fields, though within the range of 
 the guns. Along the roads, curling through the 
 valleys like tarnished gold, were long lines of bat- 
 teries hurrying to and from the front, those return- 
 ing covered with mud and having the appearance 
 of hard service. Yet in the eye of every soldier 
 there was the "go-glint" and gleam which said, 
 "We are coming back with some German bacon." 
 
 Spinning through the villages beyond the speed 
 limit, we came to the great American aviation 
 headquarters, where the fighting squadron is 
 located. There was supreme satisfaction in hearing 
 that the French, British and American air forces 
 had secured the mastery of the Vodka, Fokker and 
 Gotha machines of the Huns. Subsequent records 
 have more than verified the camp talk at that 
 time. The dashing spirit of the Allied aviators, 
 together with their swift machines, have checked 
 the venturesome Boche. 
 
 The thrill of one group cannot be described, 
 when we saw Winslow leave the earth with a 
 swoop, just missing the Boche as he came across 
 the line, and with a masterful nose dive bring him
 
 54 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 to the ground. This was all compassed in six 
 minutes, a stop-watch being held by one of the 
 machinists. Six brief minutes from the time of 
 the ascent until the Boche had made a ghastly 
 dent in the sod. 
 
 The "aces" talk little of their work, insisting 
 it is not a matter of deliberation so much as 
 instinct. They give no reason for the things they 
 do — they just do them with an unerring intuition. 
 The fine sense of balance, coupled with the daring 
 and vitality of youth, is making itself felt in the 
 aviation records. 
 
 When the Allies began bombing German cities 
 there was the cry of "Kamerad," and the Germans 
 protested against attacks on civilians and non- 
 combatants, forgetting what they had been doing 
 with impunity in myriad raids over France, 
 England and Italy, their victims numbering into 
 thousands. Among the aviators the feeling pre- 
 vailed that attacks from the air would yet play an 
 important part in ending the war. 
 
 Soaring dragons swooping down from the sky, 
 like the vengeance of heaven, fires the imagination 
 of the fighting squadrons on Allied aviation fields. 
 Here the houses were covered with spruce trees, 
 and camouflage was everywhere in evidence as 
 we neared the range of guns. The objective
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 55 
 
 point of our trip was Toul, the great canal center 
 of France. It is here one realizes how much of 
 the traffic of this nation is handled by canals. 
 Seventy per cent of the population of France are 
 farmers, and most of their produce is transported 
 by canals. This land of the ancient Gauls has for 
 centuries been producing sustenance for a mighty 
 race. In an old deserted residence, where the 
 assistant Provost Marshal lived, we had to show 
 our passes. Here the soldiers had drawn a calendar 
 on the plaster of the wall with lead pencil to keep 
 track of the dates. Apparently there was a dearth 
 of 1918 calendars. A tiny military narrow-gauge 
 railroad paralleled the road, and the little locomo- 
 tives as they pushed along their loads looked like 
 toys compared to America's great mogul engines. 
 They seemed to be trying to compete with the 
 rumbling army trucks and Red Cross caravans 
 which crowded the roadways with supplies for 
 the troops. 
 
 At is located a great veterinary hos- 
 pital in which were thousands of horses — some 
 had been wounded in all sorts of ways, some were 
 stone blind from mustard gas, although, like the 
 men, they will recover their sight in a few weeks. 
 Every horse in France is valuable, being worth 
 over a thousand dollars, and they are given every
 
 56 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 care. In vast barracks, originally built by the 
 Germans during the Franco -Prussian war, was 
 stationed the famous regiment. This regi- 
 ment held a meeting that evening, and I never 
 heard a more ringing speech than that delivered 
 by the Colonel to his men, and his tribute to their 
 clean and sturdy manhood, as indicated by their 
 medical tests and in the work which they had 
 accomplished, would have moved the folks at 
 home could they have heard it. 
 
 Apples, which had just arrived from their native 
 state, were being distributed. We sat about in the 
 dim candle light eating them, as at a Hallowe'en 
 party. 
 
 Around a bend and up a hill, still passing 
 sentinels who stopped us for identification at every 
 turn, we came upon an old chateau, headquarters 
 
 of the division. It was owned by a retired 
 
 French officer, and had been in his family for 
 years. Here I enjoyed baked beans (my favorite 
 Boston Saturday evening dish) with the com- 
 mander, and it was to him I delivered the flag from 
 the women of Boston and gave their message to 
 the boys. An air of peace and quietness prevailed, 
 but it was the ominous silence which precedes an 
 attack from the "storm troops" of the Germans. 
 It was hard even then to realize that we were
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 57 
 
 within reach of the great guns of the greatest war 
 in history. There was a grim look on the face of 
 the General as he said: 
 
 "It seems quiet today, but we can never be 
 sure." 
 
 While I was at Major General 's head- 
 quarters, an orderly announced that a young 
 soldier was dying at the hospital. When his name 
 was given, the General said, "Look up and see if 
 he hasn't a decoration." He learned that none 
 had come in. The Major General got up and went 
 down to the hospital and found the boy. The 
 General patted him on the chest and said: "It's 
 all right, my lad, you've won the greatest honors." 
 
 The boy had missed the Croix de Guerre, the one 
 great passion of a soldier, but he had gained some- 
 thing far greater: he had won the commendation 
 of his Commander, and died supremely happy. 
 For the soldiers see the cause through their 
 superior officers. 
 
 Returning to headquarters, the General, his 
 jaw set, and his lip slightly trembling, said: "By 
 God! our boys have discipline and stout hearts." 
 
 The rewards of service on the battlefield were 
 shown on the day when the 104th regiment was 
 decorated by General Passaga, commanding the 
 32nd French Army Corps. The whole regiment
 
 58 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 was drawn up on the parade grounds, and amid 
 impressive ceremonies and the music of bands, the 
 Croix de Guerre was pinned to the regimental 
 colors, and over a hundred individual members 
 were also decorated with the Croix de Guerre. The 
 order was as follows: 
 
 32nd Army Corps 
 
 Staff 
 
 1st Bureau „ „ .. _ , 
 
 personnel H.Q. April 26th, 1918 
 
 GENERAL ORDER No. 737/ a 
 
 General PASSAGA, commanding the 32nd Army Corps, 
 cites in Army Corps Orders: 
 
 104th Regiment of Infantry, American, 
 under command of Lt.-Colonel G. H. Shelton: 
 
 "For greatest fighting spirit and self-sacrifice during action 
 of April 10th, 12th and 13th, 1918. Suffering from very heavy 
 bombardments and attacked by very strong German forces, 
 succeeded in preventing their dangerous advance and with 
 great energy recaptured at the point of the bayonet the few 
 ruined trenches which had to be abandoned at the first onset, 
 at the same time making prisoners." 
 
 General PASSAGA, 
 Commanding, 32nd Army Corps 
 
 The fight at a few days before had 
 
 resulted in many casualties, but it had also made
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 59 
 
 the German traveling circus pay dearly. Up early 
 
 at 4 a.m., and through the trenches, General 
 
 surveys the day's work before the dawn, because 
 it is not safe around the trenches in the daylight. 
 A division headquarters is run with all the system 
 of a great manufacturing plant. The airplane 
 scouts go over the enemy lines daily and bring 
 back pictures showing locations of the fortifications 
 of enemy troops. These photographs are printed 
 and every detail studied. Nothing is overlooked 
 by the watchful eyes along that twelve-mile sector. 
 
 The division was the first to be organized 
 
 in France, and it was the first to take over an entire 
 sector. The headquarters of an army are spread 
 out in fan shape. The division headquarters are 
 at the apex of that fan. Then, on either side, are 
 located the brigades, and spreading from the 
 brigades are the regiments. From the regiments 
 are the companies, usually three in front and two 
 behind. It may be some consolation to American 
 mothers to know that it is for very little time, at 
 best, in the movement of troops, that their boys 
 remain in the front lines. They move forward to 
 the front and then to the rear automatically. 
 
 When I rode over to the new headquarters of 
 the 102nd regiment, made up of Connecticut boys, 
 I met the heroes of a bitter fight, in which the losses
 
 60 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 were heavy. On cots of straw the boys from New 
 Haven, Bristol, and Hartford were resting, and it 
 was from their lips that I heard the story of their 
 hard-fought battle, told with all the piquancy of 
 a bear hunt. All these men were eager to take 
 their place in the front line trenches, and not a 
 face along the line, in spite of the casualties, 
 had a look of hesitancy. One brought forth a 
 lapel taken off a German, No. 257. He also 
 showed me a pistol which he had taken from his 
 prisoner. 
 
 The General suggested that I see the soldiers 
 in a regiment which was doing actual fighting, 
 advising that I mingle with the boys freely, getting 
 their first-hand stories, rather than lingering 
 around the officers' mess. 
 
 I visited this regiment, which was a few miles 
 distant. Arriving at dusk, I could see the blinking 
 light of three or four candles. As I drew nearer, 
 the major and the officers were sitting around a 
 table, talking over the day's doings. The little 
 major, who had been in the thickest of the fight, 
 was at the head of the table, looking as uncon- 
 cerned as when constructing typewriters. In 
 chumming with the boys I had heard how much 
 they thought of him, and made free to tell him so; 
 but he was too modest even to reply, and continued
 
 Cest la Guerre — It is the War 61 
 
 introducing the other officers, some being from the 
 French Army. 
 
 "It seems good to see something from home," 
 said the merry adjutant, feeling of my summer 
 overcoat. 
 
 "Tomorrow may be a busy day," said the 
 major quietly. The face of every officer turned 
 toward him, for the officers know by slight signs 
 what may come. Soldiers have an uncanny intui- 
 tion of orders before they are issued. They notice 
 even the way the cook puts away the kettles. 
 Nothing escapes them. It recalled what Bismarck 
 wrote to the German leaders in one of his last 
 letters: "Beware of going to war with the quick- 
 thinking and quick-acting Americans." 
 
 As I went out among the soldiers, I realized 
 afresh what he meant by the quick adjustment 
 the regiment had made to the new conditions of 
 their camp. Little things showed the inventive 
 knack of the Americans. 
 
 All have an ambition to bring back some trophy 
 — a helmet or pistol — anything belonging to the 
 equipment of Fritz. The "hunting spirit" is keen 
 among them. On the firing line and under fire 
 one day, a fellow who had been a billing clerk on a 
 railroad, was turning over his souvenirs to a com- 
 rade to take back for him. He, with habits long
 
 62 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 formed, insisted on an inventory. "Give me a 
 receipt," he said. And he got it. 
 
 The inventive traits so prominent in Americans 
 all come out in the army service. One man has 
 invented a mouse-trap, and it's a wonder. 
 
 In our declaration of war, the phrase, "all our 
 resources" have a new meaning in the new and 
 striking inventions which are coming from the 
 brains of our soldiers. 
 
 Listening to what might be called their bed-time 
 stories, I heard incidents of their recent big fight. 
 They all laughed when the Borisky adventure 
 was told. The little clothing clerk of a year ago 
 was about to surrender to a number of Germans 
 when his quick eye discovered they were wounded. 
 Plucking up courage, he emptied his revolver into 
 two of them and took the other — a big husky 
 Boche — making him step along lively, pricking 
 him under his coat tails. As he brought in his 
 prisoner he shouted, "Ain't he a beauty? I've got 
 a ready-made suit for him." 
 
 In moving about the gas masks were constantly 
 needed, for all unexpectedly a gas shell would 
 come along, and on would go the gas mask. There 
 was nothing else to do, and nobody was taking 
 chances. Over the field were observation balloons 
 with telephone wires attached, from which every
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 63 
 
 movement of the enemy was watched and the 
 location and range of the German guns recorded. 
 The discovery was made that the graveyard 
 which had puzzled the American gunners was 
 movable, and that the Boche had transferred it 
 to another point during the night. Imitation vil- 
 lages and churches are often constructed with 
 which to baffle the observer. Every day is a battle 
 of wits to deceive the enemy. The constantly 
 occurring question is, "What is Fritz up to?" 
 
 At the front the days slip away so quickly that 
 all thought of time is lost. Watchfulness is the 
 chief business. There is very little glancing at the 
 wrist watch, except to make sure it is time for 
 mess. Great shells whizz intermittently and in a 
 brief time even the novice learns to identify the 
 different kinds of shell it is by its song, and can tell 
 which way it is coining. Nobody is too proud to 
 run for shelter. Hair-breadth escapes are common, 
 indeed almost incidental to the day's work, and 
 are hardly deemed worth recounting around the 
 mess at night. The shelled territory is a gruesome 
 sight. Pictures taken from an airplane show not 
 only the villages, but every road and path clear 
 and distinct. Later pictures after a bombardment 
 reveal every building, road and footprint in these 
 same centers entirely obliterated — a vast honey-
 
 64 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 comb of craters. No desert could be more deso- 
 late — not a tree, railroad, culvert, or living thing 
 remains. Everything is flattened to the ground. 
 Finding the Germans were indulging in one of 
 their favorite pastimes of pelting the crossroads, 
 we made a detour. It had been a busy day with 
 the gas masks. Four real alarms were sounded. 
 We came to a group of farm houses. Being 
 hungry, the chauffeur said: 
 
 "I know a place where a salad grows." 
 As we drew up before a house, I inquired of the 
 perennial son-in-law prospect: 
 
 "Do you know any daughters here?" 
 A little old lady with a cap slightly set off with 
 a meager fringe, admitted us. She didn't seem to 
 need any words to tell her what we wanted, but 
 hustled away to the kitchen. While sitting there 
 I noticed an old square piano, which reminded me 
 of my mother's Stein way. Pictures on the walls 
 showed nearly every generation, from Louis XIV 
 down. Over the mantel, as is the custom now, 
 was a small American flag. I sat down to the 
 piano and placed my hands on the thin, worn 
 keys. The sound which issued forth was metallic; 
 the instrument was badly out of tune. But the 
 lieutenant insisted that it was the "Star Spangled 
 Banner" and stood up.
 
 Copyright by Con, in, II,, on Public Information 
 
 IN THE FRONT LINES 
 
 Secretary Baker inspecting a dugout 
 
 Copyright by Committee on Public Infortunium 
 
 IN NO MANS LAM) 
 
 French and American officers cutting barbed-wire entanglements preparatory 
 to an infantry attack
 
 Copyright by Committee on Public Information 
 
 OX THEIR WAY 
 
 An infantry detachment passing through front-line 'trenches 
 
 (iERMAX PRISOXERS OX WAY TO PRISOX CAMP
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 65 
 
 The music brought the little old lady into the 
 room, with her spoon still uplifted. She said, 
 "Marseillaise." And I must confess it, I could 
 not play it from memory; but I have learned it 
 since, and will never be caught again without its 
 stirring strain in my repertoire. 
 
 A monster bowl of spring salad, carrots, pota- 
 toes, onions, dandelions, radishes was set before 
 us. And the dressing — that was the triumph! 
 
 Contrasted with the activities of the front are 
 the services of the S. O. R. (Service of the Rear). 
 Here there is no glare of the guns; it is a question 
 of moving supplies. At Neuf chateau was the 
 stout form of Billy Lavere, Y. M. C. A. secretary, 
 with his customary greeting: "Were you born in 
 this town?" to the boys as they passed. An incident 
 about Billy is worthy of mention. He came across 
 a lone army mule, which seemed to be only 
 slightly wounded. Knowing the value of mules, 
 he tried to push him into a shell hole for safe 
 keeping, where he could later be picked up. The 
 mule balked and argued to such an extent that 
 Billy and a companion who was with him were 
 both kicked into the shell hole. A second later 
 the mule was blown to atoms. His hoofs scattered, 
 and the only remains were a few strips of black 
 hide.
 
 66 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 If the sum of treasure spent in this calamitous 
 conflict on these fields could be computed, every 
 square acre could be overlaid with gold. I thought 
 of this as I looked over these broad stretches now 
 dotted with golden buttercups, so soon to be torn 
 with ghastly shell holes and sprinkled with human 
 blood! The picture will not soon be forgotten. 
 
 If another touch was needed to heighten my 
 view of the battlefield, it was given when I saw 
 cars of American wounded, each brave soul 
 shouting, or singing, or cheering one another; with 
 now and then, it may be, a call for "mother." 
 It wrung my heart. 
 
 During all my journeys in the zone of operations, 
 not once did I see Old Glory at the head of any of 
 the troops, either going or coming. I did not 
 realize this until I returned to headquarters, where 
 the presence of the flag flying in the breeze recalled 
 it to me. 
 
 Whether to hide from enemy observation the 
 character of regiments, or to emphasize the actual 
 alliance with other nations, the brigading of all 
 in one great army of democracy — whatever the 
 motive — it remains a startling truth that not 
 once could I recall having glimpsed the Stars and 
 Stripes on the battle-field. 
 
 But there it waved, proudly waved. I thought
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 67 
 
 I had venerated it before, loved it for all it stood 
 for, and yet — and I swear it — to me it was a new 
 flag, for I saw interwoven in it the living tissue of 
 flesh and blood. Its field of blue was no longer 
 merely forty-eight formal stars, but in their place 
 a constellation — every one of them the face of 
 Pershing and his men.
 
 VII 
 
 UNDER THE RED CROSS BANNER 
 IN FRANCE 
 
 WHETHER it was the raid of the night, 
 resulting in nervousness, or my eagerness 
 to be doing things, I cannot say, but 
 almost before there was any stir in the streets I 
 found myself standing before the Madeleine. In 
 other days no edifice had moved me more. Di- 
 rectly in front, and down the street, is the Place 
 de la Concorde. Here is located the American 
 Red Cross headquarters. Being too early for the 
 opening of the doors, I went to the monument of 
 Alsace and Lorraine nearby, which years before 
 I had seen wrapped in mourning. It was then 
 draped to express the sorrow of France over the 
 loss of her two beloved provinces. Now it was 
 sandbagged for protection against air raids. Yet 
 it was startling to see the tri-color of France 
 waving from a festooned wreath in the waxing 
 light of the morning — prophetic hope of the 
 future! 
 
 (68)
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 69 
 
 In a flash the narrative of Daudet's "Last 
 Class" came over me. It was in Alsace-Lorraine. 
 The school had assembled for the last recitation 
 in their mother tongue. The Prussian edict had 
 gone forth that the hour of twelve would end the 
 use of the French language in Alsace. No mother 
 could even croon a lullaby or a father address his 
 heir in the language of his birth. By one stroke 
 the Hun was to tear out by the roots the tongue of 
 the people. 
 
 The village people gathered, a great concourse 
 of them, to hear the school master's last words, 
 which proved to be a tribute to the French tongue. 
 Suddenly the clock in the church tower struck 
 noon; — then the Angelus. At the same moment 
 the trumpets of the Prussians sounded under the 
 windows. The school master arose, very pale, but 
 never seeming so grand and good. "My friends," 
 he said, "I — I" but he could not finish. Turning to 
 the blackboard, he took a piece of chalk, and 
 gathering all his strength, wrote, in letters that I 
 seemed to see blazing in the glorious light of the 
 morning on the monument, "Viie la France!" 
 
 In that moment I knew, if never before, why the 
 American Red Cross was in France. 
 
 The American Red Cross headquarters at Place 
 de la Concorde is located in a club building, and
 
 70 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 once the home of a most exclusive organization. 
 Even now the same aristocratic atmosphere per- 
 vades the place. The adornment is that of simple 
 elegance. The finest taste was exercised in its 
 furnishings. Every foot bound hither on errands 
 of mercy today presses the most expensive rugs. 
 On the walls there is a lavish display of paintings. 
 Yet this all-exclusive club responded to the all- 
 inclusive call for help and turned over to the Red 
 Cross its magnificent rooms. 
 
 Instead of a place of luxurious repose, it has been 
 transformed to a hive of industry. Its palatial 
 salons are now offices. The winding stairway is 
 a public thoroughfare. Each room is marked 
 with large numerals, as, for example, Room C 14, 
 or B 17. Here were dignified Red Cross majors 
 hustling about, nurses and pretty Red Cross girls 
 with the insignia of the United States on their 
 shoulders, and the good old Yankee twang with a 
 new accent on the lips of all. 
 
 The American Red Cross is creating for itself 
 a high place in the estimation of the people of 
 France. New recruits are arriving every day. The 
 girls are not known by name, but simply as "the 
 girl who came from Chicago," or "the girls who 
 arrived on the Espagne." Social distinction is 
 lost. The whole staff of workers constitute a
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 71 
 
 democratic fraternity. Some are assigned to base 
 hospitals, some sent to Italy, some to remote places 
 in France, while others assist in the work at 
 headquarters. 
 
 Ascending five long "tops" of stairs, accom- 
 panied all the way by the rapid-fire clicking of the 
 typewriters, I reached the office of Major J. M. 
 Perkins, head of the American Red Cross in 
 France. The room was decorated in the most 
 ornate style, with a sky blue ceiling in which the 
 birds seem really alive and flying. The French 
 seem to know how to make a lamp post look artistic. 
 They also have the art of making strangers feel at 
 home. In such exclusive environments, Major 
 Perkins looks after the multifarious details of the 
 Red Cross help, his careful handling suggesting 
 high executiveship. 
 
 Many names well known in American life are 
 to be found on the roster. Society women of Fifth 
 Avenue in jumper and apron, with stenographers 
 from Posey County, are unraveling problems 
 together. It is a veritable clearing-house. Most 
 of these workers have now exchanged the Saxon 
 "yes, yes" for the French "om", oui" 
 
 The French telephone is a puzzle. I first 
 attempted to use it here at the Red Cross rooms. 
 Unless you hold your hand down on the lever
 
 72 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 while talking, your conversation is lost. The 
 French trumpet and earpiece are one, and many 
 a new arrival has appeared foolish looking for the 
 mouthpiece when it is already under his chin. 
 The greeting "hello" of the French girls as you 
 take up the instrument sounds, with their pretty 
 accent, like the Hawaiian "aloha." A babble 
 of voices in many different languages is heard 
 on every side. A French conversation on the 
 telephone never seems to cease. The operator 
 calls up again in about ten minutes after the final 
 word and inquires, "Avez vous fini?" Americans 
 have developed one French and one English ear 
 to meet the exigencies. 
 
 All this made it an event at the Place de la Con- 
 corde when the American telephone girls arrived, 
 who, with nimble tongues and quick ears, were at 
 home in two languages. Attired in uniforms, the 
 American operators looked to be perfectly capable 
 to put "pep" into even the language of Napoleon, 
 and they soon straightened out many tanglements 
 and tempers. Many Americans speaking "ship- 
 board" French get into a muddle of words. It is 
 very easy to convey the opposite meaning of what 
 you want to say! 
 
 Every hour enhanced my admiration for the 
 French people. Their courtesy is especially shown
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 73 
 
 in devotion to children. In front of Hotel Crillon 
 Ambassador Sharpe pointed to a passing family 
 group. Children of parents too poor to buy had 
 been provided by the Red Cross with a trinket or 
 toy. The innate courtesy and respectful address 
 is a pleasing contrast to the brusqueness of the 
 average American. 
 
 At the American headquarters I made the 
 acquaintance of a gentleman who was rendering 
 valiant service in translating the needs of every 
 race and tongue. He was then at the head of the 
 Reception Corps. His knowledge of foreign lan- 
 guages and his even temperament helped in the 
 Babel of tongues. The news came that his little 
 boy was dead. His strong frame shook with emo- 
 tion as he told of little Bapino. All the science of 
 American surgery at the Red Cross hospital had 
 been used to save the two-year-old child, but to 
 no avail. Although I had not known the father 
 long, I felt drawn to him, for I remembered 
 when the same dark cloud came to my home. I told 
 him I would attend the funeral on Sunday. Many 
 Americans sent flowers, and when the little casket 
 was carried along in the arms of the father for the 
 solemn rites by the priest — it seemed almost as if 
 a little soldier had fallen. The little white hearse 
 was covered with a blanket of flowers. I walked at
 
 74 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 least two miles behind that hearse with the 
 stricken father, the Boy Scouts of the Red Cross 
 as honorary escort following. Soldiers and offi- 
 cers saluted as the procession passed, and civilians 
 uncovered their heads as a mark of respect. 
 
 At Neuilly on the Seine the little form was laid 
 away in a flower-strewn grave. The priest was 
 unable to come and at the father's appeal that 
 some little word of prayer be uttered, I myself 
 volunteered. My language was strange, but all 
 hearts were in unison with sympathy for the 
 parental heart. This was one of many children 
 who sickened and died during the air raids of the 
 unpitying Huns. 
 
 The arrival of American troops through France 
 aroused the highest enthusiasm. One news- 
 paper writer, in characterizing their appearance, 
 gravely records that "the high cheek bones and 
 features of the North American Indian were the 
 hallmarks of many faces." In the language of 
 George Ade, I just "laffed" at his words, but the 
 next day furnished an illustration of the eagerness 
 of the French to find something in us "like them." 
 
 A young French officer, a blue-eyed Alsatian, 
 six feet or more, stood with me watching the in- 
 coming American troops. He was soon to leave 
 on a dangerous mission from which rumor had
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 75 
 
 it he will never return. This day, perhaps his 
 last in beloved France, gave his accentuated words 
 a new emphasis. "Why," he said, with simple 
 assurance, "they are just like us, Monsieur, their 
 very walk, their look — it is only the uniform that 
 is a little different." 
 
 For the moment I was lifted beyond all trifling 
 differences in khaki, features and mannerisms, 
 for the young officer in his God-given vision had 
 seen in our soldiers as they marched by, the kin- 
 ship of souls. 
 
 Major J. M. Perkins is daily confronted with 
 new and grave problems of Red Cross activities, 
 but with the characteristic energy which marked 
 his career as a banker in Boston and New York, he 
 directs the movements of his battalions, works as 
 a general in the field, dashing here and there, and is 
 always in personal touch with the work. A journey 
 to Lyon in southern France with him furnished a 
 glimpse of the diversified work of the American 
 Red Cross in conjunction with the French organ- 
 izations. Ensconced in a cochet, which is merely 
 a night car bench to stretch out on — there was no 
 mattress or covers — we thought of the Pullman 
 at home. In our compartment — and there were 
 four in the box — was a Belgian senator, who 
 challenged me to a snoring match. I won. The
 
 76 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 Major didn't sleep — but sat up looking for live 
 game with his flashlight. 
 
 At Lyon is located the tuberculosis sanitarium 
 for the French repatriate women. Six months ago 
 it was a barracks, before that it was a bath house, 
 before that it was an empress's castle, today it is 
 a tuberculosis hospital where the American Red 
 Cross is caring for French repatriate women. It 
 was the Empress Eugenie who gave the chateau 
 to the city of Lyon, and it was the Hospital Board 
 of Lyon who gave it to the American Red Cross. 
 
 The city is only a short distance away, but it 
 might be a hundred miles, the air is so clear. The 
 grass on the terraces is thick and green, the trees 
 are cool and shady. Below the chateau garden 
 the ground drops sharply and slopes away through 
 field after field to the Rhone river. The ammuni- 
 tion factories on the other bank are so far away 
 that they are only soft gray shadows against the 
 sky. 
 
 The windows of the wards open wide on peace- 
 ful country views. But the women in the wards 
 are much more interested in the American visitors 
 whom the brusque American doctor is talking 
 about. "Bonjour, Mesdames." "Bonjonr, Mes- 
 sieurs," — each one bows a ceremonious little bow, 
 leaning forward from her piled pillows or raising
 
 Cest la Guerre — It is the War 11 
 
 her head, ever so little, with a feeble smile. The 
 doctor explains that there is nothing which gives 
 them so much amusement as to hear him talk 
 French. He says a few words to one of the 
 women to prove it and the whole ward chuckles 
 gleefully. 
 
 The women are divided according to the stage 
 of the disease, so that more or less similar treat- 
 ment can be carried on in each ward. When they 
 are well enough to be out of bed most of the day, 
 they go out into one of the wooden barracks, where 
 they live practically in the open air, and where 
 they are given light work to do and from which, 
 in time, some of them will be sent back to their 
 families after they have learned how to take care 
 of themselves and not spread contagion among 
 those with whom they live. 
 
 They are all repatriates, these women and girls, 
 whom Germany sent back to France for the very 
 reason that they have tuberculosis. Among the 
 thousands who pour through Evian on the Swiss 
 border, at least thirty-five, sometimes as many 
 as sixty -five in every thousand, are afflicted with 
 the disease. The Red Cross has a hospital admis- 
 sion bureau in Paris which places these people in 
 American hospitals and in French institutions all 
 through the country. Lyon, which is so near to
 
 78 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 Evian, where the repatriate convoys come through 
 from Germany, is a particularly good place for a 
 hospital. The General Hospital Board of the city 
 offered the Americans the chateau of Sainte 
 Eugenie. The building and the newly-constructed 
 barracks they gave rent free. They provided 
 beds and bedding, heat and lighting, water and 
 plumbing, disinfection and food. The Red Cross 
 furnishes doctors, nurses and medical supplies. 
 
 It is not to the soldiers alone that the American 
 Red Cross has brought its comforting aid, but to 
 all those in distress or need wherever found. 
 Great has been the organization's work among 
 the armies, but greater still is its work among 
 these repatriate women because it is helpfulness 
 softened with tender interest and compassion — 
 the protective compassion of the big American 
 brother for his sisters. 
 
 As I walked among the patients, I asked a dear 
 old lady her age, having complimented her on her 
 smile. "I am not too old to be admired," she said 
 shyly, "but am too old to mind telling my age. 
 I am one hundred next month, and life is still 
 glorious in the hopes you have brought to France." 
 
 Under the trees overlooking the Valley of the 
 Rhone, where German prisoners were at work, the 
 patients seemed most hopeful of restored health.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 79 
 
 A tuberculosis hospital can never be a gay place, 
 and yet many of the women and girls at Sainte 
 Eugenie are happier than they have been for many 
 months. They are back again in France. They 
 have warm and comfortable beds. They have 
 air and sunshine. They have delicious food and 
 plenty of it. Back and forth through the wards 
 move Sisters of Charity in quaint white coifs. 
 They are repatriates, too, who come every day to 
 read to the patients. But better almost than 
 sisters or nurses or doctors, so it seemed to the 
 American visitors, are the trees on the terrace, the 
 big branching lindens clipped French fashion. 
 Under their branches the nurses set the long 
 reclining chairs, into the chairs they tuck the thin- 
 faced women, wrapping them warmly in woolly 
 blankets, and there they lie, hour after hour, in 
 the sun and the soft wind, while little by little 
 health and hope come back to them. 
 
 It was here that Mr. H. P. Davison, chairman 
 of the American Red Cross, came on his tri- 
 umphal return from Italy. The mayor and digni- 
 taries of the city met his party, and thousands 
 of school children gathered on the plaza to pay 
 him homage. Mr. Davison was presented with a 
 large bouquet, which included a branch of palms 
 (symbol of victory) . These he carried with all the
 
 80 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 eclat of a bridegroom. His address was most 
 modest, yet deeply sympathetic, reaching all 
 hearts. 
 
 Perhaps the most impressive incident of this 
 magnificent reception was in the flags which many 
 of the children carried in their right hand and 
 with which they waved a greeting. There were not 
 enough ready-made flags to go around. But the 
 unquenchable spirit of these little ones could not 
 be denied. With their own hands they made 
 small flags of strips of silk, cotton, flannel, or what- 
 ever came to them. But the colors were true. 
 Never was there deeper gratitude than waved 
 resplendent in their creations of the Red, White 
 and Blue. 
 
 The complete story of the work of mercy at the 
 front can never be told until after the war. Each 
 day furnishes some new and diversified incident, 
 which at the end will find its place in the color 
 of the picture. The essentials in the organization 
 in the various centers are the same. The applica- 
 tion of these principles is modified, or changed 
 to suit the particular need. The flexibility of 
 this organization, whose one working creed is 
 mercy, is one of the features of the war. 
 
 At base hospital No. 1, near Toul, was my first 
 glimpse of the treatment of those actually wounded.
 
 Copyright, 
 Harris & 
 Ewing 
 
 HENRY P. DAVISON 
 
 Chairman American Red Cross 
 
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 C'est la Guerre — It is th$ War 81 
 
 Here were the same sort of beds, attendants, 
 nurses, and surgeons to which we are accustomed 
 at home. The uniform, the surgical instruments, 
 the dressings, were all familiar. The self-same 
 fumes of anesthetics filled the rooms. But the 
 wounded! Ah, that was the difference! They were 
 different than any I ever saw, and different than I 
 ever hope to see again. Men who had been 
 gassed, being led along, the film of darkness over 
 their bloodshot eyes; some unable to walk — a 
 limb gone; others with bandages around their 
 heads, and more with faces torn, needing expert 
 facial building. Every case is different, yet every 
 one calls for known and often unknown resources 
 in surgery and nursing skill. A careful record is 
 kept of each patient, serving as a compendium of 
 knowledge in the treatment of those yet to come. 
 Cases could be multiplied, but I give one as 
 exemplifying the heroism of our men. One poor 
 fellow had lost his right arm. With that strange 
 premonition which sometimes precedes accident, 
 he was seen writing one day with his left hand. 
 When asked by some of his comrades why he did 
 so, he said: "I feel as if I was going to be hit, 
 and I was seeing if I could write a letter home 
 with my left hand." Strange fatality! W T hen he 
 returned from the next battle, his right arm was
 
 82 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 gone. I saw him lying there and tried to cheer him. 
 Instead of being cast down, he said: "I guess 
 when I get home I shan't need to tell them where 
 I've been." 
 
 I looked out the window to hide my emotion. 
 And through the mist in my eyes I could see the 
 distant Lorraine mountains, and I wondered if 
 there was any peak too high to commemorate 
 bravery like that. Outside I could see the red 
 of a few tulips blazing in a bed; tiny blue violets 
 were peeping out of the ground, while the apple 
 trees were just then massed in blooms of pure 
 white. Even Nature had hung out her banner of 
 red, white and blue in honor of such heroes!
 
 VIII 
 
 A SUNDAY VISIT WITH MARSHAL JOFFRE 
 
 MY first Sunday afternoon in Paris was 
 made memorable by an interview with 
 Marshal Joffre — at the Ecole L'Militaire, 
 the West Point of France. I had traveled with 
 him on his famous American tour, and now 
 looked forward with pleasure to a renewal of that 
 acquaintance. I brushed my hair, as nearly as I 
 could remember, in the manner he wore his. With 
 as much military bearing as I could command I 
 passed up the broad stairs to the reception room, 
 and was greeted by Major Fabre, the "Blue 
 Devil" of Alsace, whom I had previously met on 
 the American tour. While I was waiting he 
 recalled incidents of the fast and furious visit in 
 America, even mentioning the day in Boston 
 when at the State House reviewing stand, he was 
 so weary I gave him a chair. 
 
 "The chair-man!" he exclaimed, recognizing 
 me. "It seems to me that was the first and only 
 
 (83)
 
 84 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 time I had a chance to rest during our entire stay 
 in America." Major Fabre lost one leg under 
 Joffre at the Marne. 
 
 Marshal Joffre was receiving a commission of 
 prominent citizens, but I had not waited long 
 when the members of the delegation departed and 
 I was admitted. He greeted me with the same 
 kindly smile I had learned to know in America. 
 I gave "the triumph" salute, eyes up, which I 
 had observed in the "Yankee Division." He 
 immediately referred to his visit overseas. 
 
 "I felt," he said, "like a real American every 
 moment I was in your wonderful United States." 
 
 I had this greeting translated in writing: "Je 
 me sens ause America que les Americain de puis 
 ma visite dans votre beau pays." 
 
 The spacious room in which he sat overlooked 
 the river Seine and the field of Mars. At a table 
 covered with green baize he made a striking figure 
 in his white trousers and full military dress. On 
 his breast were medals, and he wore the insignia 
 of his rank in deference to the commission he had 
 just met. There was a freshness in appearance 
 and manner contrasting sharply with the weary 
 look on his face during the "American rush," 
 as he called it. His blue eyes seemed more blue 
 than ever and I wondered how H. G. Wells, the
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 85 
 
 English novelist, in his book describing him, 
 could have made the mistake of calling his eyes 
 black. There might be some doubt as to the color 
 of some people's eyes, but not Joffre's. 
 
 My interpreter on this occasion was Maurice, the 
 dancer, well known to the patrons of the Biltmore, 
 and the theatre-going public of America. 
 
 "When I landed from the Mayflower at Wash- 
 ington," continued Joffre, "it was one of the 
 greatest moments of my life. Your receptions 
 made me feel that France was in the hearts of all 
 your people." 
 
 I replied: "While you were winning the heart 
 of America, our people lost their hearts to you." 
 
 "Yes," came the quick response, "it was a 
 complete conquest." 
 
 Marshal Joffre is the parent war hero of France. 
 Of medium height, ruddy complexion, robust and 
 strong. There is a great kindness in his calm face. 
 His well-rounded head is crowned with white 
 hair parted to one side. His voice is singularly 
 soft. His heavy gray mustache curves upward in 
 easy fashion, without military severity. 
 
 Talking to this savior of France, I recalled the 
 description of him when war broke out. He 
 accepted without a qualm the terrific mission 
 entrusted to him. His manner was calm. A
 
 86 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 military scientist, precise and punctual, he laid 
 out a simple plan with much thought — and fol- 
 lowed it. When the French troops were being 
 driven back in the first onslaught it was Joffre 
 who remained confident. 
 
 "I mean to deliver the big battle in the most 
 favorable conditions at my own time, and on 
 ground I have chosen. If necessary, I shall con- 
 tinue to retreat. I shall bide my time. No con- 
 sideration whatever will make me alter my plans." 
 
 Even now I could see the self-possession that 
 must have asserted itself in those trying hours, 
 when day after day he issued bulletins for retreats 
 that were shaking the world to its foundations. 
 For forty years Joffre had planned the defence 
 of France in event of such an invasion, and he met 
 the situation unperturbed, with a profound convic- 
 tion that the enemy would be stopped at the 
 Marne. There his iron will asserted itself. His 
 command was to stand or die — and the valiant 
 French obeyed. 
 
 On the eve of the great battle the officers gath- 
 ered their men about them and amid the roar of 
 the cannon they read Joffre's famous message: 
 
 "Advance, and when you can no longer advance, 
 hold at all cost what you have gained. If you 
 can no longer hold, die on the spot."
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 87 
 
 All this flashed through my mind as we stood 
 talking. 
 
 Joffre is sixty-six years old. As a young man he 
 attended the great French military school in 
 which his office is now located. At eighteen he 
 was made a sub-lieutenant and entered the Franco- 
 Prussian war. Here he learned to know the un- 
 scrupulous methods of the Germans, which he 
 never forgot. 
 
 "I served my country in 1870," he said, "and 
 I have lived for this hour!" 
 
 Indications are that in the time to come he will 
 occupy an increasingly prominent place in France. 
 Popular with the people, instead of losing prestige 
 with age, he is gaining. At the outbreak of the 
 war he was little known. He came suddenly to 
 greatness. But the military men of France knew 
 him. They knew of his colonial campaigns, of 
 his great engineering work in the building of 
 fortifications, of his zeal for protecting France 
 from war that he knew was sure to come. He 
 became the head of the French Army in 1911, 
 placed there through the insistence of his own 
 colleagues rather than through political influence. 
 At the time France was facing the gravest period 
 of its history; military men knew that Germany 
 was preparing to strike, and they went before the
 
 88 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 Chamber of Deputies to ask for a three years' 
 conscription service. Joffre sat day after day 
 under the stinging sarcasm of anti-military dema- 
 gogues who were reviling the army. So insulting 
 and personal became the attacks that his confreres 
 left the Chamber. Joffre stayed. He knew — 
 what he could not state publicly — that the enemy 
 was at the door. What he was asking was for 
 France, not himself, and he stood firm. The 
 three years' bill was passed enabling France to 
 hold its first great manoeuver in the summer of 
 1913. Only he and the military leaders knew 
 that so large an army might be needed in one 
 short year. Three years before in legislative halls, 
 Joffre virtually won the battle of the Marne. 
 He was the big figure in that fight, as he was at 
 the Marne. He prepared France for war when 
 France refused to realize it was coming. This 
 proved him more than a great general, it showed 
 him to be a seer and statesman. His fine balance 
 of calm thinking and vigorous decision made him 
 resolute. 
 
 This, then, was the hero of France, now modestly 
 telling me the simple story of how he came unwit- 
 tingly to design the wide trousers of the French 
 uniform. It was as a young officer serving in 
 Madagascar that an accident to his trousers
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 89 
 
 threatened to delay his attendance at the native 
 Queen's reception. Equal to the emergency 
 young Joffre cut a pair of white trousers out of 
 a bolt of cloth with his sabre and had a native 
 woman sew them together. The threads held 
 fast and a new style of baggy trousers with great 
 creases on the sides was introduced. 
 
 "They were wonderful for the way they did 
 not fit," he said, and his full round face lit up 
 with a smile. 
 
 Comment was made on the rapidity with which 
 officers' hair turns gray. 
 
 "Is it the worry, fatigue and responsibility?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "No doubt," Joffre agreed, "and perhaps also 
 the lack of certain indispensable toliet articles." 
 
 He is in bed at nine every night and up at five. 
 After each meal he takes his walking stick and 
 goes for a stroll. His chief diversion is music, 
 and there is no moment like that when he is 
 grouped with his family around the piano in 
 the evening. Although a large man, he keeps 
 physically in shape at all times. One day each 
 week he walks ten miles and every morning rides 
 horseback. 
 
 Among his associates Joffre is known as a silent 
 man. Strict in military matters, he is popular
 
 90 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 with people because of his freedom from partisan 
 entanglements, and his name is already mentioned 
 as one to succeed Poincare as President of the 
 Republic. 
 
 In his office Joffre has the art of handling a 
 dozen subordinates in as many minutes, grasping 
 their problems and meeting each suggestion with 
 a quiet word, with no hint of worry or flurry. To 
 be the head of a great army is a business in which 
 etiquette is incidental. 
 
 So paternal is he, that everybody speaks of him 
 as "Papa Joffre." One hardly thinks of him as 
 the battle-scarred veteran of the Marne. And 
 yet when he stood erect, bidding me good-bye, 
 there was an unexpected flash, like that of blue 
 steel in his eyes. For a moment something of the 
 real soldier, France's hero, w r as revealed. Readily 
 one understood that power comes from large 
 responsibilities. 
 
 Born in the Pyrenees, he is one of the high 
 peaks of French citizenship. His home folk say: 
 "Why worry — we have our Joffre." 
 
 There is a river town in France by the name of 
 Limoges — it is where French generals and officers 
 are sent when they are relieved. General Joffre 
 has retired to this place as many as four generals 
 at a stroke — and some are his old friends. This
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 91 
 
 gave meaning to the expression of a young officer, 
 who remarked: 
 
 "He has been limoged." 
 
 "I get you — canned," I replied. 
 
 "Canned," he repeated with a puzzled look, 
 as if turning over the slang phrase. 
 
 "No, Monsieur," he replied half chidingly, 
 "that is not the word. For, Monsieur, the memory 
 of their service will always live in France." 
 
 I felt chastened in the reverence he expressed. 
 
 "No good deed ever dies," he continued. "It 
 is beyond the recognition of medals and crosses. 
 It is the eternal soul of service." 
 
 As I left Marshal Joffre I was moved by his 
 unmistakable confidence in the issues of the war. 
 That conviction radiates like a magnetic current 
 — electrifying whoever it may touch — bringing 
 dynamic hope to all. 
 
 Then I realized it is leaders make armies as 
 well as armies make leaders.
 
 IX 
 
 ANCIENT ROME IN MODERN WAR TIMES 
 
 THE night I left for Italy, the new French 
 recruits were marching to the railway station 
 in Lyon, bearing in their hands green 
 boughs, some singing, and others playing accor- 
 dions. They seemed happier in going to the front 
 than I even in the prospect of going over the Alps. 
 
 A loneliness, peculiar to traveling alone, swept 
 over me, enhanced by my inability, not knowing 
 the language, to carry on a conversation with any 
 one. For one of my temperament and habits, to 
 go for hours without talking was torture. After 
 stowing away my patent leather grip, I began 
 humming to myself the song popular with Ameri- 
 can troops, "It's a Long, Long Trail." 
 
 There was another passenger in the compart- 
 ment with me, who afterwards proved to be a 
 surgeon in the French Army. He looked inquir- 
 ingly at me and I scraped an acquaintance as 
 usual by making motions. I tried to communicate 
 
 (92)
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 93 
 
 to him my destination with a sweep of the arm, 
 which had in it the full compass of my old oration 
 at school: "Over the Alps Fair Italy Lies." He 
 caught on and smiled. We continued the panto- 
 mime until I suddenly remembered I was to change 
 cars at Andre. The train was local, stopping about 
 every four minutes. I looked out of the window 
 and saw the name of the station in letters on a gas 
 lamp, though almost lost to view in the lavish 
 surroundings of advertising signs. 
 
 The train started before I made the discovery. 
 Undismayed I let down a window, threw out my 
 valise, and following myself, landed at Andre. 
 The grip made a "good hit," for it landed fair on 
 the amplest part of the station master. What he 
 said to me in French was, perhaps, better that I 
 could not understand. Catching up my grip I 
 caught the connecting train for Chambery. This 
 old capital of Savoy is the rest billet for American 
 soldiers and officers. Mrs. Baker of Boston was 
 in charge of one of the canteens, and I had baked 
 beans again that day. 
 
 Arriving at the hotel, I was delighted to have 
 the Swiss innkeeper greet me in English. Pass- 
 ports proclaim nationality on the face of them. 
 His card for registration looked like a checker- 
 board. It was marked off in little squares.
 
 94 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 Evidently it was his custom when a guest arrived 
 to rub one of these squares with a lead pencil 
 until it was completely blocked out. When he 
 looked to see where I was to room, the card was 
 entirely black, not a white space remained. "There 
 was no room in the inn." 
 
 "Ah," he said, as if familiar with American ways, 
 "there is the cafe." 
 
 My bed for the night was the chairs. 
 
 It was raining, as usual, when I woke in the 
 morning. In the rush for a ticket at the railway 
 station, I hurriedly passed in a bill, and was 
 handed a ticket for the Modane express. My 
 Italian was confined to one word, "Modane." I 
 knew nothing about "class," being an American. 
 The porter led me to the train, where I found 
 myself in a third-class coach at the extreme end. 
 All the windows in the car had been broken. An 
 Alpine blizzard was just beginning to rage. I had 
 the car all to myself, except a number of railroad 
 employees, who wore capes, and looked curiously 
 at the shivering Yankee in a summer suit, who was 
 roaming up and down the car flinging his arms 
 violently together to keep warm. 
 
 Crossing the frontier at Modane is merely the 
 matter of passing through one end of the station to 
 the other, but it is not as easy as it seems. There
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 95 
 
 is a picket fence and an officer midway. The sol- 
 diers were passed on recognition of their uniforms. 
 Civilians must show cause. The first degree was 
 to prove that I was not taking any considerable 
 money out of France. A paper printed in all 
 languages was placed before me, much after the 
 manner of an oculist, and I read that the limit 
 of money to be carried out was five thousand 
 francs. I passed. I soon convinced him that the 
 regulation would not "embarrass" me. 
 
 Once across this imaginary line, I had my first 
 meal in Italy. The waitress told me there was no 
 bread and that I must use potatoes instead and 
 eat the spuds with the jackets on. It was here 
 that I met a group of American naval officers 
 attached to U. S. N. Flying Corps in Italy. They 
 took me in hand and I was assigned to a handsome 
 upholstered room in a wagon-lits, or sleeping car, 
 labeled "Rome." Now I could enjoy the beau- 
 tiful Alpine scenery from a plush point of view. 
 
 On and up we went, our train finally reaching 
 the snow-capped mountains. Laughing cascades 
 tumbled from precipitous crags and poured their 
 "white-power" into the rivers below, to be har- 
 nessed to electric energy. Passing through numer- 
 ous tunnels, our train suddenly swung out on a 
 ledge which constituted a veritable observation
 
 96 . We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 shelf, bringing into view the sweeping vista of the 
 Savoy Valley — easily the most beautiful I have 
 ever seen. Thrift and neatness were indicated 
 in every farm and dwelling. It was a poem of 
 rural beauty. Looking far down on the stately 
 poplars, they stood out like so many sentinels. 
 
 At Turin (spelled Turino in Italian), I entered 
 a restaurant, where I had soup from a gigantic 
 tureen, a name fitting well with the town. Here 
 I saw for the first time English nurses wearing 
 their peculiar lavender veils and cloaks, on their 
 way to Asiago. Turin is a great manufacturing 
 center. The factories had German superinten- 
 dents and foremen. There was also a large German 
 population here. The town furnishes an illustra- 
 tion of Sonnino's plans for the Triple Alliance, 
 inspired, no doubt, by commercial motives. Years 
 before the King of Italy visited Emperor Josef of 
 Austria, but the latter refused to return the visit. 
 This snub furnished the setting for the end of 
 Sonnino's dream. 
 
 When war was imminent Italy broke the Alli- 
 ance, the people unitedly declaring themselves 
 ready to make whatever sacrifices would be neces- 
 sary for the cause. A small group of influen- 
 tial men here at Turin and Milan have had a 
 determining influence in the war policy of Italy.
 
 GIORNALE D'lTALIA 
 
 Parla Mr. Joe Mitchell Chappie 
 
 Romani, italiani, compatrioti! Cosi salu- 
 tandovi sento di potervi chiamare "miei 
 compatrioti," poiche abbiamo in comune 
 la grande civilta lasciataci in eredita dalla 
 comune madre — Roma. 
 
 Tre milioni di italiani negli Stati Uniti 
 formano parte integrale del nostro paese, 
 sono sangue del nostro sangue e insieme a 
 molti altri milioni di cittadini costituisco- 
 no, in quest'ora fatidiea, una demoerazia 
 mondiale cosi unita come lo fu l'ltalia nel 
 1870 e 1' America nel 1865, ad Appomatox. 
 Noi siamo orgogliosi della nostra popola- 
 zione di origine italiana, i cui figl nelle scuole 
 di Boston — l'Atene della coltura americana — 
 conqnistano quasi tutti i premi. Sono italiani 
 che costrniscono le nostre strade, che innalzano 
 i nostri edifici, che lavorano nelle nostre 
 officine, che si addestrano nei nostri accam- 
 pamenti militari. E l'America ama quest' 
 italia generosa, che, come gli Stati Uniti, 
 entr6 spontanea nella guerra che segna nella 
 storia umana una epoca cosi importante. 
 
 L'ltalia, del resto, non puo a meno di 
 comprendere tutta la simpatia, l'affetto e la 
 stima che si provano per lei in America, 
 poiche di tali sentimenti si e fatto spesso 
 interprete il nostro distinto ambasciatore, 
 Thomas Nelson Page e ne ha data prova la 
 nostra Croce Rossa, diretta da quell'energi- 
 •o colonnello Perkins che voi tutti cono- 
 icete. La Croce Rossa e l'avanguardia che 
 vi indica con quale spirito verranno in se- 
 ■2uito le truppe americane e spiegheranno 
 •il be! cielo azzurro d'ltalia la bandiera stellata 
 che vi portera il messaggio di ratellanza e di 
 amicizia sintetizzato nelle parole del Presidente 
 Wilson : "non un soldo per conquiste ma miliardi 
 per la difesa del l'ercdita comune a tutta 
 I'umanita." 
 
 Dunque avanti, avanti sempre con le no- 
 stre bandiere intrecciate e sia onore a Cle- 
 menceau della bella Francia, onore a Lloyd 
 George della invitta Britannia, onore a Wilson 
 della mia America, onore ad Orlando della 
 vostra adorabile Italia. 
 
 REPORT OF THE AUTHOR'S ADDRESS 
 
 Which appeared in the leading newspaper of Rome
 
 GENERAL DIAZ, COMMANDER IN CHIEF OF ITALIAN ARMY
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 97 
 
 When the red maelstrom broke, Sonnino stood as 
 a rock for the Allies. 
 
 I left by the night express. Time here is reck- 
 oned by numbering successively the full twenty- 
 four hours. The train left at 23.30. There was 
 nothing on my watch which enabled me to find 
 it, and I came near missing the train. The sleeping 
 car ticket, even with the scarcity of paper, was as 
 complete as a bill of sale in contrast to the thumb 
 nail slips in use here. The back of it was covered 
 with advertisements. The conductor and porter 
 are one person. When I put my shoes outside of 
 the berth to be shined, he called to me, saying: 
 
 "Better take your shoes in, or you will lose 
 them." 
 
 The train swept on through Genoa and Pisa, 
 affording me that magnificent marine view of the 
 Mediterranean. As we neared Rome, I saw the 
 camps of soldiers on the beach and passed the great 
 airdrome. I learned that the German air raids had 
 extended as far south as Naples and Rome. 
 
 To see Rome in war times! Yes, I was now 
 actually in it. The train skirted the ancient walls 
 now sunken by time into the earth; on over the 
 tawny waters of the River Tiber, and through 
 the Seven Hills. As I sought accommodations 
 at the hotel located on Pincon Hill, near the
 
 98 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 palace of the Dowager Queen, Longfellow's poem, 
 "Excelsior," came to my mind. 
 
 Rome in war times was strangely quiet. Cabs 
 were drawn by horses unfit for army service. It is 
 needless to say their progress was slow. 
 
 The first impulse in arriving in these centers is 
 immediately to seek the Red Cross headquarters. 
 Here Colonel Robert Perkins was in charge, as 
 active as when manager of a great carpet manufac- 
 tory in the United States. 
 
 Then I set off to find Ambassador Page. I was 
 accorded a real Virginia welcome. Thomas Nelson 
 Page was a literary star before he was Ambassador, 
 and his light shines as brightly in the firmament 
 of international diplomacy. There was a reminis- 
 cent look in his eyes when I told him of the war 
 spirit in America. 
 
 "You arrived just in time," he said. "There is 
 to be a mass meeting in honor of Clemenceau in 
 the Argentine Theatre tonight. All the ambassa- 
 dors and ministers have been invited. I cannot 
 go. Would you like to occupy my box?" 
 
 For a moment I tried to stretch myself up to 
 proper diplomatic stature. I thanked him. He 
 continued : 
 
 "You represent the type of a well-fed and happy 
 American anyhow."
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 99 
 
 He made a few notes about things I ought to see 
 and when duty called him, I left for a later call. 
 
 Of all the places I have visited, perhaps none 
 has a record of more intensified activity than the 
 American Red Cross in Italy. A map was handed 
 me showing the peculiar bootlike topography of 
 the country. It was pin-dotted all over from one 
 end to the other, including the adjacent islands. 
 In miniature, the map looked like a part of the 
 Milky Way and the dots like so many shining 
 stars. Certain it is that the light of American Red 
 Cross service will shine in the firmament of Italy 
 forever. 
 
 I saw the great violinist, Albert Spaulding, in 
 Rome. As an aviator in the American Flying 
 Squadron, he looked as smart as when I saw him 
 last in a dress suit in Symphony Hall, Boston. 
 
 He glories not only in flights on a musical instru- 
 ment, but in an airplane as well. In the Argentine 
 Theatre he approached after I had spoken and 
 said : "The piano wires of a plane are more familiar 
 to me now than the strings of a violin." 
 
 There is one name in Rome deserving of all 
 praise — that name is Cortesi, the Associated Press 
 correspondent. Years before he was sent to 
 America to report the Italian lynchings in Louisi- 
 ana. He remained in America for some time,
 
 100 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 living in Boston, and married a New England 
 woman. In bearing he is modest and quiet, the 
 incarnation of diplomacy. Indeed, his fine mind 
 has untangled many complicated skeins while in 
 Rome. His news-dispatches are classics. He it 
 was who opened up the very crux of the war 
 situation in Rome. He took me first to see the two 
 legislative bodies. 
 
 I first visited the Italian Senate. The building 
 was very old. There was an absence of elaboration 
 in the place. Not a window opened to the outside. 
 Light was admitted from the ceiling. It occurred 
 to me that in no legislative hall I ever visited was 
 there opportunity for eavesdropping. Those ap- 
 pointed to the Senate are in office for life. It was 
 here I first saw Guglielmo Marconi, the inventor 
 of the wireless. 
 
 The discussion was in interpreting the educa- 
 tional bill. Distinguished senators were pointed 
 out, one of whom, the director of the Conservatory 
 of Music, was preparing a concert of ail-American 
 music. The selections ranged all the way from 
 the classic to ragtime, the latter embracing "A Hot 
 Time in the Old Town" and "Keep the Home 
 Fires Burning." Among the Senators was one 
 over a hundred years old. I met him later and was 
 pleased to note he spoke some English. He said:
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 101 
 
 "Our country is much younger than America, 
 but we are learning fast." 
 
 Then drawing himself up proudly, said: 
 "Age counts and I am past the century mark." 
 From here I went to the Chamber of Deputies, 
 which, in contradistinction to the Senate, was a 
 lively place. The Chamber of Deputies is the real 
 law-making body of Italy. People gather outside 
 every day to see the members come and go. Prepa- 
 rations were being made to enlarge the hall. 
 Brick and mortar were already in evidence. I 
 entered through a dark corridor. In a long hall 
 were the busts of Cavour, Garibaldi, and some 
 twelve who were identified with the unification of 
 modern Italy. 
 
 We were conducted by a uniformed messenger 
 through folding doors to a winding stairway which 
 led to the gallery. And the stairway was so long 
 that I had the sensation of climbing Bunker Hill 
 Monument. It finally emerged into the gallery 
 from which we looked down upon the House and 
 the proceedings. The gallery was as high over the 
 main floor as the galleries in our deepest theaters. 
 Unlike the Senate I had visited, the members here 
 were comparatively young men. They are elected 
 by the direct vote of the people. The presiding 
 officer had just partaken of afternoon refresh-
 
 102 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 merits. On the desk in front of him where the 
 repast was served could be seen a number of tiny 
 glasses; the only thing missing was the ketchup 
 bottle. During the discussion the speaker looked 
 at the spectators through opera glasses; it seemed 
 as if they rested on me. 
 
 The Cabinet members sat in front and below 
 the speaker. It was a stirring scene. I could not 
 understand the discussion, but those who were 
 participating in it were gesticulating in the most 
 violent fashion. 
 
 After the session we dropped into the cafe which 
 is the habitat of journalists and lawmakers in 
 Rome. It is said that the legislation of Italy is 
 shaped in what is called the pharmacy. This had 
 the familiar sound of newspaper "dope." 
 
 As we hurried along my friend, Cortesi, pointed 
 out many historic places. All seemed to have lost 
 interest for me, even the Capiscum, with its sacred 
 bones of the monks. The only interest it had was 
 that it revived Hawthorne's "Marble Faun." 
 The one conspicuous thing of modern Rome is 
 the tunnel running under one of the Seven Hills. 
 
 In the evening the one hundredth anniversary 
 of the original production of Rossini's "Moses" 
 was celebrated. Even in war times Rome did 
 not forget to honor her great composer. It was
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 103 
 
 attended by statesmen, prominent people and uni- 
 formed army officers. For me there was a double 
 bill that night. I not only attended this anni- 
 versary, but also the gathering at the Argentine 
 Theater. Leaving for the latter place in a cab, 
 I found a great concourse of people, many waiting 
 outside. I was conducted to the Ambassador's 
 box. These theater boxes are in a semicircle, and 
 rise, tier above tier, to the very ceiling. As I 
 entered, there was great excitement on. the floor. 
 I learned that some one had challenged the state- 
 ments of the chairman and the purpose of the 
 meeting. Officers were hustling disturbers out of 
 the theatre, women were being jostled and their 
 hats brushed off in the confusion. It resembled 
 an American political convention. The band 
 began to play to restore quiet. 
 
 The stage was filled with dignitaries and adorned 
 with the flags of four of the Allied powers, Italy, 
 Great Britain, France and America. My eye no 
 sooner caught the Stars and Stripes than I saw it 
 in distress. The star field was upside down. 
 Just then an officer knocked on the door of the 
 box where I was sitting. I did not understand 
 what he said, but it did not matter, I understood 
 his motions. He conducted me down a corridor, 
 back of the scenes, and out on the stage. I was
 
 104 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 offered a chair and crossed my legs in the usual 
 way. I happened to be near my own flag. When 
 I arose to adjust it, putting the field where it 
 should be, the audience laughed and applauded. 
 
 As each orator addressed the gathering, I 
 watched the faces and joined when they applauded, 
 just as if I understood what was being said — which 
 I didn't. Senator Lorand of Belgium, who spoke 
 in Italian, was a large man with bushy, pointed 
 whiskers, ballasted by newspapers sticking out 
 of his pockets on both sides. In sharp contrast 
 to him was the trim Mignon, the representative 
 of France. La Garda, an American clad in khaki, 
 addressed them in his own language. He was born 
 in America of Italian parents, and is a member 
 of the House of Representatives in Washington. 
 
 When the chairman motioned to me, indicating 
 that I was to speak, I was amazed. But the audi- 
 ence seemed friendly. 
 
 Whenever in my speech I mentioned President 
 Wilson, Americano, the audience cheered. It was 
 the same when I spoke the name of Ambassador 
 Page. When I referred to Lloyd George and 
 pointed to the British flag, they broke loose again. 
 At the name of Orlando they stormed. As I 
 uttered the words "Clemenceau of La Belle 
 France," the applause was long and continuous;
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 105 
 
 and finally when I spoke of the American troops 
 coming and the "Stars and Stripes soon to be 
 unfurled in the fair skies of Italia," pandemonium 
 reigned. The band struck up "The Star Spangled 
 Banner," the audience rising and cheering. 
 
 Next morning, to my surprise, my speech was 
 printed in full in all the papers and had been cabled 
 overseas. When I saw the Ambassador, he smiled 
 and said: 
 
 "Your florid and fervid Fourth of July oratory 
 lends itself beautifully to Italian translation. I 
 have arranged for you to meet Nite, Minister of 
 Finance. 
 
 I wondered if he knew I needed financing just 
 then! 
 
 ( Translation of the speech at the Argentine Theatre ) 
 
 Romans, Italians, Countrymen: 
 
 The salutation has a new meaning these days, for my 
 countrymen indeed you are. Italia, America and the Allies 
 have become compatriots in the great right for civilization 
 — a common heritage that came in the dawn of the republic 
 of ancient Rome. The messages of our own President 
 Wilson have already revealed the great purpose of our 
 country. 
 
 Three million Italians in America have become an integral 
 part of my country, bone and sinew of the nation, joining 
 with other millions of adopted sons to help in this hour of 
 destiny. As united Italy was given you in 1870, so a United
 
 106 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 States was born in the peace at Appomattox and has become 
 a union, one and inseparable. Italian children winning 
 the prizes at school in Boston, Italians helping in building 
 warships and camps, Italians helping in all war prepara- 
 tions, and Italians in the ranks of our soldiers, has made 
 the United States a close kin to united Italy. 
 
 Through acts and deeds our distinguished Ambassador, 
 Thomas Nelson Page, has made known to you the love of 
 America. The activities of the American Red Cross, 
 headed by Colonel Robert Perkins, indicate the spirit 
 of the arriving American troops as they unfurl the Stars 
 and Stripes in the blue skies of Italy. The utterances of 
 our own President Wilson in his masterful leadership has 
 made you understand us joining in the contest of "not 
 one penny for tribute or conquest, but millions for defence" 
 for the rights of free peoples — a common heritage. So 
 forward with the entwined banners with the leaders of the 
 people, Clemenceau in La Belle France, Lloyd George of 
 Brittania, our own Wilson and Lansing of America, and 
 your own Orlando of Italy supporting Diaz, Haig and 
 Pershing and their valiant men to the finish. "Vive la 
 Italia and the Alliance for Humanity."
 
 X 
 
 ORLANDO AND ITALY'S LAWMAKERS 
 
 THE story of Italy in the war cannot be told 
 without reference to Orlando, the Premier, 
 and the silent Sonnino, the Foreign Minister. 
 There was a similarity to that of the United States 
 in the Italian position before entering the war. To 
 understand it one must go back to the days of 
 the Triple Alliance, when German investments 
 were pouring into Italy, and factories Hun-manned 
 were utilized to create commercial ties which 
 would compel the extension of the treaty to em- 
 brace an offensive, as well as defensive alliance. 
 The people of Italy rose to the situation, and 
 Sonnino was brought to the test of patriotic 
 statesmanship. He realized the inevitable and 
 changed "about face" — solid as a rock. 
 
 To see Sonnino is to understand the power that 
 has made Italy, after the chaotic struggles of 
 centuries, a nationalized entity. Sonnino began 
 his career as a journalist and founded the Giornale 
 
 (107)
 
 108 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 D'ltalia, one of the most powerful papers in the 
 kingdom. He talks to the people of Italy through 
 his newspapers because he understands how to 
 present his views in cold type. In the Chamber, his 
 addresses, devoid of rhetoric or oratory, lack inter- 
 est to hold the crowds; but undeterred, Sonnino 
 goes on to the conclusion. Although directing 
 the finances and enormous war expenditures of 
 Italy, he remains a comparatively poor man, hav- 
 ing but one passion — his beloved Italia. 
 
 Sonnino's deep-set eyes, shock of gray hair and 
 rather cadaverous look, indicate the parentage of a 
 Jewish father and Scotch mother. His genius 
 in meeting the vexatious financial problems of 
 Italy has revealed the sturdy Scotch thrift of his 
 maternal forbears. 
 
 Orlando, Premier of Italy, ignited the war fever 
 of his countrymen when he declared that Italy 
 would never make a separate peace. The die was 
 cast. Orlando, the voice of Italy, had declared it. 
 Orlando is a native of Sicily, and upon him fell 
 the mantle of the famous Crispi. He looks like 
 an American, has iron gray hair and mustache 
 and an air of gentleness that wins the individual 
 as well as audience. In his office at Rome is 
 an atmosphere of quiet dignity; his conversation 
 is never staccato, but rather mellow in tone, and
 
 Cest la Guerre— It is the War 109 
 
 his manner puts the visitor at ease. His speeches 
 in the Chamber are made in closer range to the 
 members than in any other legislative body. His 
 addresses have the nature of conferences, and 
 when he makes a statement from the bench, it is 
 rounded out with the eloquent periods and beauti- 
 ful phrases characteristic of the Italian language. 
 
 Orlando had been a professor of law in the 
 University of Rome, and was considered one of the 
 most able writers and speakers in Italy, but it 
 was little dreamed that he would ever become 
 Premier. Later when I saw him at Turin, in a 
 special car leaving for Abbeville, France, where 
 the Premiers of England, France and Italy have 
 had frequent conferences, the station was thronged 
 to honor the Italian leader. He was presented 
 a massive bouquet. Clad in overcoat and fully 
 gloved, he was ready for the chilly trip across 
 the Alps. His manner and words in addressing 
 the people at the station were such as might be 
 expected in a triumphal mass meeting. Leaving 
 the station, he smiled as cheers and bravos followed 
 him, and once within the little green car in which 
 he travels, he again took up his work, going over 
 papers and dispatches, with the same ease as if 
 in his office at Rome. 
 
 At the Department of Finance I met Senator
 
 110 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 Marconi, inventor of the wireless. It had been 
 raining hard, and coats and umbrellas lay upon 
 the table. While we were waiting for the interview 
 with Secretary Nite, Marconi, the Italian inven- 
 tive genius, told me that it was at Newfoundland, 
 on December 12, 1901, at 12.30 p. m., that he 
 received the distinct electric signals over the 
 Atlantic, transmitting the first message overseas 
 without cable. This was the culmination of 
 years of experiment. His idiomatic English was 
 refreshing as he continued: 
 
 "My troubles came with the short-distance 
 wireless, from two miles to two hundred and 
 twenty-five. The two-mile limit was the bar- 
 rier. The difficulty was overcome after much 
 discouragement. ' ' 
 
 Born in Bologna, the son of an Irish mother and 
 an Italian landed proprietor, Marconi has become 
 a world figure. Early in youth he was attracted 
 to the study of electricity, and at the age of sixteen 
 had begun the development of wireless telegraphy. 
 When I referred to the operations of the navies 
 in the war, so largely dependent on the product 
 of his genius, and asked him the secret, he said: 
 
 "It is nothing but a sort of electrical earthquake. 
 The static electricity of the ether is energized by 
 the oscillating current sent up and down the aerial
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 111 
 
 wire, and is. diffused through infinity of space. 
 An earthquake is a manifestation of the material 
 electricity. If a weight could be raised sufficiently 
 high, the shock of its fall could be felt across the 
 sea." 
 
 "So it is a question of shocks?" said I. 
 
 "Everything is more or less a matter of shocks. 
 You are delighted with music or literature — that 
 gives you the mental shocks." 
 
 In a soft, well-modulated voice he paid his 
 tribute to Morse, Edison, and Elisha Gray, but 
 seemed more inclined to talk about the war and 
 to learn the news from America than about his 
 scientific and inventive triumphs. 
 
 Almost every ship that floats in the sea is now 
 using wireless, which recalls that less than twenty 
 years ago Mr. Marconi came to England and was 
 given the resources of the post-office for experiment 
 and trial. At that time it was concluded that 
 wireless would be limited, like the telephone. 
 The present war has proven it otherwise. 
 
 A peculiar thing is that the wires receiving the 
 waves must be perpendicular rather than horizon- 
 tal, and four hundred feet is about the elevation 
 required. 
 
 "My dream was to have the wireless so you 
 could call a friend, not knowing where he was,
 
 112 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 sending forth the message, 'Where are you?' He 
 might reply, 'I am in a coal mine,' 'in the Andes,' 
 or 'on the ocean,' but no matter, he is near at hand, 
 thus hoping that through the ether we might bring 
 the world closer together." 
 
 I introduced Mr. Marconi to a number of navy 
 lads standing near the Embassy, who looked on 
 him as a wizard, and insisted they felt an electric 
 thrill when they shook hands. The compliment 
 was superb when they turned and said: "There 
 is the wizard that has saved many a good ship." 
 This tribute coming from the lips of yeomen and 
 seamen was as eloquent as the studied praise of 
 the admiral. 
 
 As I sat looking at him I thought what great 
 things had come from his brain. All the infinitude 
 of space was now vibrating with limitless mes- 
 sages, making the heavens speak as the ripples of 
 sound radiate around the earth, defying all bound- 
 aries or barriers. 
 
 The Minister of Finance, Nite, a rather stout 
 man with pompadour hair and mustache, was a 
 member of the Italian Commission to America. 
 It was evident from the reception he accorded me 
 that he was a friend of Americans. 
 
 "Every moment," he said, "of my visit to America 
 meant much to me. It revealed that the mental
 
 ■HHHHBEHBHBBHHBH! 
 
 
 mm** ™& 
 
 HBHHI 
 
 Copyright by Underwood & Underwood 
 
 ORLANDO, PREMIER OF ITALY
 
 Copyright by Underwood .V- Underwood 
 
 GUGLIELMO MARCONI, SENATOR AND INVENTOR
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 113 
 
 attitude of the world is much the same, and that 
 physical problems vary only in degree. Since the 
 war, in common with all Italians, America does 
 not to me seem three thousand miles away." 
 
 In speaking of my trip, he said: "You must 
 have observed that Italians feel a close kin to your 
 country. Everyone who has been in America 
 seems to count on his sojourn there as the epic of 
 his life. Time is dated before and after he has been 
 in America." 
 
 "Will many Italians return to America after 
 the war?" I asked. 
 
 "Doubtless there will be many who will want 
 to come, but can we spare them? — that is the 
 question." 
 
 While in the United States Nite met the 
 President and all officials, and insisted that Presi- 
 dent Wilson's messages were quite as familiar to 
 Italians as those of their own public men. 
 
 "Long ago I developed a high regard for your 
 distinguished Secretary of the Treasury, William 
 G. McAdoo, who has made rapid strides in clarify- 
 ing the mysteries of finance as an everyday propo- 
 sition to the people; or, in other words, the Treas- 
 ury selling bonds direct to the people rather than 
 through the mystic shadows of brokers." 
 
 An important conference terminated an inter-
 
 114 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 view which promised much. Nite is pronounced 
 one of the coming men of Italy. 
 
 As I came out I saw the usual throng before the 
 office of Orlando — a peculiar Italian custom of 
 honor to their leaders. The Premier acknowledged 
 the greeting of the populace and seemed in excellent 
 spirits — with some degree of appropriateness, for 
 he had just been selected by the Allies to take 
 charge of the affairs pertaining to after-the-war 
 conditions — a real compliment to Italy and her 
 lawmakers.
 
 XI 
 
 SIEGED VENICE BY NIGHT AND DAY 
 
 FALLING bombs announced the war carnival 
 in Venice. The doves of St. Marco had 
 flown. In the darkness, the silver sheen 
 of the canals alone gave the aviators location, 
 and, strangely enough, the canals received most 
 of the bombs — thus saving the historic spires of 
 the city. 
 
 No other place in Europe is more difficult to 
 visit in war time than Venice. It is easier to make 
 a tour of the first-line trenches than to pass the 
 sentinel of the Minister of Marine, for he is en- 
 trusted with the sublime task of saving the 
 "Mistress of the Adriatic." 
 
 A letter to the Commando Supremo, General 
 Diaz, was my credential to unlock the gates inside 
 the zone of army operations, but this was not 
 sufficient. It needed a pass from the Minister of 
 Marine. 
 
 On the train from Rome, the vision of Venice 
 
 (115)
 
 116 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 with its Doges' palaces, St. Mark's and the 
 Grand Canal haunted me. How would it look as 
 compared with the glory in which I had seen it? 
 
 The train was crowded with officers in the first- 
 class and soldiers in the third-class compartments. 
 Some were grim and some were gay — a marked 
 contrast to the days of Cook's tourists. Com- 
 plaints of service or poor meals on the diner, or 
 impatience at delayed trains were no longer heard. 
 The solid troop trains to and from the front had 
 the right of way. 
 
 At Bologna I had a breakfast in keeping with its 
 name. Sweeping over the plains of Venetia to 
 Padua, and then on to the Maestro, evidences of 
 the war accumulated mile by mile. When the 
 lagoons were sighted in the soft twilight, the train 
 rattled over the long viaduct much as over the 
 sea at Key West. In the distance was Venice 
 now fading into the gloom of another night. At 
 the station in Venetia, guards were stern and un- 
 bending. They required passport and identifica- 
 tion. Only the week before real celebrities and 
 prominent writers had been turned back because 
 of some technicality in their credentials. They 
 take no chances on strangers. Officers 'phone and 
 wire ahead just who is expected and when. Venice 
 is closed tight against spies. Through the gate
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 117 
 
 were the outlines of a gondola, but there was 
 nothing to suggest the gay life of her former days. 
 
 Looking about to get my bearings, I was accosted 
 by an officer, who looked me over with suspicion, 
 and finally put his hand on my arm, as if making 
 an arrest. When I tried to explain in my jumble 
 of Italian and English, he said: "American Con- 
 sul," and indicated I was to follow him. My 
 passport, No. 10891, was again peppered with a 
 purple stamp, but even then he kept saying 
 "American Consul." Had something gone wrong 
 with my papers, I wondered, and was I to be 
 hailed before the authorities to spend the night in 
 custody? On the war front nothing is surprising. 
 I caught step with him in military fashion and 
 accompanied him. When about to step into what 
 looked like the police patrol gondola, I was in- 
 formed by a keen-eyed young American in khaki — 
 and the only American I had seen since leaving 
 Rome, who evidently had overheard the Italian 
 officer's conversation — that the American Consul 
 expected me on an earlier train, but, being obliged 
 to leave, detailed these officers to provide a safe 
 escort to his home. 
 
 It is safe to presume I froze to my escort. We 
 glided along the Grand Canal and under the his- 
 toric Rialto. Here and there demolished buildings
 
 118 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 stood out like spectres in the darkness. Not even 
 the night could hide the ravages of the air raids. 
 
 This was Venice, yes, the scene of countless 
 carnivals and fetes, but now ghostly and defiant, 
 awaiting, maybe, another avalanche of death with 
 the new moon! As we became accustomed to the 
 murky shadows, following the weird wake of light 
 along the Canal, Venice in the dark became almost 
 more fascinating than Venice in the light. 
 
 Few people were on the street or in the callas 
 after nightfall, and what few there were hugged the 
 ancient walls. The barred windows of the closed 
 shops indicated that most of the "Merchants of 
 Venice" had gone. A mist swept in from the sea, 
 as we turned a sharp corner and arrived at the 
 home of the American Consul, Mr. Harvey Carroll. 
 Like most of the residents of Venice, he lives on 
 the second floor, to escape the dampness. Through 
 the darkness of what appeared to be a subterranean 
 entrance, I found the home haven of the American 
 Consul and his charming wife. They radiated a 
 Southern welcome. Without gas to cook with, but 
 with the pluck of an American housewife, Mrs. 
 Carroll had prepared the evening meal by fanning 
 the embers of charcoal on a stone table fireplace. 
 Even a cup of hot water was a luxury in the 
 besieged city.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 119 
 
 Of the one hundred and forty thousand people 
 who once Galled Venice home, only a few thousand 
 are left. The gondolas which used to glide over 
 the placid surfaces of the canal, gay with laughter 
 and music, were no more. What few remained 
 were on official business. This, together with the 
 population gone, made Venice almost a tomb. The 
 puffing motor boats made a somewhat lively scene 
 as they passed here and there conveying supplies. 
 
 The day before the people observed one of the 
 traditional holidays of the Republic, but instead 
 of the strumming guitars and the lilting songs, the 
 merrymaking was confined to little groups who 
 showered blossoms on the waters of the Adriatic. 
 The weird cry of a gondolier as he turned the 
 corner, as in the old days, was heard no more. 
 In place of the merry life, which was once the 
 charm of Venice, had come the sordid spectre 
 of war. Barges laden with barrels, casks and bales 
 now occupy the centre of the picture. A strange 
 Venice to those who knew it in the old days, but 
 a Venice becoming better loved because of its 
 heroic resistance and willing sacrifices. 
 
 All day long there was the intermittent roar 
 of the distant guns. The people who have remained 
 are so pitifully poor that they could not leave if 
 they wished to. Under the curtain of the night,
 
 120 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 Paris and London present no such gloomy appear- 
 ance. Even the glistening shadows of the clouds on 
 the Grand Canal brought only fear. Night attacks 
 have been more frequent here than in any other 
 city. Somehow Ruskin's "Stones of Venice" came 
 to mind as I stumbled over the slippery walks 
 during a rainy night tour of the city. Every light 
 was out. Even the flash of a match was prohib- 
 ited. A dull moon presaged a raid that night, 
 but none came. 
 
 Sand bags protecting buildings, statues, and 
 historic columns were everywhere. They could 
 even be found on the lower floor of the homes to 
 provide protection from the overhead destruction. 
 No less than three hundred bombs had been 
 counted in a single night; but Venice seemed to 
 bear a charmed life, comparatively little damage 
 being done. In spite of the hellish Hun, most of 
 the historic shrines still stand. 
 
 In one of the refugee cellars of a school, a scene 
 occurred never to be forgotten. A flashlight photo- 
 graph, which has had a world-wide appeal, was 
 made. The Sister who had charge of the school 
 had called the little children to her side in an 
 effort to gather them as a hen gathers her chickens 
 under her wings. Boom! boom! boom! roared the 
 bombs outside. The little children crouched, with
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 121 
 
 wide open and startled eyes, yet they were brave. 
 They seemed to feel they were quite safe so long 
 as the protecting spirit of the Sister was over and 
 around them. I met the Sister who related to me 
 the story of that night. 
 
 An Italian officer said to me in careful and delib- 
 erate phrase: "It was the American Red Cross 
 which saved our people from starvation, for little 
 food has come into the city during the past 
 year." 
 
 Not even the people of Belgium have more 
 generously expressed their gratitude for relief 
 given than the people in war-stricken Venice. 
 The condition of the poor could not have been 
 more pitiable than when the Red Cross came as 
 an Angel of Mercy. 
 
 Bright and early next morning I followed the 
 fast-walking and alert American Consul, Harvey 
 Carroll, and watched him as he superintended 
 the beginning of the day's activities at the Maga- 
 zine where the people came to obtain food and 
 supplies. Rice and cornmeal were provided, and 
 many of the products on the shelves had familiar 
 labels. The Magazine was in charge of bright 
 Venetian girls, some of distinguished lineage, who 
 stayed steadily by their task, in contradistinction 
 to the criminal and lower classes, who fled at the
 
 122 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 first sight of danger. It is easy to detect the 
 streak of yellow in individuals amid the red flame 
 of war. 
 
 Every train arriving and leaving the city was 
 met by a delegation from the Consul, and each 
 prqfughi, or refugee, was provided with enough 
 food to take him to his destination. The refugees 
 are scattered all over Italy. The American Red 
 Cross unites with the Italian Red Cross and the 
 Government in caring for these, and provides 
 an opportunity for them to earn a livelihood in 
 making war supplies. 
 
 After a walk which encompassed nearly every 
 street in Venice, I paused long enough to catch my 
 breath and make a notation. 
 
 Mr. Carroll was born in Texas and is a graduate 
 of an European university. His hearty and good- 
 natured manner has made him a beloved figure in 
 Venice. He has demonstrated that the wide 
 range of work of both Consul and Red Cross 
 representative can be efficiently combined. On 
 the streets the people met him with a smile and 
 doffed their hats in a deference worthy a Doge. 
 Just then a group of boys approached him, their 
 toes sticking through their shoes. Looking up at 
 him, they said in broken English: 
 
 "Shoes go bad — Consul go good."
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 123 
 
 "Si, si" replied the Consul, with a benevolent 
 smile. 
 
 Even the boys looked on him as the magic 
 cobbler. 
 
 Twenty-three separate activities of the Red 
 Cross are located in this district, and every one is 
 doing a needed and appreciated work. We entered 
 a hospital which had been bombed, picking our 
 way through the shattered glass in the courtyard. 
 A group of people had gathered for coffee. Over 
 eleven hundred children are cared for and two 
 thousand meals served each day. In the faces of 
 those outside who were given but one meal a day, 
 radiated a gratitude that was good to see. In the 
 hearts of the people of Italy, the ministrations of 
 the Red Cross will live forever. 
 
 Periods of prosperity and glory may yet come 
 to Italy, but the great-hearted and open-handed 
 generosity of America, responding as it did to the 
 cry for food, will be cherished as long as Venice, 
 one of the oldest republics, endures, and constitute 
 forever bonds of affection for the younger Republic 
 over the seas. 
 
 At the Rialto, which is the ferry landing, old 
 men and women were bearing huge milk cans; 
 this, with the garden truck which the others 
 brought in, was a faded picture of the markets in
 
 124 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 the old days. In the harbor, and far out on the 
 Adriatic, could be detected the tiny red sails dis- 
 tinctive of the fishing craft. These were bringing 
 in sea food to supplement the loaves of the Red 
 Cross. 
 
 On one of my rambles in Venice I lost my way, 
 trying a short cut through a piazzetta that curved 
 about like the streets of Boston. Most of the 
 persons met were women. Was I to confess that 
 I was lost? The time was approaching for my 
 boat to leave and I could no longer parley with 
 vanity. Lifting my hat as gallantly as I could, I 
 accosted a little girl who was bearing a bundle 
 and whom I addressed as "Signorita," believing 
 I was safe in my Italian that far at least, but I 
 found I could go no farther, so began making 
 motions. Then shouted louder to try and make 
 my meaning clear. She was not deaf, but it did 
 not help matters, not even when I pointed my 
 finger in the direction of "somewhere." There was 
 a puzzled look on her face as I repeated, "I want to 
 go to — 
 
 "Say 'hell' and let it go at that," shouted a voice 
 behind me. 
 
 It was an American who spoke and in the next 
 breath he said "from Indiana." I tried to respond 
 in Italian. While not in keeping with the Red
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 125 
 
 Cross ritual, his greeting was welcome. Passing 
 the Bridge of Sighs in company with him, we 
 chanced upon a charmed cluster of trees in an old 
 courtyard. The birds were singing their carols 
 as if in defiance to the Austrian bombs. A crowd 
 of people had gathered just to see and hear the 
 birds in the trees. 
 
 At the Hotel Mantin, a name prominent in the 
 history of Venice, a gondola bus was ready to take 
 passengers to the railway station. Descending 
 the steps to the boat, I felt the carpet of moss under 
 foot, gathered by the tides of the centuries. At 
 low ebb the green is a bright emerald hue, forming 
 a fresh coloring in the grayness of the scene. My 
 eyes caught glimpses of old rusty hinges and crude 
 locks on the doors, telling of the days when over 
 these thresholds teemed commerce from the seven 
 seas. The ancient palaces alone radiated the story 
 of the once glorious days of the "Mistress of the 
 Adriatic." 
 
 Germans have cast envious eyes on Venice, 
 something like an ancient heritage to be regained. 
 Venitia was once occupied, pillaged and sacked by 
 Attila, king of the Huns. The descendants of Attila 
 are now battling at the Piave. Venice was built 
 by the survivors of the Hun invasion on a marshy 
 island surrounded by lagoons, to resist invasion.
 
 126 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 It was sunrise when I came away. Yonder in 
 the harbor were the Italian destroyers and new 
 electric sea tanks preparing for another chase of 
 the Austrian fleet. My boat sailed away. Venice 
 faded on the skyline. 
 
 During the sail we passed numerous craft, 
 carmen-hued, their sails waving like emblems of 
 victory. Sailors were singing hopeful songs, 
 and when we neared the landing at St. Gullien, 
 our red Fiat motor car was ready for the dash to 
 Padua.
 
 XII 
 
 ALONG THE ITALIAN FRONT 
 
 THE proverbial sunny skies of Italy were 
 obscured by a drizzling rain as I swept 
 along by the canal in the red motor car 
 which Major Fabri of the Red Cross had provided. 
 The air was cold and nipping. The lack of horses 
 in Italy was in evidence all along the canal, for 
 men were pulling the barges laden with war sup- 
 plies. Arriving at Padua, the seat of the ancient 
 Padua University, and the center of Venetian 
 culture, we came to the headquarters of the 
 Italian Army. 
 
 It was here I met Mr. Charles Thompson of the 
 Associated Press. He is a good type of the cru- 
 sader. His descriptions of the war in Italy are 
 notable contributions. He has one son in the 
 Army and another in the Navy. Another corre- 
 spondent who is sending out reports widely read 
 in America, and who knows his Italy through and 
 through, is Paul Morrow. 
 
 (127)
 
 128 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 These men are on the spot and are keen observers 
 of events. 
 
 At Ristor's restaurant I listened to an illum- 
 inating narration by these men of the debacle at 
 Caporetto, where the blood and sacrifice of two 
 years was wiped out in a few hours. These men 
 were thoroughly informed as to every detail 
 involved in the reverse. Though the worst blow 
 in the history of the country, yet it had by some 
 enchantment United the whole Italian people. 
 They prophesied victory yet to come. 
 
 At the luncheon were served delicacies like 
 calves' brains, pigs' feet, and broiled vertebrae 
 (I am not strong on stewed spinal cord, but I 
 know what it is). In the wall of the dining room 
 was a destination dent made by one of Napoleon's 
 guns. 
 
 Then we started on our way to Abano, where 
 the headquarters of the Commando Supremo 
 are located. My sole companion was a captain 
 delegated by headquarters. As we passed through 
 the plains, on either side of the road were myriad 
 stumps of mulberry trees, out of which the new 
 shoots were springing. It is here that fagot 
 gatherers come every year to cut off the new 
 growth, using the shoots for fuel. Even these 
 tiny twigs are of priceless value in a land where
 
 XITE, ITALIAN MINISTER OF FINANCE
 
 CONVEYING SUPPLIES IN BESIEGED VENICE 
 
 A LUNCHEON IN PARIS GIVEN TO AMBASSADOR SHARPE
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 129 
 
 wood is almost reverenced. In the distance loomed 
 the great mountains. 
 
 Our "red devil" motor car was driven with 
 Detroit speed over roads, on either side of which 
 were fields dotted with reserve line trenches, 
 barbed -wire, and machine-gun emplacements. 
 Now and then we edged past long lines of troops 
 coming from and going to the front. Sentinel 
 after sentinel stopped us to see that magic paper. 
 
 As we came to the headquarters of General 
 Diaz we found ourselves in front of an old hotel, 
 which, before the war, was a sulphur spring 
 resort. I can smell the water yet. His quarters 
 were on the second floor. As I entered, General 
 Diaz, sitting at a flat-topped desk, arose. The 
 Captain who acted as my escort snapped his heels 
 and saluted, at the same time presenting me. 
 The Commander immediately extended his hand 
 in the warmest sort of greeting. His cordiality 
 and easy manner swept away every vestige of 
 formality. On his desk every article was arranged 
 with methodical precision. General Diaz looked 
 the Commando Supremo. He wore the green 
 khaki of the Italian Army, and on his sleeve were 
 a flock of stars in irregular shape 
 
 A direct descendant of the lieutenant of Colum- 
 bus who made the voyage of discovery with him,
 
 130 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 General Diaz has valorous blood in his veins. 
 Under fifty he is in his very prime. His rise to 
 the head of the army has been spectacular. It 
 was the promotion of merit. The devotion of 
 his soldiers to him is Garibaldic. He almost 
 knows them by name. Few commanders mix so 
 easily and gracefully with their men. It is for this 
 reason they love him. 
 
 Not alone for his personal qualities, but for his 
 supreme genius as a tactician, does he command 
 them. The genesis of success shown by recent 
 operations was in his brain. 
 
 As I looked upon him I saw a man of medium 
 stature with black hair pushed back pompadour. 
 The thick mass was slightly streaked with gray. 
 His face was bronzed by exposure and markedly 
 wrinkled for so young a man, but it was handsome. 
 His dark eyes, peculiarly piercing, glistened with 
 good humor. In repose his features are far from 
 stern, as is shown in current photographs. When 
 his lips parted he looked more like an artist than 
 a soldier. He comes from Naples, and could 
 pass for a Grand Opera star. His was a delightful 
 blend of strength and tenderness. And the moment 
 he spoke — his voice was as sweet and mellow as a 
 silver bell — I was won completely to him. 
 
 I extended greetings, to which he replied:
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 131 
 
 "I hope your visit will bring Italy closer to you. 
 I shall welcome the day when I see American 
 troops in Italy." 
 
 "America appreciates the great number of your 
 countrymen who come to its shores," I began rather 
 boldly. 
 
 "And we appreciate them more when they come 
 back," he added quickly. "We hope the Ameri- 
 cans will be as much better for being in Italy, as 
 Italians are for having been in America." 
 
 When I spoke of the refugee children, his 
 liquid eyes softened, and rising and going to a 
 table, he took up a book containing pictures, 
 showing children in school rooms, and how Italy 
 is caring for the refugees. He presented the book 
 to me, saying: 
 
 "Doesn't that look like America?" 
 
 All our conversation was carried on through an 
 interpreter. The General frequently supplemented 
 question and answer by his own comments, 
 and we just kept on talking with our hands — for- 
 getting the interpreter. When I suggested that he 
 should come to America, he said: "Yes, after the 
 war. Everything comes after the war." 
 
 As I timidly ventured to inquire, "How are 
 things going at the front?" he raised his finger 
 prophetically and said:
 
 132 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 "Sperta et verdi!" ("Wait and see!") 
 
 When I asked him for his photograph, he sent 
 immediately for it. In autographing it, he dashed 
 it off so quickly and well that his every movement 
 indicated a man of literary cultivation. After 
 speaking of America and Italy, over his name he 
 wrote: " Unione fedeli, fede vuna, energie agione." 
 ("Union with heart and soul, and one for energy 
 and action") April 26, 1918." 
 
 As I started to go away he arose, extended his 
 hand and surprised me by saying in English, 
 "Thank you very much." Not to be outdone in 
 courtesy, I replied, "Grazie" ("Thank you"). 
 
 Then we returned to Padua where we found 
 Major Fabri, a native American, now in the 
 service of the American Red Cross, and whose 
 father was once partner in the J. Pierpont Morgan 
 firm. From Padua we sent our luggage on to 
 Verona, to make room in the automobile in which 
 we were to travel, for the lira (money) which 
 the Major was to distribute to the mayors and 
 padres in every small community, for relief among 
 the refugees. Here we were joined by a father 
 and son. The father was a captain and the son 
 a lieutenant in the Italian Army. The soldier- 
 family had been separated by the exigencies of 
 service in different fields. Long shall I carry in
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 133 
 
 my heart the picture of that father and son in the 
 joy of their reunion. During the entire trip their 
 exchange of experiences was accompanied by the 
 most fervent affection for each other. 
 
 It was biting cold and the Lieutenant handed 
 me an overcoat. It had service stars on the 
 collar and sleeve. When the Lieutenant saw the 
 soldiers along the way saluting me, he suggested 
 that it would be better to take the stars off, which 
 was done. Yet for a while I passed as an Italian 
 army officer. 
 
 Major Fabri had provided rations for the 
 journey. Forward again flashed the red "Fiat." 
 The chauffeur was a dare-devil. We swept past 
 village after village, their campaniles standing 
 out like passing milestones. On the road military 
 activities were more and more in evidence. At 
 one place we encountered a herd of cows — and 
 they acted as cows always do. After our delay we 
 were on again, and did not pause until we reached 
 Thiene, where the British headquarters are located. 
 
 We were in the plateau of the Asiago. In the 
 villages, which dotted the landscape, not a civilian 
 remained. Every piece of furniture in the houses 
 was gone. Here where domestic tranquility once 
 reigned, and around doorsteps where happy chil- 
 dren played, arose only gaunt and irregular walls,
 
 134 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 mutely protesting the ruthless scourge which 
 had swept over it. 
 
 Behind and above this wide stretch of crumb- 
 ling desolation, rose the Julian Alps, their white 
 peaks crowned with snow, their ravines robed 
 in purple, and their foothills bathed in a russet 
 glow. They stood there in eloquent silence de- 
 claring that a people whose motives were as pure 
 as the sifted snows, whose loyalty was as glorious 
 as the blue garments they wore, and whose sacrifice 
 was redder than their deepest tones, would some 
 day find eternal foundations, and be lifted high in 
 the light of heaven. 
 
 What a setting for the operations of the British 
 and French, and now the American armies, who 
 have come to stand side by side with the Italian 
 in stemming the red-death stalking unashamed 
 through the passes! 
 
 The rest of the way to the mountains lay along 
 roads heavily camouflaged. Toward the enemy 
 a green foliage matting stretched mile after mile, 
 which, while not preventing the enemy from 
 knowing the road's location, served to obscure the 
 observation of troops passing to and fro, and 
 eliminated sniping. 
 
 Reaching the Tyrolean Alps, we had a view 
 of the little narrow gauge road from a different
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 135 
 
 angle than that of the tourist. In our motor car 
 we were actually among the scenes which the 
 railroad only commands at a distance. More 
 villages were encountered, the dwellings in each 
 fearfully demolished. When I remarked upon 
 the desolation, my Lieutenant companion said: 
 
 "Wait until you get to my town." 
 
 And when we finally reached it, what terrible 
 destruction had been wrought. Not a building 
 escaped. The Austrians were good gunners, having 
 picked out the houses and potted them, one by 
 one. Only a few straggling soldiers furnished any 
 semblance of life. 
 
 Some incidents in any journey stand out with 
 greater vividness than others. For me now is 
 to describe in broken words the climacteric 
 experience of my life. 
 
 No array of sentences can picture the journey 
 from the plans of Piave to Mount Grappa. The 
 distance is no less than a hundred miles, and it 
 was made in a single day. 
 
 We stopped at the village of Piovene, and my 
 Lieutenant companion said, "Are you game?" 
 Not knowing all it meant, I assented. I had not 
 come over seas and continents to count hazards. 
 
 I soon learned that he referred to the Telliferico, a 
 little aerial railroad which runs up six thousand
 
 136 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 feet to the highest peak. The car or wire basket 
 which furnishes accommodation for two persons 
 is attached to an overhead cable — one car goes up, 
 and the other comes down, both gravity and 
 power being used. In the car one must lie down. 
 It is in these little baskets the guns and munitions 
 are carried up, and the wounded are brought down. 
 
 For fully thirty minutes we lay in the car going 
 up the Telliferico six thousand feet. No sounds, 
 save the clicking ratchet of the cable wheels over- 
 head, and our voices, were heard, and our voices 
 seldom disturbed the silence, for with peak after 
 peak passing in view, deep caverns yawning, and 
 stretching Alpine vistas as far as the eye could 
 reach, it was no time for words. We were holding 
 our breath. Far below and underneath curved in 
 and out between the ranges the Astico River, its 
 bluest of blue waters, flecked by white foam, 
 showing the tumult of its soul. 
 
 Reaching the top, we left the Telliferico and 
 landed knee-deep in mud. 
 
 On the trails above mules were footing their way 
 slowly upwards, bearing their precious burden 
 of supplies. Along the trail wherever the curve 
 permitted, gun emplacements had been cut in the 
 solid mountains. 
 
 At the barracks we were received by the officer
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 137 
 
 in charge who invited us in for coffee. It is the 
 custom farther up to stop at all the barracks and 
 take coffee with the officers. 
 
 And from here up these barracks multiply fast. 
 By the time I had finally reached the top I was 
 full up, so it seemed, of coffee. I never drank 
 so much coffee before and I never expect to 
 again. But I was grateful that Nature provided 
 me liberally with the capacity of being sociable. 
 
 From Telliferico station to the trenches on 
 Mount Verena is one thousand feet, and the only 
 way to reach the latter is up a road which winds 
 round and round like the stair treads in the Wash- 
 ington monument. Every step of the way must 
 be on foot, and with my normal weight and the 
 additional burden of coffee, I am not surprised 
 that my Lieutenant companion frequently asked: 
 
 "Do you think you can make it?" or "How's 
 your heart?" 
 
 I replied, "My heart is all right, but my stomach 
 is in the way." 
 
 Every step now was through snow and slush and 
 mud. My feet were soaked, my clothing smeared, 
 and my gloves looked as if I had been in a sewer 
 main. Every now and then we stopped for a 
 breathing spell. At one of these was a scene that 
 haunts me even now.
 
 138 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 There on a comparatively flat ledge were num- 
 berless white crosses. It was a cemetery of the 
 soldier-dead. Here those who had fallen by their 
 guns in the first great push, had been laid to rest, 
 close up to heaven's blue walls where they died, 
 and from which their spirits easily mounted to the 
 peace plains of the Eternal City. There slept their 
 sacred dust, under the white blanket of the snow, 
 with not so much as a large-eyed daisy to look 
 down tearfully upon them. Yet they climbed 
 the altar stairs to glory, and their memory will 
 remain with the enduring Alps. 
 
 At another stop my companion pointed to a 
 distant peak, saying, "I spent six months in the 
 little barracks at that point in an observation 
 post, and during that time never once left it." 
 
 It was in that post, during the early stages of the 
 war, that an Italian commander, Austrian born, 
 was captured by the enemy and shot. 
 
 On we climbed. It would rain, then sleet, then 
 snow, the ascent becoming more and more diffi- 
 cult. But the stops were many, and here as at 
 the other barracks the officer took us in, and gave 
 us more coffee. 
 
 Finally we reached the headquarters of the 
 Commander. He proved to be Major Effisio 
 Toulu, who wore a monocle. The barracks were
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 139 
 
 built into the side of the mountain, and contained 
 quite a few rooms, many of them papered with 
 actresses' pictures and cartoons. They were all 
 lighted by electricity and had telephones. Every 
 splinter of that lumber and the materials which 
 entered into the construction of the building 
 were carried up that last one thousand feet by 
 mules. 
 
 The Major was a jovial fellow! Off-hand he 
 said at once: 
 
 "We're keeping them busy up here." When 
 asked if there was much shooting, he said: 
 
 "We shoot so many shells every day, just to let 
 them know we are here." 
 
 When we inquired about the time of shooting 
 he said: "The exercises begin soon." 
 
 "Can I stay?" I hesitatingly inquired. "Sure 
 Mike," he cried, and laughed hilariously. Evi- 
 dently it was the only bit of the American tongue 
 he had picked up. I was willing to change my 
 name to see the show. 
 
 It was a dramatic moment when, lower down, I 
 had looked through an opening in the peaks and 
 saw for the first time the Austrian frontier. But 
 the upshot of all my experiences was now to come. 
 
 He conducted us to a narrow walk on the side of 
 a rugged peak.
 
 140 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 "Bend low," he cautioned, "If they see, they 
 will pepper." So skulking like Indians, we crept 
 along until we entered a long winding tunnel. 
 There were short lateral tunnels leading out of 
 the main one, where stood concealed mortars and 
 howitzers with their noses pointed in the air. 
 
 I said to the Major, "Is there any danger here?" 
 
 "Not unless they blow the top of the mountain 
 off," he sniffed. 
 
 We entered another barracks and here we had 
 more coffee. Then on through a tunnel to a terrace, 
 which led to the tip-top peak, we climbed a ladder, 
 perhaps a hundred feet. Another winding tunnel, 
 and through a tiny peek hole in the solid rock, 
 was an Austrian camp, not over fifty yards away, 
 the smoke of the fire curling leisurely upward, 
 to dissipate in the thin air, or be lost amid the 
 snows. The enemy was there. 
 
 The Major said enthusiastically: 
 
 "Now we'll see the fireworks." Ordering my 
 Lieutenant companion to fire, the latter phoned 
 to his own battery stationed below. 
 
 In a twinkling of an eye, a ribbon of fire shot 
 past the peek hole. Smoke puffed on the opposite 
 peak, and through the glasses camp utensils could 
 be seen flying into the air. We saw all this before 
 we heard the report.
 
 Cest la Guerre — It is the War 141 
 
 "It's a hit," the Major shouted. Then turning 
 to the Lieutenant he praised him on the work of 
 his battery. 
 
 I had seen more than brain could comprehend. 
 Here at the very peak of the Alps, the eye of 
 Italy is on Austria. 
 
 Descending the ladder, we entered once more 
 the barracks, where camp dogs added a little 
 domesticity to the solitary loneliness. 
 
 Passing down one of the tunnels, I heard a 
 shout. I did not know the language, but I recog- 
 nized the tone, and "ducked," lying flat down, 
 close to the eternal walls. An Austrian "skodda" 
 was trying to become sociable. 
 
 Now, for the descent of the Telliferico! I lay 
 face up. The incline was so steep the car was 
 almost upright — at such an angle that the whole 
 scene spread out before me. The great peaks under- 
 neath looked like hillocks. Great mountain val- 
 leys from which the snow has never departed since 
 the morning stars sang together at creation, were 
 bathed in almost every blue and purple tone. 
 Peaks swept on until in the distance they dis- 
 solved in the gray mist, as dimunitive and pointed 
 as a collection of army tents. 
 
 When we had descended and reached the point 
 where the Lieutenant's battery was located, the
 
 142 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 very same which had so accurately saluted the 
 enemy, I noticed a tally board where a record of 
 every shot, and results as far as they are known, 
 is kept day by day. 
 
 Turning to the barracks for dinner, we were just 
 finishing our soup, when a shell smashed over the 
 battery. The Austrians had the range now. 
 The Lieutenant coolly said : 
 "Guess we will have to move again." 
 The casualties numbered four mules which were 
 grazing about in the little space. 
 
 Here I was sent to bed, until my clothing and 
 shoes were dry enough to be wearable. Getting 
 out of bed, we started on the one-hundred-mile 
 ride to Verona, then through Vincenza. It was 
 the wildest ride I ever experienced. The rain came 
 pouring down. We were soon soaked to the skin. 
 In the darkness, for we had no headlights, we 
 hardly knew where we were going. Not until we 
 arrived at Verona at one a.m., did I have a feeling 
 of safety. 
 
 In the darkness we toured within the historic 
 walls of the city for nearly an hour trying to locate 
 the leading hotel, and when we finally did, and 
 sought for admission, the porter shook his head, 
 until he learned that we were the two guests whose 
 luggage had preceded us. Rooms were provided,
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 143 
 
 but nothing else. Not a crumb to eat, not even a 
 hot swallow to warm us. Major Fabri said: 
 
 "We're due for pneumonia tomorrow." But 
 the porter hung out our wearing apparel under 
 the gabled roof to dry, and Sunday morning we 
 woke up to find our clothes cleaned, brushed and 
 pressed, and sauntered forth for all the world 
 feeling like "two gentlemen of Verona.' *
 
 XIII 
 
 WITH THE ROLLING CANTEEN IN ITALY 
 
 IT was on the plateau of the Asiago, where the 
 British troops were stationed, that I had my 
 first glimpse of the American Rolling Canteen. 
 Leaving Vincenza in the early morning, our way 
 was through many a village levelled by Austrian 
 guns. In a cloud of dust sent up by the Canteen, 
 we rode on through the day, until in the evening 
 we came to more bombarded towns, and drew up 
 under the ruins of a campanile — nearly every 
 town having one — the architecture reflecting 
 Venetian influence of earlier days. 
 
 Under the crumbled walls of a house the Red 
 Cross kitchen was located. It somewhat resem- 
 bles a lunch wagon, and was no sooner in place 
 than soldiers were flocking about it like bees 
 around honey. In the early evening, with cool 
 gray mists curling about, it was a welcome heat 
 unit. The village was deserted, everything was 
 damp and dismal, not another fire for miles 
 
 (144)
 
 ANDRE CITROEN, FRANCE'S FOREMOST MUNITION 
 
 MANUFACTURER 
 
 At left, in conversation with General Pershing and 
 a French officer 
 
 11
 
 LE MARECHAL JOFFRE
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 145 
 
 around. Is it any wonder that men whether 
 eating or drinking, warming their hands, or sip- 
 ping the steaming soup, were filled with good 
 cheer? 
 
 Most soldiers are, seemingly, always hungry, 
 and anything differing from the regular army 
 rations appeals to them. The Rolling Canteen 
 supplies soup, coffee, and cigarettes — strange com- 
 bination — but war has shown these odd associates 
 to be the epicurean delight of soldiers. Especially 
 do they relish a steaming cup of coffee which they 
 will drink every two or three hours. 
 
 To see a group around one of these kitchens was 
 to be reminded of a throng of chattering Italians 
 often seen in railroad construction camps in the 
 United States. There was little difference in the 
 uniform of these men, except that some had 
 jaunty caps, while others wore Alpine hats adorned 
 with a feather. Coffee always started the flow 
 of jocularity, and any attention by the workers 
 brought from the soldiers an enthusiastic "Grazie." 
 (Thank you.) 
 
 One big fellow, a giant among his comrades, 
 had the distinction of having been in America, and 
 was the cynosure of all as he came forward to 
 speak to the Americano. He saluted as he glimpsed 
 the tiny American flag in my buttonhole, and told
 
 146 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 me in Italio-English that he once was in business 
 on Broadway, New York City. 
 
 "What was your line," I queried. 
 
 "Put upa da foot." And as if to prove his 
 assertion grasped a canteen dishcloth and pro- 
 ceeded to demonstrate by polishing up my "Regal 
 russet beauties." The snap of the cloth, a trick 
 unknown in Italy, indicated him to have been a 
 professional shoe-shiner in our great cosmopolitan 
 city. As they grouped themselves on crags by 
 the roadside, or amid barbed wire entanglements, 
 the onlooking soldiers looked like a male chorus 
 in "II Trovatore." 
 
 "When I was in New York I subscriba to da 
 Americano Red Cross," he proudly told me. 
 "Now we geta da goods," he said, pointing to the 
 big Rolling Canteen. 
 
 These Rolling Canteens lumber along the camou- 
 flaged roads like circus wagons. As a war vehicle, 
 they have the right of way, and we often pulled 
 into the ditch to let them pass, and willingly so, 
 for they were going forward with relief and cheer 
 to the soldiers returning from the front. 
 
 The work of operating the Rolling Canteen is 
 as hazardous as any work of the Red Cross. 
 Since my return I have received word of the death 
 of Lieutenant Edward McKay, who was in charge
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 147 
 
 of Canteen No. 1 in Italy. I am not surprised, for 
 the workers must travel dangerous roads just 
 back of the front line, and are exposed to shell 
 fire the same as soldiers. No man could die more 
 truly in the line of duty than Lieutenant McKay. 
 I found him stationed in one of the most hazardous 
 passes in the mountains of the Western Italian 
 front, the place where the last Austrian drive 
 began. He was the only American in that section 
 when I was there. His presence in such a place 
 brought a salute from me, for the Rolling Canteen 
 was a tangible evidence of the help of "big brothers" 
 from across the sea. Imagine for yourself the 
 picture as I saw it only a few weeks before the 
 drive in which the brilliant young lieutenant lost 
 his life! Above the kitchen on three sides are 
 towering mountains. The pass is so narrow that 
 there is room only for a built-in road, a few feet 
 above a narrow dry stream. Great boulders from 
 the cliffs are dislodged by shell fire and come 
 rolling down the canyon. No water is in the 
 ravine now, but when the snows melt or heavy 
 rain falls, the dry bed of the stream may become 
 a flume, through which a flood will rush with all 
 the fury of a mountain freshet. 
 
 The limit to which one may go is the head of 
 the pass, for the enemy is just beyond, and he is
 
 148 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 on high, too. Far above the pass and blocking 
 it at the farther end, is a mountain of granite. 
 On that peak are the Austrians. Their guns 
 command the defile. The enemy is so near that 
 one feels the danger of even a stone being thrown 
 from the emplacements, yet that peak is a mile 
 in the air. 
 
 Some day the desperate Austrians will try to 
 come through that pass. Indeed, they have 
 already tried it, and have swarmed a thousand 
 strong to the very spot where Rolling Canteen 
 No. 1 stands, only to be beaten back by the 
 Italians. 
 
 Once or twice a day, and nearly every night, 
 Austrian gunners send shells crashing down into 
 that shut-in place. The big 175's and 145's, to- 
 gether with the smaller members of the destruc- 
 tion family, send shots against the rocks and 
 scatter shrapnel in all directions. The bomb- 
 proof shelters must be sought, for nothing can 
 live in the pass when the battery opens. Of 
 course, men with nerves steeled become accus- 
 tomed to danger, and as soon as there is a lull in 
 the firing, the pass is inhabited again, the men 
 coming from holes in the mountain sides to 
 wink at the Austrian gunners on high and drink 
 non-chalantly of the Red Cross coffee.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 149 
 
 Now and then a bit of humor is added to the 
 grim business. Sometimes the big shells fail to 
 explode. There is one 175 fully charged standing 
 on its base at the place where it landed, about 
 twenty yards from the Rolling Canteen. It is 
 fenced about with barbed wire and a rudely 
 stencilled sign tacked to a scantling reads : 
 
 PERICOLOSO 
 
 "Perilous?" I should say so. The slightest 
 jar might loose the forces inside the unexploded 
 missile and scatter destruction over a radius several 
 times twenty yards. Yet the men toy with it, 
 dressing it up occasionally, putting a helmet and 
 gas mask over its pointed nose. Perilous pastime! 
 
 One shell which failed to explode afterwards 
 served a useful purpose. The men of Canteen 
 No. 1 recovered it and uncapping it drew its 
 charge. They needed a coffee grinder just then 
 very badly and the empty shell, weighing some 
 sixty pounds, was converted into a roller to crush 
 the coffee berries until a grinder could be secured 
 from headquarters. 
 
 Troops which have been on duty in the pass 
 or mountain-sides come to the Canteen by the
 
 150 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 hundreds. Sometimes hot and hungry, at other 
 times cold and hungry, but always hungry and 
 always tired. It is here their appetites are 
 relieved and their spirits revived. The American 
 khaki uniform always gives promise of this. The 
 Canteen men are usually waiting for them, the 
 coffee is hot and food ever ready to serve. And 
 there is American jain— plenty of it — to spread 
 on the dry bread which the soldiers carry with 
 them. Twenty -five hundred have been served 
 in a single day by Canteen No. 1. Is it any 
 wonder they go on their way down the moun- 
 tain pass, or back to their dugouts with lighter 
 hearts and voicing a new friendship between 
 Italy and America? 
 
 Red Cross men in charge of a Rolling Canteen 
 must live close to the kitchen — it may mean a 
 lean-to or a hut or a tent. Lieutenant McKay 
 lived in a camouflaged shack built against a cliff 
 which rose many meters overhead. When the 
 shells were flying at night, he took refuge in a 
 sandbagged cave on the nose of a mountain 
 where it was difficult to get a word either to or 
 from him. 
 
 Out of the mountain pass has come only two 
 requests, one for the coffee-grinder, the other for 
 a phonograph to amuse the soldiers. Now and
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 151 
 
 again comes a command from the colonel of the 
 regiment to have luncheon on the mountain top, 
 for the officers appreciate the work that is being 
 done fully as much as the soldiers of the line. 
 It is an hour's climb to the top of the mountain 
 by a zigzag footpath, but the Red Cross man 
 brushes up his uniform, mounts a mule sent by 
 the colonel and then on the peak there is much 
 talk of the relief work of America. 
 
 The men engaged in rolling canteen work are 
 specially selected for the business in hand, and they 
 find joy in the opportunity for exceptional service. 
 
 From place to place these canteens go, following 
 the needs of the soldiers. They are strongly 
 built affairs of iron and steel, looking like big 
 kitchen ranges on wheels. They have six places 
 each for spacious set-in kettles, where coffee 
 and occasionally soup may be kept always hot. 
 Under the kettles is an oven burning wood, and 
 once the metal kettles are heated, they will 
 remain hot for sixteen hours at a time. Whether 
 the soldiers pass in the night or the day, there is 
 always something steaming hot to cheer them 
 at these busy little Red Cross hotels on wheels. 
 They are taken from one station to another 
 by the "mother-car," a big lorry which serves 
 as a storehouse for the jam and the coffee. Just
 
 152 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 think of it — jam and coffee! Was there ever a 
 time in the experiences of human life when jam 
 and coffee mean more than now to these soldiers? 
 The regular army rations pale into insignificance 
 beside the jam — raspberry, blackberry, any kind — 
 just so long as it is jam. For soldiers are boys 
 again, great big boys, and the little things of life 
 become very big and real, especially when they 
 bring up memories of home and mother. Jam 
 does this wonderfully. It rejuvenates, exhilarates, 
 and makes the hardy veterans young again. 
 
 The Rolling Canteen fills not only a needed but 
 unique place in war work. It not only ministers 
 to the medicinal needs of fighters, but it furnishes a 
 little by-play, a sort of home pantry with a "bite 
 between meals." Wherever it goes, it tells the 
 men at the front that those at home are thinking 
 of them and planning for their comfort. 
 
 Standing there I thought, what would mothers 
 not give to be able to spread a piece of bread 
 with jam for her boy. I am sure she would "spread 
 it thick."
 
 XIV 
 
 ANDRE CITROEN, AN INDUSTRIAL 
 LEADER OF FRANCE 
 
 AN unexpected circumstance furnished an 
 opportunity for a glimpse into industrial 
 France. After speaking at a luncheon in 
 Paris, in which reference was made to America's 
 industrial achievements in the work of the war, a 
 young man, under forty, approached. He was 
 rather under medium height, with round face set 
 off with a stubby mustache. Through his glasses I 
 saw a pair of inquisitive eyes. He looked like my 
 friend, L. K. Liggett. 
 
 "You've told the story well," he said. "Would 
 you like to visit an industrial plant and see how 
 we are doing things over here?" 
 
 There was a pleasing challenge in his tone, 
 combined with compelling modesty. I no sooner 
 nodded assent than we were whirling down the 
 banks of the Seine, past Eiffel Tower, to Javal. 
 
 The name, Andre Citroen, up to this time, 
 meant very little to me. We stopped at a cluster 
 
 (153)
 
 154 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 of old renovated buildings, now transformed into, 
 as I soon learned, a department store. On the 
 first floor of the building was a meat shop, in the 
 center of which was a glass counter so constructed 
 as to afford a clear view through it all. The most 
 appetizing array of meats were displayed in an 
 attractive way. The prices were plainly marked, 
 and so low as almost to cause a shock — a pound 
 of ham less than the price of a sandwich. 
 
 In other rooms of this building were to be 
 found various kinds of food and wearing apparel. 
 These rooms contained every article from sausages 
 to millinery. 
 
 Across the way was a shoe shop. Shoes at 
 figures less than in the United States. And these 
 were war prices, too! Various rooms were stored 
 with hardware and useful household utensils. 
 The main thing everywhere was the price. All 
 customers had cards, without which they could 
 not buy. 
 
 "Looking after the necessities first," was his 
 laconic comment, as partial explanation as to 
 why we had stopped here in a supposed examina- 
 tion of an industrial plant. 
 
 Every customer held his card as if it was a 
 government bond. Marked on it was the amount 
 of each purchase. No money was used. At the
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 155 
 
 end of every week the totals were added and the 
 profits, whatever they were, reverted directly to 
 the purchasers. The customers were exclusively 
 in the employ of Mr. Citroen. "Large purchases 
 and short accounts is the story," he said. 
 
 With very little comment about his own busi- 
 ness, he kept up a rapid-fire of questions about 
 the United States. 
 
 On the historic road to Versailles is Javal. In 
 less time than it takes to tell it, we were there 
 and visiting a baby nursery. Here were forty or 
 fifty nursing babies in the arms of mothers who 
 had just returned from work, and who were 
 chattering merrily about their babies, like children 
 over dolls, each comparing the various points of 
 excellence or beauty in the child. After a half 
 hour these mothers would go back to the munition 
 factory. They make these visits five times a day. 
 
 "En a-t-il se jolts yeux?" said one young mother 
 to me. Mr. Citroen translated her words: "Has 
 he not pretty eyes?" I nodded assent. "Mais il a 
 les cheveux roux," jokingly added Mr. Citroen, 
 referring to the auburn hair. "Ou ne trouverait 
 pas de plus beaux cheveux dans toute la ville de 
 Venise, Monsieur." She said it so prettily I 
 asked for the translo t: . c One could not find 
 prettier hair in all the city of Venice, Monsieui "
 
 156 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 The hospital is in charge of expert nurses and is 
 provided with every convenience. The wealthiest 
 child on earth could not be better cared for. The 
 fatiguing elements which every mother must bear 
 in caring for a child are here entirely eliminated 
 — only the joys remain. Wakeful nights with a 
 fretful child are unknown. In sickness the child 
 has the best that science and the medical world can 
 provide. "Just the age of my little one at home," 
 he said, taking up a wee tot. I was beginning 
 to know Andre Citroen. 
 
 "We can save fifty thousand babies of the 
 working women of France in a year," he added, 
 "if these nurseries multiply fast enough." 
 
 Before I had recovered from my surprise at 
 these two visits, I was in the largest munition 
 factory in France. Acres on acres of floor space 
 were covered with finished shells. The rims and 
 tips were painted brown and yellow. Electric 
 trucks, driven by girls, were whizzing by like fig- 
 ures shown by a crazy camera on a screen. There 
 seemed to be as much of a rush as in bringing up 
 ammunition on the front lines. Yet every move- 
 ment from crude iron to finished product was 
 devoid of wasted energy. 
 
 Through building after building, past miles 
 and miles of lathes, foundries, welding machines,
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 157 
 
 trip hammers, blazing forges, and power rooms; 
 going from plant to plant, covering acres and acres 
 of ground, I became so confused with the magnitude 
 that I was unable to comprehend what it was all 
 about until, out of the grimy smoke and away from 
 the noise of the hammer and whirr of wheels, I 
 stood once more in the open air, and saw electric 
 trucks in a continuous stream pouring the finished 
 shells into countless cars to be taken to arsenal and 
 then to the battle-field; I realized then the tremen- 
 dous scope and power of the plant I had been 
 through, and the meaning of the name Andre 
 Citroen. 
 
 After this we took our places at a table in a great 
 dining hall. "Still looking after the necessities, 
 you see," he remarked. We were seated in the 
 same chairs as had been occupied by General 
 Pershing and other Generals, Ambassadors, Presi- 
 dents, Premiers, and distinguished visitors from 
 all the Allied countries. Before us were thou- 
 sands upon thousands of men and women eating. 
 They come here in shifts and manifested all the 
 care-freedom of the boulevard. The capacity of 
 the hall provides for three thousand of employes. 
 
 We ate the same food as the munition workers. 
 I think it was Lloyd George who said, after a meal 
 here: "For me this excels Hotel Crillon at its best."
 
 158 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 At Christmas five thousand children of the 
 employees were given a dinner, each one pre- 
 sented a gift, and enjoyed a moving picture show. 
 Not a child was accompanied by its parent, but 
 not one was lost. Mrs. Sharpe, wife of the Ameri- 
 can ambassador, was one of the patronesses at 
 this occasion. The real Andre Citroen was begin- 
 ning to come out. 
 
 Born in Rue Lafitte at the Place de Pere, he is 
 a native Parisian. He is a graduate in the Engi- 
 neering Department of the Polytechnic School, and 
 served as an officer in the Artillery. For thirteen 
 years he was a manufacturer of motor cars. When 
 the war broke out, he was at the front, serving 
 six months during the early drive. Here he saw 
 a pitiable lack of ammunition. He went to the 
 Department of War and obtained from the govern- 
 ment, after much difficulty, the financial backing 
 of six million francs on condition that he would 
 erect a plant in six months, capable of turning out 
 five thousand shells a day. His former partners 
 refused to join him in the undertaking. Undaunted, 
 he began alone. Hence the one name of his plant, 
 Andre Citroen. 
 
 At the end of six months, he was turning out five 
 thousand. This was in August, 1915. By July, 
 1917, he was turning out forty thousand a day,
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 159 
 
 and now, in 1918, approximately sixty thousand, 
 together with one million bullets. In the pro- 
 duction of this huge output, three hundred and 
 fifty tons of iron and one hundred tons of lead are 
 consumed every twenty-four hours. 
 
 The personnel of his plant embraces ten thou- 
 sand men and women. Six thousand are women, 
 two thousand disabled soldiers, and two thousand 
 men over and under military age. 
 
 Some idea of the welfare of his employes may be 
 shown by the manner in which the teeth are 
 looked after, his dental force operating on one 
 hundred a day. The teeth of every employe are 
 gone over every month. All the cooks, waitresses 
 and chefs, together with all others having contact 
 with the food, have their nails freshly manicured 
 every day. Two hundred and fifty births among 
 the women in his employ have been recorded 
 since 1915, over one hundred of whom have been 
 looked after by his nursery staff. 
 
 Mr. Citroen deals only with three men in the 
 administration of the plant. First, one on instal- 
 lation; the second, on fabrication; the third, on 
 health and welfare. He is his own sales manager 
 and purchasing agent. He also buys the coal 
 for all the factories in Paris. The industries in 
 Paris alone consume about half the coal used in
 
 160 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 the entire country. Women are almost exclusively 
 employed in the laboratories. The wages of his 
 employes have doubled since he first started his 
 plant, and with the advantages of the "company 
 store" they save money and invest in French 
 bonds. He contends that every one of the twenty- 
 four provinces of France should buy their own 
 necessities, thus reducing the cost to the people. 
 
 Leaving, we went down into the Metro Tube 
 (the subway). It was just at the hour of changing 
 shifts. Trains were coming and going in a bewild- 
 ering stream, part bringing employes, and part 
 taking them home. Looking into their faces, we 
 could not discern any difference in expression on 
 those coming from, to those going to work. Both 
 throngs seemed equally bright, vigorous and 
 contented. 
 
 "Monsieur," he said, with an unspeakable glad- 
 ness in his eyes, "this is the test." 
 
 As I looked upon him, his happiness seemed 
 complete in the knowledge that beyond all in- 
 dustrial achievements, is the people — their con- 
 tentment, joy of service, and their moral and 
 physical well-being. In his human impulses I now 
 felt that I knew Andre Citroen.
 
 
 Copyright by Underwood & Underwood 
 
 SIR DOUGLAS HAIG, COMMANDER IN CHIEF OF BRITISH ARMY 
 
 LLOYD GEORGE, PREMIER OF ENGLAND
 
 Copyright, Underwood & Underwood 
 
 GENERALISSIMO FOCH 
 
 Commander-in-Chief of Allied Armies
 
 XV 
 
 GENERALISSIMO FOCH, THE STRATEGIST 
 
 WHAT I expected to find in the Generalissimo 
 of the Allied armies was just the reverse 
 of what I did find. Nothing of the tower- 
 ing greatness which belongs to supreme leaders 
 was in evidence. His personal appearance was 
 disappointing. Somewhat undersized, of slight 
 build — with no trace of the athlete, his face bronzed 
 and deeply lined — there was nothing in his physical 
 appearance that was imposing. 
 
 Even the salute between him and General 
 Pershing was one of brotherly warmth rather 
 than of military dignity. When through the 
 interpreter I told him that I had spent the previous 
 Sunday with Marshal Joffre and from that inter- 
 view had tried to assimilate proper manners with 
 which to approach one of his rank, he simply 
 smiled. Even the sharp clicking of my heels and 
 my quick and formal salute seemed to amuse him 
 more than anything else. 
 
 (161)
 
 162 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 But I soon learned that his simplicity was his 
 greatness. Living, as he has all his life, apart from 
 society, and having little interest in it, he lacks 
 all the graces which are conspicuous in many of 
 his subordinates. 
 
 The abstemious life which he acquired in youth 
 and has rigidly maintained accounts in part for 
 his slender frame. His parents lacked the means 
 to educate their sons liberally and the habits 
 formed in the Polytechnic days cling to him even 
 now. He is essentially an intellectual — a brain 
 on fire. 
 
 His head is peculiarly formed. Even his military 
 red cap twined with golden oak leaves sat strangely 
 on his head as he stood before me. Yet above his 
 square jaw and firm mouth were eyes which 
 seemed to see everything. His whole bearing 
 suggested the class-room rather than the battle- 
 field. 
 
 Yet he was far from the stoic. There was a 
 quickness and intensity about his movements 
 which indicated temperament and bore out the 
 things which I had heard about him. Among his 
 associates he is regarded as highly nervous. His 
 gestures were few but flashing. His movements 
 were unexpected, surprising, and distinctively his 
 own.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 163 
 
 I had not been with him long before I could 
 discern that he was a man apart from any civilian 
 standards — original, surprising, and magnetic. 
 
 Though he saw service in 1870, the greater part 
 of his life has been entirely out of the public view. 
 Yet during those forty silent years he has not 
 been inactive, nor have they been voiceless years. 
 He often says, "Next to military experience is 
 military history." From the ends of the earth 
 this mystic brain has been drawing inductions 
 from the greatest battles of history. From Caesar 
 and Napoleon to present-day leaders he has 
 assimilated the tactics which he has disseminated 
 in the class room at the war academy, and in his 
 published works. Once every ten years some 
 volume on technical strategy has appeared from 
 his pen. Artillery has been one of his specialties. 
 
 During this war much has been said about the 
 French '75 's. It is not generally known that 
 Foch put on a workingman's blouse and went 
 about the Creusot Works when he was com- 
 missioned to make an official report on the gun 
 which has made life intolerable for the Huns. 
 
 From all these years of experiment and medi- 
 tation he has come forth as the one supreme 
 military brain of the age. Only sixty-seven years 
 of age he is a Zeus in knowledge and deserving of
 
 164 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 the tribute paid to him by Joffre, who had known 
 him from early childhood, they having been boys 
 together: "The greatest strategist in Europe and 
 the humblest." 
 
 It is because he knows that his Staff listens to 
 him. It is significant that nearly all the generals 
 prominent in the French Army today were once 
 his pupils. His brain is the brain of the French 
 Army. Berlin has recognized it and he is ranked 
 by the Militar-Wochenblatt, official organ of the 
 Berlin general staff, as the one strategist of high 
 capacity in the ranks of the Allies. 
 
 At the battle of the Marne he stepped out of 
 the quiet atmosphere of the class-room to be 
 known henceforth as a Caesar in conception and 
 a Napoleon in action, to illustrate to the world 
 his one great axiom "find the weak spot of the 
 enemy and surprise him; if there is no weak spot 
 make one." 
 
 In that memorable battle on September 9th, 
 he believed there must be a gap between the 
 Prussian Guard and the Saxon Army. From all 
 the country round he brought his artillery, and 
 when he crushed the guard on the Saint-Gond 
 marshes, a new field genius was born. 
 
 His famous message to Joffre at this battle will 
 be repeated as long as the world stands: "My
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 165 
 
 right and left wings are turned and my center is 
 crushed in, but I am attacking immediately." 
 
 No battle in history could have shown the 
 man better than this. Contrary to all military 
 tactics — the placing of superior forces opposite a 
 weak point — he attacked with a broken and 
 shattered army forces vastly outnumbering his 
 own, utterly confounding them. 
 
 During the anxious days in March and April, 
 1918, when the enemy was driving deep wedges 
 into his front, contrary to all expectations, and 
 against all his subscribed theories of the value of 
 attack, he said: "Wait a little." 
 
 He must know. The temperament of the French 
 people — he knows. His whole career suggests that 
 he is the one man to know. His grip on his gen- 
 erals, calling them each by name, carries the con- 
 viction that he knows. Void of all isolation, inci- 
 dent to his command, out on the field as he was 
 at the Marne when wounded, knowing infantry- 
 man and artilleryman, proves he must know. 
 Holding the confidence of the whole Allied 
 world, bearing in his hands the destinies of all 
 free peoples, he must know.
 
 XVI 
 
 SIR DOUGLAS HAIG, BRITISH 
 COMMANDER 
 
 I NEVER went so far and spent so little time 
 with a person of note as with Sir Douglas Haig, 
 especially when this was the sole purpose of 
 this particular journey. But there was a reason. 
 The most critical days of the war were on, and the 
 Huns were taking up most of Sir Douglas' atten- 
 tion. The difficulty of reaching his headquarters 
 was augmented by bombardment. Transpor- 
 tation was a puzzle. 
 
 My visit with Sir Douglas consisted prin- 
 cipally of a salute. He was just starting away 
 with his orderlies. As he sat in the saddle, every 
 inch a horseman, he was the perfect picture of 
 the Hussar of years ago — and this skill probably 
 was partially responsible for his entry into the 
 army. When at Oxford he was all set for a 
 literary? career, but reverses came in the family 
 and hejwas obliged to seek other fields. It was 
 his ability as a rider that at this time suggested 
 
 (166)
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 16T 
 
 the cavalry, but the cavalry was not then in high 
 repute with the military authorities. 
 
 It was not until Kitchener began his great expe- 
 dition into Sudan that Haig's horsemanship availed 
 him much. Yet through that long and exhaustive 
 drive in the desert with Kitchener he accom- 
 plished something few have ever succeeded in 
 doing. He made the cold iron of the Earl bend to 
 the warmth in his nature and to a recognition of 
 his worth. It was not until the Boer War that he 
 came fully to his own. It was his cavalry which 
 turned the British reverse into a success. 
 
 Sir Douglas has always been a strong champion 
 for cavalry, and has been an ardent admirer all 
 his life of J. E. B. Stuart, the cavalry leader of the 
 Confederacy, whom he regarded as the supreme 
 cavalry genius of the nineteenth century. Even 
 when he was at Aldershot he impressed Stuart's 
 career upon his staff. He even prophesied that 
 Berlin would rue the day when she failed to 
 develop this arm of service. 
 
 At Cambrai, after Byng's drive had begun to 
 slow down, it was the British cavalry which deliv- 
 ered such crushing blows and vindicated Sir 
 Douglas' belief in its value. 
 
 As he sat there on his horse somebody remarked : 
 "Did you ever see a more graceful rider?' , He was
 
 168 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 about the last word in a carefully-groomed soldier. 
 His hair was smoothed down even to the last stray 
 lock, his face fresh-shaven, except, of course, his 
 military mustache. All in all, he looked much 
 younger than his years indicate. 
 
 As I gazed into his face so finely chiseled, I did 
 not wonder that he was the one man to cause a 
 flutter in the feminine heart and to be enshrined 
 there as the ideal soldier. On this day his face had 
 a very serious cast. He reminded me of the iron 
 Kitchener whom I had seen riding in the Corona- 
 tion parade. A sunny Scotch smile overspread 
 Haig's handsome features as he rode away. 
 
 One of the Scotch soldiers standing about pointed 
 to one of his company and said: 
 
 "That's the Chief's chaplain. Ye ken he's vera 
 religious." 
 
 It is reported that Sir Douglas' chaplain goes 
 with him everywhere. He has the soul of a Scot 
 and never misses a morning service at the front. 
 Inquiring my way to headquarters, I had encoun- 
 tered a number of the "Hieland" boys, but they 
 were unaccompanied by the squeaking strains of 
 the bagpipe. 
 
 While waiting for Sir Douglas' return, I had an 
 opportunity to glimpse his headquarters. One 
 article is always indispensable in his room, and
 
 Cest la Guerre — It is the War 169 
 
 that is the Bible. Probably it was the very same 
 one which he lost in the Boer campaign, and for 
 which he mourned until it was found. Sir Douglas 
 is also a keen student of metaphysical and dogmatic 
 subjects, but it may be questioned whether he 
 finds much time for a perusal of these studies 
 now. 
 
 What wonder that one of the Scotties standing 
 near should say of him: 
 
 "He's a bonny chief." 
 
 For Sir Douglas bears out the admiration of his 
 men. Of stainless character and brilliant mind, 
 he would have been the one general to delight 
 Napoleon, who expressed great fondness for a 
 general whose character and intellect blended. The 
 little Corsican deemed that this was a necessity for 
 the highest military success. 
 
 He is a great favorite in the British War Office. 
 His fine courtesy and deference being in striking 
 contrast to the brusqueness of Kitchener. It is 
 not often "that manners are the man" in so full a 
 sense as in Sir Douglas Haig. But he is a fighter 
 as well. His dogged determination was seen during 
 the terrific push of the Huns for the Channel 
 ports, and in their efforts to separate the French 
 from the British. His words, "We are standing 
 with our backs against the wall" will long live as
 
 170 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 reflecting not only the spirit of this dauntless 
 leader, but of the whole British Empire as well. 
 
 My time was up, and Sir Douglas did not return 
 as expected, for the drive was on. I had had a 
 wave of his hand and a few words from the "Tom- 
 mies" about him. The British soldier is proverbial 
 for what he does not say. I found him so. 
 
 Yet as I rode away toward Amiens, our motor 
 car bumping into the fresh destruction wrought 
 by the Huns, and perhaps over the freshest-turned 
 sod by these master plowmen, the picture of Haig 
 fastened itself on my mind. It was a trying time 
 for the British Army, and Sir Douglas Haig during 
 that tempest drive added glory to the valor of 
 British arms. Bravest of brave — the men of Sir 
 Douglas are astonished if complimented upon 
 mere heroism. 
 
 "We only do our duty, sir, and Sir Douglas 
 expects that," was the remark of an English ser- 
 geant who had been three times wounded and 
 was keen for another "big show" at Ypres with 
 Sir Douglas in command.
 
 XVII 
 
 LLOYD GEORGE— THE LION OF 
 NO. 10 DOWNING STREET 
 
 THE center of things in the British Empire 
 is No. 10 Downing Street. I visited it twice. 
 The building is located at the end of a short 
 street, which looks like a blind alley, or what we 
 would call in America, a "place." Nobody gets 
 any farther than No. 10. On the door is an old- 
 fashioned knocker. At the side of the door there 
 are three bells — all labeled — one for visitors, one 
 for servants, and one for messengers, so I knew 
 which one to ring. 
 
 Once inside, the visitor is impressed with the 
 severe plainness of the place. There is but little 
 furniture, the only conspicuous exception being 
 a high-backed chair, such as might grace a throne 
 room. All around the frieze are heads of animals 
 brought from different parts of the empire and 
 placed there by Lord Asquith's son when the father 
 was Premier. Through a dark hall, hung with 
 pictures of former ministers, you enter the Cabinet 
 
 (171)
 
 172 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 room. In the center is a very wide table covered 
 with green cloth. A few pictures adorn the walls. 
 Looking out of the window is a garden. 
 
 In a room to the left was the private secretary, 
 Mr. Sutherland, buried in a mass of papers, and 
 looking like an exchange editor. In the room to 
 the right was another private secretary, Mrs. 
 Stevenson, whose services have extended over a 
 wide period. Many a letter supposed to be signed 
 by a man, with the one name, "Stevenson," is in 
 a woman's handwriting. She is an encyclopedia 
 for names and incidents. 
 
 It was in the center room that we met the great 
 spokesman of the British Empire, Lloyd George. 
 Advancing, he said: "Here is where the dirty work 
 was done," referring, in a jocular way, to the acts 
 of a hundred years ago. In personal appearance, 
 he is short, thin and wiry, yet full-chested and of 
 athletic build. One could imagine that in action 
 on the links or in the war office he smites like a 
 lightning flash. A Rooseveltian intensity radiates 
 from his gray eyes. His forehead is full and high, 
 from which, except for a close-parting on the left 
 side, his iron gray hair is pushed straight back. 
 Under his loosely falling mustache it is easy to 
 discern the mouth of an orator. He had aged 
 a bit since I saw him eight years ago, yet he gave
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 173 
 
 evidence of having grown mightily in physical and 
 mental power. 
 
 He had just come in from Walton Heath, where 
 he spends Sundays, resting and hammering out 
 the dents of "trouble-corner." 
 
 Lloyd George makes it clear at the start that 
 he does not wish to have his private utterances 
 quoted. What he says for public consumption is 
 given to the people direct. There were lively times 
 at No. 10. The Maurice affair was on. The House 
 of Commons had just given him the vote of confi- 
 dence on the conduct of the war. Something of 
 the pristine strength of his ringing speech, when 
 he utterly routed his critics, seemed to rest upon 
 him. If Clemenceau carried the role of "The 
 Tiger," Lloyd George looked "The Lion." 
 
 When he received a telegram from Billy Sunday, 
 praising him for his speech, he was pleased and 
 said, "Bully for Billy." 
 
 The great war had seemed to put more flint 
 than ever in his face, and I could but feel that the 
 words he uttered concerning Clemenceau, "He is 
 a hard man to refuse," might be true of him also. 
 
 The Irish question was acute. As I remember, 
 it was Michael Devitt who first inspired in him 
 the idea of running for Parliament. Devitt had 
 been speaking on Home Rule. Lloyd George was
 
 174 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 so impressed that he was chosen to move a vote 
 of thanks to the speaker. His words were couched 
 in such lucid and epigrammatic phrase that Devitt 
 told the people he ought to be in the House of 
 Parliament, at the same time prophesying a bril- 
 liant career. It would not be strange if he should 
 be instrumental in helping solve the question of 
 Home Rule for Ireland. 
 
 As I sat there talking informally with this man, 
 I could not refrain from recalling the massive 
 strides he had taken, not only since I last saw him, 
 but also from his humble beginnings as a barrister 
 in a Welsh town. Left poor by his father, he 
 struggled on until he was admitted to the bar at 
 twenty-one. He often said that his first parlia- 
 ment was in the "smithy" of Hugh Jones in 
 Wales, where, with the townsfolk all questions were 
 discussed for this world and for the next. They 
 "warmed up" with politics, then took up science 
 and philosophy, and came back to politics again. 
 
 Denied the privileges of Oxford and Cambridge, 
 he has been granted honorary degrees in both, 
 and during the period of my visit was off to Edin- 
 burgh to take another honorary degree. Yet he 
 ever paid tribute to the humble school of his home 
 town, saying "Whatever I do, I owe to the little 
 school at Bethel."
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 175 
 
 When he first began public life it was the habit 
 of his wife to accompany him everywhere in an 
 inspirational capacity. Later, a marvelously gifted 
 daughter was of incalculable help, and her death 
 was perhaps the greatest sorrow of his life. 
 
 His path was never smooth, yet this little David 
 struggled on. When he first entered Parliament, 
 he himself felt that he was a misfit. The scoffs and 
 sneers of the gentry freely came his way. Yet 
 there was one seer in Parliament who recognized 
 his worth and who praised him for his maiden 
 speech — that man was Gladstone. 
 
 His first appearance in the Cabinet was in the 
 capacity of a business man rather than that of a 
 lawyer or statesman. He appeared as president 
 of the Board of Trade, which body differs mate- 
 rially from the moribund organizations in this 
 country, for in England the Board of Trade repre- 
 sents the controlling factors in the big business 
 of the Empire. It was in this capacity that he 
 early exemplified a tendency to smash traditions. 
 
 A representative of the Seaman's Union fur- 
 nished me with an illustration of this. He said 
 at one time a delegation, after being promised help, 
 were told to come back for his disposition of the 
 matter. As they did so, they were met by another 
 functionary of the Board, who not only refused
 
 176 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 them admittance, but told them that the promised 
 help could not be given. Lloyd George entered, 
 greeted them and asked them to come in, and in 
 ten minutes had done what moss-grown customs 
 said could not be done. 
 
 Just at this junction some old Welsh friends 
 came in to call at No. 10 Downing Street. I could 
 not understand the Welsh phrases or names. I 
 did manage, however, to catch the name of one 
 town, and that was Llanystumdwy. No wonder 
 that town produced something, and that his uncle, 
 "the learned cobbler," to whom the boy David 
 was turned over on the death of his father, has in 
 the Premier of Great Britain one not only capable 
 of delivering impassioned speeches in his native 
 tongue, but who is a master of English diction as 
 well. Their visit formed the link to the one great 
 accomplishment of his life. 
 
 Like Talleyrand, he seldom ever writes a letter 
 or destroys one. He is pre-eminently a speaker, 
 the only notable exception to this was at Birming- 
 ham. He said: "When they refused to hear me, 
 I dictated the speech behind the scenes while the 
 crowd was storming outside; but it was printed in 
 full in the papers next morning. Your Congres- 
 sional Records contain many speeches never deliv- 
 ered, 'by leave to print,' " he said. All of his
 
 Copyright by Underwood & Underwood 
 
 SIR ERIC GEDDES 
 Britain's First Lord of the Admiralty 
 
 L3
 
 ADMIRAL WILLIAM S. SIMS, U. S. \. 
 This photograph is a recent one, taken in London
 
 Cest la Guerre — It is the War 177 
 
 notable utterances are extemporaneous, and 
 whether in public debate or private conversa- 
 tion, his words fall into place with spontaneous 
 precision and beautiful structure. 
 
 Before taking up the duties of Premiership, he 
 proved his worth as Minister of Munitions. 
 
 All these steps lead up naturally to the high place 
 he holds in the Empire and quite clearly show 
 manifest destiny. How comes it that five hundred 
 million of his countrymen look to him as one 
 hundred million Americans to President Wilson 
 for the word which is to give direction to the war? 
 He is pre-eminently the voice of one crying in the 
 wilderness make straight the path of free peoples. 
 
 It is not to be wondered that in the opening 
 paragraphs of his first speech as Premier he should 
 quote the words of Abraham Lincoln: "We 
 accepted the war for an object, a worthy object. 
 The war will end when that object is attained. 
 Under God, I hope it will never end until that 
 time." 
 
 Always a great traveler, having spent much 
 time in Germany, he not only knows the enemy, but 
 the Allies as well. He cherishes a warm regard for 
 America and loves the story of Lincoln. Like 
 Lincoln, he hates slavery, as practiced by the 
 Hun in bleeding Belgium or paralytic Russia.
 
 178 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 His one passion is to hit oppression between the 
 eyes, to see weaker peoples lifted up, and peace 
 made the heritage of the world. 
 
 He is particularly fitted for leadership in the 
 present crisis. First elected to the House of Com- 
 mons by a majority of only eighteen votes, he was 
 sent by the Welsh as a man representing the 
 common people. Since that day he has ever 
 remained a true Commoner. Of the plain people, 
 for the plain people, and by the plain people he 
 truly represents them. Probably he is the first man 
 to be Premier of England who was not a college 
 graduate. He is close to that great circle, in which 
 most men are destined to live and die, spoken of 
 as the working class. He talks with them, even 
 going to the mouth of the mines to do so. He 
 knows their needs, their aims, and their hopes. 
 That he has held them loyal in the great war is 
 one of his most masterful achievements. 
 
 Not only is he the representative of the laborer, 
 but also the champion of patriotic gentry. The 
 rights and duties of both are blended by him in 
 a new community of interest in which each is for 
 all and all for each. 
 
 Even his first public speaking as a temperance 
 advocate serves him well now and fits him to be 
 a leader in war prohibition. But it is as the
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 179 
 
 mouth-piece of an empire that he comes to his 
 own. As a debater, he ranks as one of the great- 
 est England has produced. No matter what the 
 occasion, he rises to it. To his unusual command 
 of language must be added a marvelously musical 
 voice. 
 
 In Parliament I saw his colleague, A. Bonar 
 Law, a veritable antithesis of the Premier. He 
 was formerly an iron manufacturer in Glasgow and 
 is pre-eminently a business man, whose tongue 
 never turns a purple phrase. He deals in figures, 
 and his tabulations have all the fascination of a ro- 
 mance. He is the business brains of the Empire! 
 The friend with whom I was sitting in the gallery 
 said: "Bonar Law may hear his budget torn to 
 tatters in the debate, but it will remain just as he 
 put it." A. Bonar Law is a man to plan, and 
 Lloyd George is a man for action. Two iron men, 
 political rivals, working together in concord. 
 
 Coming out of No. 10 Downing Street, with its 
 comparative quiet, I seemed to hear the rich 
 cadences of one voice — a voice first raised in the 
 shop of Hugh Jones, where, amid the flash of the 
 forge and the din of hammer, it joined in political 
 comment in what constituted that first Parliament 
 of David Lloyd George. Emerging into the din 
 of London's busy streets, made deafening by
 
 180 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 the rumble of war-laden trucks, I heard, speaking 
 not only for empire, but for the federation of the 
 world, the crashing and defiant voice of Lloyd 
 George — "To the knock-out."
 
 XVIII 
 
 THE ADMIRALTY" AND ADMIRAL SIMS 
 
 A RRIVING in London my first impulse was 
 f~\ to locate Admiral Sims. I set out im- 
 mediately for Grosvenor Garden, once an 
 exclusive residential section, but now the center 
 of American activity. Here were the American 
 Embassy, and the Naval and Red Cross head- 
 quarters. A familiar flag waved at Number 28. I 
 knew Admiral Sims was there. His office is on 
 the second floor. He was seated at his desk as I 
 entered, but rose to greet me — his slight and tall 
 form pushing upward until it resembled a Carolina 
 pine. After the hazardous journey across the 
 Channel the prevous night, it was good to see the 
 man whose watchful arm of service spells safety 
 in the danger zone. 
 
 He was just finishing some dispatches for a 
 returning ship. When they were completed, tea 
 was served on his big flat desk. Over the cups in 
 what seemed to me an incredibly short time, and 
 
 (181)
 
 182 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 with an ease and simplicity, that was startling, he 
 had drawn with pencil and paper, diagrams show- 
 ing American naval activities in the North Sea, 
 and the destroyer base, indicating how they had 
 accounted for thirty-eight of the enemy subma- 
 rines. I asked for these diagrams as souvenirs, 
 and I value them among the most treasured re- 
 minders of my trip. 
 
 Here was the man whose epigrammatic phrase, 
 in reply to the question as to when the American 
 Navy would be ready, "We are ready now!" not 
 only captured the British Admiralty, but thrilled 
 his own countrymen as well. 
 
 He had just been preparing a message on 
 Mother's Day. I was complimented when he 
 asked me to hear it read. If the people at home 
 could have seen his face and listened to the soft 
 music of his voice, they would have seen how 
 tender at heart is this man of iron and steel. 
 Before he began reading, he said with a touch of 
 the lover and father: 
 
 "When you get home, won't you go to Newport 
 and see Mrs. Sims and the kiddies?" 
 
 Then emphasizing some of the words in his 
 message he said: 
 
 "Tell the people at home how they can help 
 the fighting men abroad. We of the Army and
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 183 
 
 Navy can do nothing without destroyers, ammu- 
 nition and food. These cannot be brought to 
 us without ships. All of these essentials must be 
 supplied from home, and in supplying them 
 everybody can help by each one doing his work 
 with a smile, and with all his might. The men 
 who are building destroyers and merchant ships 
 are really in the fighting line. Every blow of 
 their hammers is a blow at the enemy." 
 
 When I spoke of the patriotic spirit in the 
 American homes, he said: 
 
 "Wives can help so much by taking care of 
 men who are doing their part in the work by 
 making their homes pleasant and encouraging 
 them." 
 
 Then with a fine touch he added: 
 
 "Even little children can help by being good 
 and assisting their mothers. Everybody can help 
 by wasting nothing — neither food, nor money, nor 
 clothing, nor time." 
 
 As if a broader vision came to him he continued : 
 
 "Work in factory, farm, or office matters very 
 much. The accumulative effect of many millions 
 of jobs has its influence upon the war." 
 
 Straightening back he remarked with emphasis: 
 
 "There are just two things to do to win the 
 war— work and fight."
 
 184 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 Then referring to my visits on the various 
 battle fronts, he said: 
 
 "You've seen enough in France and Italy to 
 show you how four years of war has worn down 
 the people. Now our people must furnish the 
 fresh reserves." 
 
 To keep these epigrams going I asked: "In 
 your work, Admiral, what gives you the greatest 
 satisfaction?" 
 
 "The spirit of our men working with the men of 
 other navies — they are like old messmates." 
 
 After looking in vain for the sugar for our tea 
 the Admiral added, "We are working in perfect 
 harmony and fellowship, not only alongside of, but 
 with the navies of the Allies." 
 
 When I asked him what the Grand Fleet was 
 doing, he caught up pencil and paper, and in a 
 moment with surprising dexterity, showing minute 
 knowledge of the whole range of action, he began 
 drawing diagrams. At a certain place with a 
 blue pencil, he indicated where the Allies planted 
 mines by day, and with a red pencil how the 
 Germans swept them out by night, this process 
 being repeated day by day. 
 
 Just then he was interrupted to say good-bye 
 to a messenger who was leaving for America 
 bearing important documents.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 185 
 
 While I was sitting in a corner waiting, how 
 proud I felt of this man. Canadian born, an 
 instructor in the Naval War College at Newport, 
 there was something in his bearing which seemed 
 particularly to fit him for the work of blending 
 navies together. His splendid American uniform 
 with its trim collar fitted his tall classic frame, 
 and his every movement indicated a rare combi- 
 nation of the gentleman and the fighter — the 
 diplomat and the Admiral. His desk was as 
 broad as the quarter deck of a ship, yet indi- 
 cated by its neat appearance the precision of the 
 man. 
 
 Little did the builders of the old Grosvenor 
 Mansion think that one of the rooms on the second 
 floor back would open its folding doors as the 
 headquarters of the American Navy in Europe. 
 
 Finally he said: "You must first visit the 
 Admiralty, and I will arrange it. The big thing 
 for you to do is to see the Grand Fleet and visit 
 the destroyer base." I felt at once that I was 
 under "orders." 
 
 SIR ERIC GEDDES, FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY 
 
 At the Admiralty there seemed to be a new 
 welcomish sort of atmosphere. I did not quite 
 understand this until I saw a certain familiar
 
 186 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 figure and remembered the story of his career in 
 the United States. His manner was that of a 
 manager in a large American industrial corpora- 
 tion. When I found he was so much interested 
 in the South, I promised to send him one of our 
 publications entitled "Wizards of the Saddle," 
 in which there is a special tribute paid to one of 
 his heroes, "Jeb" Stuart of Confederate fame. 
 
 From the manager of baggage-smashers to the 
 direction of fleet-smashers has a decidedly Ameri- 
 can sound, yet that compasses the story of Sir 
 Eric Geddes. 
 
 When he was sent to the Merchiston Castle 
 School in Edinburgh, the head master, after some 
 years, said to him: 
 
 "Ye've no metaphysics, ye've no leeterature, 
 ye've no art, but ye've a future." 
 
 When young Eric, still in his teens, started away 
 to America and engaged as a foreman of a crew 
 in a lumber camp in the South, there was not 
 much promise. Yet, clad in his blue overalls, out 
 in the great forests, he was absorbing the embryo 
 knowledge which was to enter into the prophesied 
 career. It was here that he gained the first lessons 
 in the handling of labor. His success with men, 
 in winning their affection, co-ordinating their 
 efforts in production, soon reached the ears of a
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 187 
 
 high official of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, and 
 the youthful Scot was put at the task of superin- 
 tending station agents and the construction of 
 power houses and freight yards. 
 
 Again he proved he was master. By the side 
 of the railroad he proved to be "the friend of man." 
 More than that, he knew how to get things done. 
 
 It was not long before he received a nattering 
 offer from a railway company in India, where his 
 father was once a civil engineer and made his 
 fortune. Here he applied the very same prin- 
 ciples which he had learned in the South with 
 "Finnegan and Flannagan." He streaked his way 
 through the railway hierarchy with the speed of a 
 comet. 
 
 His name finally came to the attention of 
 officials of the Great Northeastern in England. 
 He was but thirty years old at the time. When the 
 period of labor strikes began in Great Britain, on 
 that dark night just before the war, he proved to 
 be the most powerful link between labor and 
 corporation, between working men and capital. 
 His knowledge of men, their working conditions, 
 their hopes and hardships had been gained while 
 he, himself, toiled in blue overalls. He came to 
 the adjustment of these labor situations not with a 
 theory, but with an experience. Lloyd George,
 
 188 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 in many an eloquent and complimentary phrase, 
 praised him for the manner in which he handled 
 some of the most baffling strikes. 
 
 When it became necessary for the transfer of 
 the railroads of the empire from boards of directors 
 to the government itself, he proved to be the one 
 pivotal man around whom the movement could 
 turn. 
 
 This explained the large number of maps which 
 I saw on the walls, indicating the great route 
 centers of the Empire. 
 
 Up to two years ago, the world knew very little 
 about this man. Yet the war gave Sir Eric the 
 opportunity to become one of the pre-eminent 
 figures in the great conflict and to make his name 
 a household word on all sides of the seas. 
 
 It was the transportation question on the 
 Western Front, the construction of railways in 
 the war zone commensurate with the great need 
 of moving supplies and guns, which brought Sir 
 Eric to his present place in the empire. It was a 
 giant's task and it was proven that a giant had 
 taken it up. His success was immediate in France 
 and he was rewarded with a knighthood. 
 
 It was during his sojourn in the South that he 
 made a study of the blockade during the Civil 
 War. He maintains now that the cause of the
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 189 
 
 Confederacy was doomed from the first, because 
 of the persistence and tenacity of the blockade. 
 
 In the Admiralty his one insistence has been on 
 the blockade. No matter what Germany's sub- 
 marines might do or her spiked-helmeted armies 
 accomplish, the sea could never be hers. To form 
 a blockade through which no supplies could reach 
 the enemy has been his one creed. This was to be 
 the steel noose around the neck of Germany which 
 would sooner or later strangle her to death. 
 
 ADMIRAL SIR DAVID BEATTY 
 
 Quite naturally when I visited the Grand Fleet 
 my eyes sought out the First Admiral — Sir David 
 Beatty. I was particularly interested in the man, 
 for he is a good example in life and practice of the 
 spirit of the Allied nations now so fully manifest. 
 
 His marriage to the daughter of Marshall Field 
 of Chicago resulted in a happy alliance of nation- 
 ality. For in this war Lady Beatty has shown 
 herself not only to be a woman of great patriotism, 
 but of magnificent spirit and ability as well. 
 
 She used her yacht as a hospital tender, carrying 
 wounded soldiers and supplies from one hospital 
 to another, and has provided surgeons and acces- 
 sories from her own means to soothe and restore 
 those broken in the stress of battle. She has cared
 
 190 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 little for a large place in society; rather her whole 
 energies have been bent to help her gallant 
 husband in the service of his country and to the 
 cause of humanity. 
 
 The career of Sir David Beatty is, therefore, 
 particularly interesting to Americans. 
 
 From the day when he stepped on the deck as a 
 midshipman, thirty years ago, to the present hour, 
 his rise has been more rapid than even the naval 
 rules of Great Britain allow — special legislation 
 being needed for one of his age. At twenty-nine 
 he was captain of the Queen, and on relinquishing 
 her went to the Admiralty as naval adviser to the 
 First Lord. His advice, however, did not harmon- 
 ize particularly well with the then First Lord, and 
 he was retired on half pay; but when Churchill 
 came to power again he sent for Sir David and 
 restored him as First Adviser. From Naval 
 Adviser he stepped on deck again to command 
 what is probably the most formidable fleet of 
 fighting ships which ever sailed the blue. 
 
 Off ship, Sir David appears the typical country 
 gentleman, his fine features and clean-cut bearing 
 making him a marked man in any company. He 
 never talks ship when on shore, and is the pro- 
 verbial Briton as to his silence about the move- 
 ments of the fleet. Yet on board ship he is a sailor,
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 191 
 
 a worker, a master of detail, a manager of men, the 
 infuser of spirit and courage. At the battle of 
 Jutland, notice was served on the world that in 
 him Great Britain has another Nelson in the 
 making, cool, capable, resourceful, dauntless, in 
 whose hands the destiny of a mighty fleet is safe. 
 In the brilliant action of the British fleet off 
 Heligoland, when the Blucher was sunk, he proved 
 himself to be worthy of the promotion which 
 followed. 
 
 SIR ROSSLYN WEMYSS 
 
 When I saw a man in a naval uniform walking 
 across the courtyard at the Admiralty, a bystander 
 whispered, "There's Wemyss." A mysterious 
 Admiralty aureole surrounds the "First Sea Lord," 
 whoever he may be. Little known to the public, 
 Sir Rosslyn Wemyss (pronounced Weems) carries 
 out this role. In the hot sun, almost under the 
 shadow of the Admiralty walls, I gleaned from 
 Mr. Arthur Pollen, a naval expert writer, some 
 information of the First Sea Lord of 1918. 
 
 When the war clouds broke, Admiral W T emyss 
 was in the Mediterranean, and later was com- 
 mander of the squadron landing troops at Galli- 
 poli. He was born in Wemyss Castle at Fife in 
 1864, and entered the Navy in 1877. He has a 
 list of titles that run up as rapidly as the treads
 
 192 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 of stairs. He speaks French fluently, and this 
 accounts for his success in co-operating with the 
 French and Italian fleets. The rapidity with which 
 he had effected an efficient organization is already 
 a glowing part of the records of the Admiralty. 
 
 He first served as Second Sea Lord, having direc- 
 tion of the strategetical work. The younger ele- 
 ment in the navy centered their hopes on "Rosy" 
 Wemyss, as his friends call his, and Sir Eric Geddes 
 cast aside the veil of mystery and naval profes- 
 sionalism and settled upon the silent Wemyss while 
 retaining innate respect of the British toward the 
 traditions of the Admiralty. The purpose was to 
 convert sound ideas into practical and effective 
 action. 
 
 In temperament, Admiral Wemyss resembles 
 General Grant — a silent organizer. Fortunately he 
 was never much about the Admiralty office in 
 times of peace, and is not harassed by precedents, 
 but moves swiftly forward as war necessities 
 appear. He studies his problems in the light of 
 eternal Noio, and is thoroughly informed on what 
 Germans have been doing to strengthen their 
 navy, perhaps adding twenty-five per cent from 
 the Russian fleet. 
 
 Is it to be wondered, after glimpsing some of 
 these personalities, that I fell under the spell of
 
 Copyright, 
 Harris &■ 
 Ewing 
 
 HON. NEWTON D. BAKER, Secretary of War, U. S. A. 
 
 ' 'opyright, 
 Harris & 
 
 liirintj 
 
 HON'. JOSEPHUS DANIELS, Secretary of Navy, U.S.A.
 
 LORD LEVERHULME 
 
 The creator of Port Sunlight, England
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 193 
 
 the "Admiralty," or honored and respected an 
 envelope or passport marked with its magic seal? 
 The civic "First Lord," the naval "First Sea Lord," 
 and the "Commander of the Grand Fleet" are 
 the high places in the Admiralty. But it is the 
 British people, in their unswerving loyalty and 
 support, which constitute the Admiralty, and it is 
 to them the world owes its debt for a fleet which 
 has rendered unmeasured service to civilization 
 in this war.
 
 XIX 
 
 A VISIT TO THE GRAND FLEET 
 
 THE Admiralty!" That word is held in awe 
 by the English people, and as an institution 
 it represents Britain's supreme might on 
 the seas. As I went down Trafalgar Square, 
 where the statue of Nelson seemed to point the 
 way, I unconsciously began whistling the refrain 
 in Pinafore: "I Am the Monarch of the Seas," 
 which was soon to lose all its flippant satire, and 
 become portentous with meaning. 
 
 Selecting one of the many entrances, I passed 
 the grim walls of Whitehall, vibrant with memory. 
 Crossing an old cobbled courtyard and entering an 
 ancient building, I found myself confronted with 
 the authority of the Admiralty. A document 
 giving my name, where I slept last, the date of my 
 birth and the complete details of the purpose of 
 my visit, was signed and recorded. My card was 
 sent flying up the starboard stairway. Through 
 a dark corridor, lined with large iron pipes showing 
 
 (194)
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 195 
 
 how the old headquarters had been made com- 
 fortable by the installation of a heating apparatus 
 since the days of Nelson, I made my way. 
 
 In Room 62 my papers were censored and in 
 Room 60 directly opposite was Sir Douglas 
 Brownrigg, Chief Censor. He looked at me over 
 his glasses and I knew from his manner that he 
 had received a message from Admiral Sims and 
 expected me. I noticed in passing Room 60 a 
 hospitable placard written with a blue pencil 
 which said: "Walk in, don't knock." It was so 
 cordial that off came my hat. Across the hall on 
 door 62 was another notice which smacked of the 
 severity of the Admiralty. It read: "Knock 
 before you enter and take off your hat." 
 
 Sir Douglas Brownrigg is responsible for what 
 passes to the public. His brisk manner suggested 
 the newspaper worker, for such he was in the early 
 days. Conferences were going on with naval 
 and army officers, together with civilians, all 
 seeking the magic stamp "Admiralty." While I 
 was there, word was received of the blocking of 
 the channel at Zeebrugge, by the sinking of the 
 Vindictive. This report on a slip of pink copy 
 paper was turned over to me, where in the terse 
 language of the war records was related the 
 simple details of the undertaking, together with the
 
 196 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 account of the death of Commander Goodsall and 
 his brave men, who had given their lives volun- 
 tarily to stop the maw of the murderous submarine. 
 This act of confidence has won other millions of 
 enthusiasts for the Admiralty. 
 
 My papers having been properly inspected, I 
 stood before Sir Douglas while more pale purple 
 was put on my passport. I, too, was now a part 
 of the Admiralty. 
 
 At the injunction of Admiral Sims, I placed 
 myself entirely in their hands. "Proceed to King 
 Cross Station Sunday night at 9:45 and await 
 messenger," the order read. I went a-top a bus, 
 having failed to kidnap a taxi. Circling around 
 Hyde Park and other areas that are on the map, 
 but still unknown to me, Kings Cross Station 
 hove in sight. I had evidently missed the King's 
 messenger, for I was late, so I proceeded to the 
 train designated. 
 
 The compartments were "full up" a half hour 
 before starting time, so I dashed up and down the 
 platform trying to find a landing and the King's 
 messenger at the same time. When the little 
 "toot, toot" was heard and the train almost 
 silently started to glide away, I decided quickly on 
 a compartment in the rear where five middies 
 were bidding a fond farewell to some lasses. A
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 197 
 
 soft remark, by one of the girls who, with arched 
 eyebrows, asked, "Are you not full up?" was 
 meant for me. "But what boot it?" I said to myself 
 with brave classic phrase — "I must get aboard." 
 Intent on their farewell I slipped in and took a 
 seat marked for them and where the five middies 
 had already planted their boxes and luggage. 
 We looked at each other — an eye to eye "just- 
 get-acquainted-or-quit" challenge. 
 
 From small suitcases the middies proceeded to 
 bring out their luncheon. Consternation reigned 
 when it was discovered they had no cigarettes. 
 Here is where the incense and proffer of gold- 
 tipped cigarettes cemented friendships. They 
 offered me in return beef sandwiches and, I 
 thought, "Well, here is one meat coupon saved 
 anyhow." 
 
 A King's messenger was discovered in the 
 next compartment by the middies. Alone in his 
 solitary authority I was tempted to knock — but 
 I remembered the Admiralty sign. If you want 
 gorgeous gayety, spend the night with middies 
 returning from leave. Rollicking stories of their 
 experiences aboard the good ship Indomitable 
 were interrupted when the whistle screeched an- 
 nouncement of our entrance into the ancient town 
 of York. It was now 2 a. m. The blast of the
 
 198 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 whistle was loud enough to wake the Archbishop 
 of York, and the boys explained "here is where 
 we meet the Duchess." They piled out on the 
 platform and found the canteen for soldiers and 
 sailors, but no one in civilian clothes could have 
 even so much as a drop of tea. The Duchess was 
 obdurate and it looked as though I must go hungry, 
 but the middy boys motioned me to retire to the 
 carriage where they brought me a dish of tea and 
 brown war biscuit. As ginger ale and seltzer 
 bottles were procured, the hazing spirit possessed 
 the middies. The open window of the compart- 
 ment of the King's messenger was too tempting. 
 The spray brought a gruff monologue from the 
 inside having to do with leaving windows open 
 when it rained. 
 
 "To sleep or not to sleep, that was the question." 
 The Duchess and her tea chariot were left behind. 
 One middy put his legs through the arm straps 
 of a seat and hung up. Two others went aloft 
 in the parcel rack and two more "took the deck," 
 lying side by side with heads in opposite direction 
 on the floor — one head projecting out into the cor- 
 ridor in order to make the guard careful when he 
 passed through. Then they put me to bed. At 
 4 a. m. the train whirled into Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
 and another "lady-in-waiting" with refreshments
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 199 
 
 was sighted. The women of England are doing 
 splendid work day and night for soldiers and 
 sailors. At every railway junction where troops 
 stop, there are women with tea and cakes. Some 
 pieces of the bread, the middies remarked, would 
 make good paving blocks. 
 
 In the early morning we passed the mammoth 
 shipbuilding plant at Newcastle. The airdrome 
 near Edinburgh was also sighted near dawn and 
 when the towers of Holyrood Castle appeared, I 
 knew we were in the land of Sir Walter Scott, for 
 it was Waverly Station. A Scotch breakfast, oat- 
 meal, of course, was provided, but there was no 
 sugar, no cream. "Try a wee bit more of salt 
 and you'll na miss it," said the Scotch waitress 
 sympathetically. 
 
 On the bulletin board at North British Hotel my 
 name was posted. The Admiralty had evidently 
 shadowed me. The telegram which was handed 
 me was opened with misgivings that I possibly 
 might be recalled. The message read: "Proceed 
 to Waverly Station at 10:15, where an American 
 officer will meet you." I remembered Admiral 
 Sims' injunction and obeyed. 
 
 In the Scotch mist of the morning, I drove out 
 to call on some members of the Rotary, who had 
 arranged a dinner at the Conservative Club that
 
 200 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 night. Then I drove to Morningside Circle to 
 see the sister of my friend, Mr. Andrew Adie of 
 Boston, who had sailed from here as a young man 
 many years ago to win fame and fortune in the 
 new world. He had achieved both and became 
 one of the patriotic American leaders, doing much 
 for the great cause. The Braid hills, the country 
 of Robert Louis Stevenson, never looked more 
 beautiful than in the morning mist, regal in the 
 glory of the purple heather. 
 
 I rang the bell. There was no response. The 
 awning was drawn over the door. Later I learned 
 that the sister at that moment was out under the 
 mournful trees, burying her son, who, wounded in 
 France, had come home to be cared for by the 
 sacred hands of motherhood. Here I was in heart 
 touch with the houses of mourning which dotted 
 the fair land of Robert Burns. True to the tradi- 
 tions of Robert Bruce, Scotish bravery ever re- 
 mains tried and true, and weighed in the balance 
 is not found wanting. 
 
 On past the Church of John Knox, through 
 Princess Street and the statue of Sir Walter Scott. 
 What a change from the old tourist days to the 
 present. For if any people have felt the war 
 seriously and worked effectively, they come from 
 this, the land of Sir Douglas Haig.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 201 
 
 Across the fertile fields of Scotland, the train 
 glided smoothly on. One does not wonder that 
 the Scotchman loves his heather-covered land. 
 The verdure is matchless. Alighting at Dalmery 
 I was met by an American naval officer who 
 escorted me down the long hill to Queen's Ferry. 
 Overhead were the sweeping arches of the great 
 Tay Bridge. Hydroplanes were swooping down. 
 Everything else harked back to the past, even the 
 old stones of the quay were mossed with the 
 tides of centuries. Here it was that Margaret, 
 patron saint of Scotland, used to cross with the 
 King when he went to war. 
 
 Now we are off for the Grand Fleet! Was it 
 true that my dream was at last to be realized? 
 
 When so many glowing tributes have been 
 written and spoken concerning the glory of Great 
 Britain, France, America and Italy on the fields 
 of battle, when the press is full of the stirring 
 details of the achievements of the Allied armies on 
 the Flanders front, may it not be well to here ask 
 a question? Why is it that Germany has not 
 succeeded in grinding into the cratered dust the 
 forces of the Allied armies? Out there ahead of 
 me in a great battle line, seventy-six miles in 
 length, I saw the answer — and that answer is the 
 Grand Fleet. Even if the great push had reached
 
 202 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 the channel ports and Paris had been taken, 
 there would still be left the Grand Fleet, the iron 
 collar around the neck of Germany to strangle her 
 and drag her down to sure defeat. 
 
 Without the supreme fleet not a soldier of 
 Great Britain, France or America would be stand- 
 ing on the blood-soaked fields of Flanders today. 
 It is to this long line of sea forces with its stupend- 
 ous combination of gun power and speed that 
 credit must be given for the "containing" of the 
 German fleet at Kiel, and for freedom from enemy 
 raiders on the seas. 
 
 I was taken directly to Captain John Hughes 
 who knows how to command a battleship to the 
 last detail. How homelike it was to be on a 
 United States battleship, though in foreign waters! 
 At luncheon, I sat down for the first time since 
 leaving America to a real beefsteak, thick, juicy 
 and smothered in onions. Real butter and white 
 bread, too! A Philippine steward "stood by" and 
 encored with another steak. Just at that moment, 
 to me, at least, the steak, the appetite and the 
 Grand Fleet were of equal proportions. The New 
 York is the flagship of Admiral Rodman, the sixth 
 division of the Grand Fleet, merged in the Grand 
 Fleet, yet still having the same identity as when 
 flagship of the ninth division of the Atlantic Fleet.
 
 Cest la Guerre— It is the War 203 
 
 Admiral Rodman is one of the real sea dogs of 
 the Navy. He is thoroughly businesslike in the 
 management of the complicated details of his task. 
 
 Once inside his quarters, there was the atmos- 
 phere of home and business. Books, magazines 
 and papers were lying on the table, while there 
 were maps and more maps everywhere. The 
 Admiral has not left the ship except for a period 
 of four hours for more than six months. With a 
 twinkle in his eyes he said: "We're always ready, 
 and all are working together with a will." 
 
 Every British and American ship is primed to go 
 into action at the pressing of a button. In the 
 flash of an eye the engines can start, the battle 
 line formed at the order "proceed to sea." 
 
 The co-operation of British and American 
 fleets in the present war is without a parallel in 
 history. On the one hand the great British Navy 
 has given to the Americans its secret codes, ciphers, 
 and the naval tradition of centuries. On the other, 
 the American Navy has put all its resources at 
 the disposal of the British. Even at the dinner 
 table there was evidence of the new comradeship 
 of the seas. The two fleets have been co-ordi- 
 nated and consolidated as one. Admiral Sims in 
 inaugurating this policy of offering our navy 
 unreservedly to the British fleet forecasted a new
 
 204 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 world policy after the war. All national, racial 
 and traditional pride is laid aside in the one 
 great purpose of winning the war. 
 
 Though there Were fifteen hundred men aboard 
 the battleship New York, never in all these 
 months, notwithstanding the limited area of their 
 movements, was there a dull moment. 
 
 The ship was a miniature city afloat. The 
 machine and repair shops constituted an industrial 
 section. Here activities were keyed to war pitch. 
 Even the corner grocery was there, reminding me 
 of "Beany Brown's emporium" with its familiar 
 odors, of edibles, compassed only by the table of 
 contents in a Sears-Roebuck catalog. Though 
 all essentials are amply provided for in the mess, 
 the habit of shopping and indulging individual 
 taste is irresistible. It affords a change, and 
 gathers change. 
 
 And here was the drug store, the bakery, the 
 cobbler shop, even the barber shop with seven 
 chairs shooting out perfumed customers, with the 
 regularity of the clock-tick. 
 
 The residential section consisted of hammocks, 
 stowed away like folding beds, snug sleeping 
 apartments. The officers' quarters were the 
 "houses on the terrace." Along the gangways 
 were sailor lads from every state and territory in
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 205 
 
 the Union. They were either chatting, studying, 
 reading, or, yes, mothers, sprawled at full length 
 on the deck with all the luxurious abandon of 
 care-free boys on the green sward of a playground. 
 And, yes, fathers; some were making ready for a 
 real frolic ashore such as you enjoyed in your day. 
 
 Strangely enough, sooner or later, in the minor 
 exigencies of ship-life, every man finds, in ad- 
 dition to his regular duties, opportunity to exer- 
 cise the peculiar knack with which he is gifted. If 
 any one of the five pianolas, or numerous grapho- 
 phones, which are going most of the time, remind- 
 ing one of a Coney Island colony, is out of order, 
 there is always the jack-of -all-trades to keep the 
 show moving. 
 
 It was field day when I was aboard. That means 
 cleaning day. Dirt was mercilessly pursued in 
 every nook and cranny. Scrub and paint brushes 
 flourished. From hold to topmast, she was a 
 floating "spotless town." Ah! but the guns, they 
 shone like polished mirrors. Gunners were patting 
 them affectionately, and in their faces I could 
 read the one all-absorbing wish: "If I only had 
 a chance!" God pity the German fleet if they do! 
 
 A British Admiral dropped in to pay his respects. 
 After his return, in a note he paid this tribute 
 to the battleship New York: "May I express
 
 206 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 my immense admiration for the condition of your 
 ship. I never saw anything to touch her in all my 
 twenty -five years at sea. She is a picture." 
 
 Shore leave means a round of the "ancient and 
 honorable game" of golf in its native heath. Ad- 
 miral and seaman alike chase the pill. But the 
 intricate game is a bit too slow for the average 
 seaman, and the national pastime of baseball 
 threatens even the traditional sport of the Scots. 
 It is more strenuous and makes swifter diversion 
 with the brief moments of shore leave. 
 
 Dinner was a memorable moment. The Admiral, 
 at the head of the table, surrounded by his staff 
 of both British and American officers, was like a 
 father at home talking with his boys. The doings 
 of the day were gone over, especially the scouting 
 operations of the airplanes in the North Sea. One 
 thought is always uppermost — the moment! What 
 if the "moment" to get under way should come 
 while I was aboard? No such luck! I arose from 
 that table with a new sense of the perfected plans 
 of the Admiralty and Admiral Sims. 
 
 Just at this time a sheaf of "wireless" was 
 brought in and I had opportunity to see the 
 cryptic vernacular of an intercepted message with 
 its flavor of mystery, equal to a stirring chapter 
 in a detective story. It read:
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 207 
 
 "Will arrive within gunshot at 1,100; request 
 permission to enter harbour. 0810." 
 
 The wording indicated an English operator for 
 the letter U appeared in harbor. The variance 
 in spelling will be another brigading operation in 
 the dictionaries. 
 
 As I left ship for launch, I could not resist 
 saluting in unison with the officers, as the sailors 
 stood at attention. This is permissible for a 
 civilian, providing it is accompanied with the 
 familiar "hello" or other vocal salutation. 
 
 In the gathering twilight, the Admiral's launch 
 began its bobbing course over the choppy sea. 
 I stood astern, with coat tails flying, waving fare- 
 well to the good ship and its men. Our way shaped 
 through the lanes of the Grand Fleet. In the 
 distance was the great Tay Bridge. As in a pro- 
 scenium box, I looked out on the greatest naval 
 scene in history. A ship is always a picture, 
 whether square-rigged frigate or modern dread- 
 naught. What would Nelson and Paul Jones have 
 thought of this Armada? The combined naval 
 achievements of all the history of two great 
 nations were here united in a common cause. 
 There was the Queen Elizabeth, flagship of Admiral 
 Beatty, there also, the Lion, which had carried 
 his flag into the battle of Jutland. There were
 
 208 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 the hush ships looking all the more mysterious 
 in the gathering darkness. The dark hulks of 
 an endless line were silhouetted against the red 
 horizon. 
 
 Long after the curtain of the night shut out the 
 scene, was the reassurance that here was repre- 
 sented, not only the bulwark of defense which had 
 safeguarded the past, but carried the prophecy 
 of a victorious future.
 
 HON. W. G. SHARPE 
 
 American Ambassador to France
 
 Copyright by Paul Thompson 
 
 HON. WALTER HINES PAGE 
 
 American Ambassador to the Court of St. James
 
 XX 
 
 WITH THE AMERICAN DESTROYERS 
 THE DOOM OF THE SUBMARINES 
 
 OUEENSTOWN is strangely linked with 
 the memories of the tragedy of the Lusi- 
 tania. In the mirrored waters I seemed to 
 see the forms of little children and helpless women, 
 together with the mangled shapes of men — 
 civilians and sailors alike — as they tossed on the 
 unresting wave. How appropriate that here, in 
 this cemetery of the sea, a savior of hope should 
 be born — prophetic of the day when the race shall 
 be saved from an assassin foe. No wonder I 
 recalled the scene, for some of my friends were 
 there — in their unfathomed graves. 
 
 The doors of Queenstown are unlocked only 
 by an Admiralty pass. Here the destroyer flo- 
 tillas and depth bombs have come to sound the 
 death knell of the submarine. At Hollyhead 
 Wharf, it was necessary to secure the stamp of 
 the alien officer. Amid yawns and growls were 
 throngs waiting hours after midnight for the 
 
 (209)
 
 210 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 "Irish Mail." Once at sea there was a rush 
 for the dining saloon where ham and meats 
 could be secured. War rations did not prevail 
 in Ireland. Regulations were as unpopular as 
 conscription. 
 
 The swift little steamer gayly zig-zagged over 
 the Irish Sea that night, and stretched out on 
 seats and bunks were the passengers in blissful 
 forgetfulness of sleep. The early morning found 
 us at Kingston — the harbor of Dublin. There 
 was a real emerald hue to the Irish landscape that 
 morning and little evidence of war. Some young 
 lads appeared wearing defiant badges inscribed 
 "No Conscription." Dublin was seething with 
 Sinn Feiners' agitation. Some of the leaders had 
 been arrested the night previous, charged with 
 participating in German plots. 
 
 Lord French's proclamation to win the dis- 
 senting Irish to the Allies' cause was the headline 
 in the papers and the talk of every one that 
 morning. 
 
 The long journey from Dublin to Queenstown 
 gave me time to observe travelers in Ireland. 
 The trains move slowly, irregularly, and deliber- 
 ately. Nearly everyone I talked with spoke of 
 some friend in America, and hours whiled away 
 explaining how it was I lived in Boston and didn't
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 211 
 
 chance to know "the boy" or "friend" living in 
 cities a thousand miles away. 
 
 The yellow furze hedges were never more 
 glorious than on this beautiful May day, outlining 
 as they did, the tiny triangular farms. Soldiers 
 in khaki were given tea at Limerick Junction. 
 Some of them from far-off Australia, New Zealand, 
 and South Africa, were on leave to visit relatives, 
 many of whom they had never seen. Cork was 
 thriving with war activities. The long list of 
 my friends in America who hailed from Cork 
 passed in review, and strangely enough my naval 
 friend bobbed up. Queenstown is only a few 
 miles down the River Lee, and is counted the 
 jumping-off place. 
 
 The harbor was dotted with destroyers, moored 
 in groups of four to a buoy, like dogs on a leash. 
 At the Naval Wharf was the welcome sight of 
 American sailors. Captain Pringle was aboard 
 the Melville, one of two which serve as "mother 
 ships" for the destroyer flotilla. He is the chief 
 of staff of Admiral Sims' destroyer flotilla, and in 
 command. Here again was an exemplification of 
 the cordial co-ordination of American and British 
 naval officers and men. The supply ships are 
 great floating machine shops, and are ready for 
 any emergency. The first story told me was of
 
 212 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 two destroyers which had met accident. One 
 had the stern blown off by a depth bomb, while 
 the other had its bow demolished in a collision. 
 The two vessels were towed in. The conserved 
 stern of one was joined to the bow of the other. 
 The names were hyphenated and by matrimonic 
 machinery the twain were one henceforth. 
 
 A replica in miniature of the torpedo station at 
 Newport has been erected. Lieutenant Moses of 
 Newport is here in person and in charge. Shark- 
 like torpedoes are tested under hydraulic pressure, 
 each one costing $7,000 apiece. "Expensive 
 ammunition," I remarked. "Yes," said a sailor, 
 "but it counts when opportunity offers." 
 
 Commander Carpenter of the Fanning, who 
 made the capture of a submarine, taught me the 
 nautical step, and I was able to trip up the gang- 
 way lightly, this time, without stumbling. Wire- 
 less naval dispatches came in thick and fast. One 
 of these reports brought the news of a certain ship 
 never known to make over nine knots. "Chased 
 by a submarine," it read, "making eleven knots." 
 
 "Nothing like a submarine to speed 'em up," 
 said the captain. 
 
 Ashore and everywhere the quiver of the chase 
 animates the sailors. They were all eager to go 
 to sea and have their chance at the subs. It
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 213 
 
 mattered not whether they were under a British 
 or American commander. Their one desire was to 
 get 'em. Destroyers returning from convoy duty 
 come alongside the supply ships for repairs and 
 supplies, and are off in a twinkling. The Broad- 
 way base for the destroyers are the supply ships 
 Dixie and Melville, where men work and bands 
 play. The cabins are business offices, with a big 
 B. The desks of the yeomen stenographers and 
 clerks are all in ship-shape, many working long after 
 hours, if necessary, to get a ship off. They never 
 know when a rush of work is coming, and supplies 
 are always ready. It would have done Admiral 
 McGowan's heart good to have heard the salvos 
 of praise from the sailors when the transports 
 arrive. They pay tribute to the efficiency of the 
 Bureau of Supplies and Accounts, "Sanda Court," 
 at Washington. 
 
 The destroyers are always busy, steaming from 
 five to seven thousand miles a month, and being 
 sometimes twenty-one days at sea, never daunted 
 by wind or weather. There is a certain longitude 
 and latitude where the convoys going out are 
 taken and the convoys coming in are met. Officers 
 insist that "a monument should be erected at 
 this fixed spot in the motionless sea" after the 
 war.
 
 214 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 The destroyers, which were an evolution from 
 the torpedo boat, have already many scalps 
 dangling from their sides. These clipper-like crafts 
 remind one of greyhounds ever ready for the chase. 
 
 How can a landsman best describe his feelings 
 on board a destroyer at sea? He hangs on with 
 both arms, and those who have boasted of never 
 knowing the ills of seasickness are ruthlessly 
 floored. It was planned for me to take a cruise 
 of four days. The spectacle of seeing myself 
 growing green in the mirror of the deep, and the 
 experience of salt water splashed into my soup, 
 with ocean spray for pepper and salt on my food, 
 was not a palatable prospect. 
 
 Captain McCandless of the Caldwell was con- 
 siderate when I proved that at least I had one 
 sea-leg. These crafts are a long, narrow shell of 
 thin steel, exceeding the speed of an ocean liner 
 and equalling that of an automobile. Everything 
 is stowed away snugly, every inch of space being 
 utilized. 
 
 The captain and crew never take off their clothes 
 during a cruise. There is very little sleep aboard. 
 The eagle eyes of the destroyers, always hunting 
 and watching, are the protection of the convoys. 
 The peculiar excitement on board appeals to 
 dauntless American sailors keen for adventure.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 215 
 
 As each new ship is completed in the United 
 States, a crew of twenty-five officers and men 
 who have had experience at the Queenstown base, 
 are detailed to bring the new ship over. The 
 ambition of young naval officers is to command a 
 destroyer and get just one chance at a submarine. 
 The depth bombs are carried on the stern of a 
 destroyer. They look like humble and plebeian 
 galvanized ash cans. They are timed in much the 
 same fashion as the old teeter board works. Once 
 off, the depth bomb knows neither friend nor foe. 
 The ship must keep moving and get away before 
 it explodes or the stern is endangered. On the aft 
 deck of the boat are howitzer guns, which look as 
 harmless as a joint of sewer pipe, though capable 
 of throwing depth bombs one hundred and twenty 
 feet to port or starboard. The explosive sub- 
 stance is TNT. The explosion of the bomb is 
 caused by the pressure of water at a certain depth. 
 When one of these bombs explode, stones and sea 
 mud from the bottom of the channel are brought 
 up from a depth of two hundred feet and shot into 
 the air with water like a geyser. This gives an 
 idea of the power of these innocent-looking cans. 
 The shock from one of these explosions is felt by 
 ocean liners a half mile distant, causing them to 
 shiver from bow to stern. The concussion has the
 
 216 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 intensified sound of boys crashing two stones 
 together under water. 
 
 In the fox hunt for submarines, two destroyers 
 go out abreast and begin spiral maneuvers, one 
 going to the right and the other to the left, each 
 dropping depth bombs, making it impossible for 
 a submarine to live in the patterned area covered. 
 Submarines must keep going in deep water. They 
 cannot stop while submerged unless the water is 
 shallow, and then they lie on the bottom. 
 
 It is something of a tussle for a stout man to go 
 through the hatchway of a submarine, like the 
 "lemon squeezer" at Lost River in the White 
 Mountains. When submarines were constructed, 
 two-hundred-pounders were not considered. Climb- 
 ing down the pole with spiral steps, I found that 
 my legs were rather too thick to twine themselves 
 gracefully. I would make a poor modern edition 
 of Jules Verne's "Twenty Thousand Leagues under 
 the Sea." 
 
 The machinery of a submarine is most intricate. 
 Here were the tubes where the torpedoes were 
 projected; there the listening devices, while a 
 myriad of levers and countless wheels were every- 
 where. Never shall I forget the uncanny feeling 
 when, for the first time, I looked into the rubber- 
 lined tube and realized it was a periscope. It
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 217 
 
 was like looking into the hood of a reflex camera. 
 Ships at a distance, men on the ships, expressions 
 on their faces, even to the bat of an eyelash, were 
 clearly outlined. The periscope moves up and 
 down and around like the All-Seeing Eye. 
 
 The submarine is now being used in the chase 
 against the submarine on the Irish coast. Greatest 
 caution must be exercised to distinguish British, 
 American and German submarines, for all are 
 working in the same zone. A system of signals 
 has been devised which enables friendly submarines 
 to detect not only each other, but to communicate 
 with the destroyers on the surface of the sea. 
 
 At the Naval Men's Club at Queenstown, the 
 first establishment of its kind, British and American 
 officers and sailors fraternize and enjoy hours of 
 leave together. The friendly odor of American 
 ham and eggs blends with British mutton. 
 
 This clubhouse is located on the sea wall and 
 opens hospitable doors for all sailors on shore 
 leave and meets the need for rest and entertain- 
 ment. Generous-hearted Americans in London 
 provided this club, which now has an international 
 fame. An old gymnasium has been converted into 
 an Assembly Hall where every night moving pic- 
 tures and other entertainments are furnished. 
 
 It was Saturday evening when I was there.
 
 218 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 The hall was filled to overflowing, and the orchestra 
 from the Melville was making the occasion merry 
 with ragtime and patriotic airs. A vaudeville 
 performance was in process, consisting of stunts 
 by seamen who were singers, elocutionists, lariat- 
 throwers, monologists, and band soloists. These 
 seemed equal to any emergency. Artists and 
 audience created a free-for-all atmosphere. 
 
 While enjoying a jolly evening, intermission 
 approached. My joy came to a sudden end! 
 Captain Pringle commanded me to "proceed to 
 the stage" and make a speech. A scene showing 
 the skyline of New York was flashed before the 
 footlights, bringing a volley of applause from the 
 boys, who broke out in the song "Goodbye, 
 Broadway . ' ' The words of other songs were thrown 
 on the screen and a regular songfest started. 
 
 The faces of the sailors in that auditorium would 
 have made a reassuring picture to the fathers 
 and mothers at home. The boys were happy, 
 self-reliant and manly. 
 
 When my spiel was ended and they tried to go 
 on with the show, the cheering did not cease. All 
 over the hall there was a chorus, "To hell with 
 the show, get the guy going again." They did 
 not know who I was, but they knew I was some- 
 body from home and who had seen and known
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 219 
 
 the boys in khaki. When tribute was paid to the 
 American soldiers of the army in France and to 
 Mother Brittania calling the lusty sons of the 
 West, there was a shout that shook the rafters. 
 
 It was in a jaunting car that Captain Pringle 
 took me to pay respects to Admiral Bay ley at the 
 headquarters on the hill, which commanded a 
 beautiful outlook of the harbor. Why a jaunting 
 car was ever made, I do not know! You sit side- 
 wise and just jolt. Why the little horse did not 
 go up in the air when I listed to the left I cannot 
 understand, but he seemed to be an expert in 
 balancing things. Ireland would not be Ireland 
 without its jaunting car and its joviality. 
 
 As I entered headquarters, Admiral Bayley, 
 seated at his desk and smoking his pipe, was 
 issuing orders, directing the movement of ships 
 far at sea. When he had finished, he showed me 
 an Englishman's love for his garden. Even while 
 engaged in this diversion, dispatches were still 
 coming to him. His orders, issued in a brusque 
 manner, were simple and direct, not capable of 
 misunderstanding, for Admiral Bayley is a disci- 
 plinarian. American sailors have learned to love 
 him, for he is as just as he is severe. 
 
 Wherever you stop overnight, you must report 
 to the police when you go in and when you go out.
 
 220 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 Every hotel register gives an account of those 
 enrolled, and the police records and hotel registers 
 must correspond. Down the hill is the constable's 
 office, and to it I must go if I wanted to leave. 
 The street is called "Pack of Cards," the houses 
 on one side looking like an abandoned poker deck. 
 The constable's office was in a barn, one flight up, 
 and adorned with ancient pistols, to reach which 
 you had to go through the barn where you were 
 expected to show the passport picture album 
 of yourself. 
 
 "Mornin' to you. You're a handsomer man than 
 the last rogue we had," he said in a rich Irish 
 brogue. 
 
 At the hotel, before leaving, the little colleen 
 with black hair and blue eyes presented me with 
 some post cards. When I offered money she 
 refused, saying: 
 
 "Just in memory of a boy I know over there." 
 
 She cautioned me not to send any showing 
 Queenstown Harbor, "for the Admiralty, you 
 know," she whispered, "wouldn't allow it," mean- 
 ing, of course, they were under the censor's ban. 
 When in Ireland I thought of my many good Irish 
 friends overseas and on a rolling launch I wrote 
 some of them a postcard, giving their family 
 genealogy insofar as I could fancy it from the
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 221 
 
 signs over the shops. In obtaining this information 
 I found my own tongue served me well in Ireland. 
 
 American sailors exercise a proper diplomatic 
 restraint and show a becoming modesty in talking 
 about the things our country is doing in the war. 
 In Queenstown civic officials and civilians told 
 me they had never seen any action on the part 
 of an American sailor which was not becoming 
 a gentleman and true sailor. 
 
 Driving over the hills from Cork, I accepted 
 the invitation of the American naval officers to 
 go with them to kiss the Blarney Stone. In a 
 jaunting car, two on a side, the driver "bechune" 
 times cracking his whip and regaling us with tra- 
 ditions, we arrived at ancient Cork. In the dis- 
 tance and beyond the winding River Lee loomed 
 the ruined towers of Blarney Castle. 
 
 As we entered the charmed precincts, crossing 
 a clear running brook, a crippled soldier took the 
 shilling of admittance. Under the trees of the 
 park the young people of Blarney were indulging 
 in a real Irish dance. Pipers were playing the 
 tune and the dancers whirled round and round, 
 hopping as in a schottische, the Limerick waltz. 
 On we passed to the castle, the refrain "Oh, The 
 Days of the Kerry Dance" singing itself in my 
 mind. Here we climbed the granite stairway, not
 
 222 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 only worn smooth by thousands of feet, but the 
 sides worn by the hands of those groping their 
 way up to the old tower. 
 
 In an old baronial dining hall a giant tree was 
 growing. Reaching the parapet of the castle, the 
 naval officers insisted that I follow them in kissing 
 the Blarney Stone. What wonder that several 
 coquettish lasses paused to see the fat American 
 tipped upside down and held by his legs while 
 stretched out over the precipice of the wall as he 
 kissed the Blarney Stone. Apprehensively look- 
 ing down several hundred feet below, I wondered 
 if they would hold me fast, but I gave the Blarney 
 Stone a rousing smack. 
 
 With the Blarney kiss still moist on my lips, 
 I found that complimentary phrases dripped like 
 honey dew from my lips. 
 
 Coming down from Blarney Castle, we stopped 
 the jaunting car to look at the crevices, now over- 
 grown with the moss and vegetation of centuries. 
 The lads and lassies had deserted the shadow of 
 the trees for the luxury of the baronial hall, and 
 there again it was "on with the dance." As I 
 stood watching them, one of the young naval 
 officers approached, having in his eyes a look which 
 indicated that he had made a discovery. "You 
 gay deceiver," he said, pointing a finger at me,
 
 Cest la Guerre— It is the War 2Z3 
 
 "you have been here before. We know now why 
 you love to talk, and since you have kissed the 
 Blarney Stone again, come — make us a speech." 
 
 Then from the balustrade, in a deep voice, he 
 called to the people, saying: "Ladies and gentle- 
 men, we have in our midst a distinguished orator 
 from the United States of America." 
 
 The pipers ceased playing and the dancers 
 became attentive. In their eyes was an appeal 
 I could not resist. I spoke to them in the old 
 banquet hall, giving a resume of our American 
 dances, the two-step, fox-trot, bunny hug, too 
 much mustard, kitchen sink and other dances 
 peculiar to American life. They laughed and 
 roared. 
 
 I could not leave them without a serious touch. 
 I told them that in the constellation of stars on 
 the service flags in the homes of America, the sons 
 of Erin were represented in the great fight for world 
 democracy. 
 
 On my return to Dublin I talked with some of 
 the leaders of the Sinn Fein, and also of the 
 Nationalists' party. I heard their story. As I 
 came away I could but feel that antipathy to 
 Britain had, for the moment, clouded their vision 
 as to the purpose of the Allies, and blinded them 
 even to the interests of Ireland, and in questioning
 
 224 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 the good faith and purpose of America in the war 
 might eventually strike at the root of sympathy 
 of one of her best friends. 
 
 Stowed away among the snoring soldiers in the 
 channel steamer that night, I lay half dreaming. 
 With the vision of Queenstown — that base of 
 humming activity — correlated and devoted to the 
 Allied cause — I could not conceive of the rest of 
 Ireland, especially with the spirit of Redmond's 
 son and the valorous Irish who had already fallen 
 in Flanders, hesitating to disregard all other 
 considerations in responding unreservedly to the 
 cause of free peoples.
 
 Copyright by Underwood & Underwood 
 
 HON. THOMAS NELSON PAGE 
 
 American Ambassador to Italy
 
 Hot Comforts for the Men in the Trenches 
 
 MISS GLADYS STOREY'S FUND 
 
 Fourth Year. Registered under the WAR CHARITIES ACT 
 
 Map showing the war area over which the Fund has extended comfort to hundreds 
 of thousands of troops since 1914, including Canadian, Australian, New Zealand and 
 Newfoundland contingents, and the French and Belgian soldiers in the trenches.
 
 XXI 
 
 LORD LEVERHULME AND THE 
 SIX-HOUR DAY 
 
 FOR years I had known Lord Leverhulme 
 through the medium of friendly corre- 
 spondence. Our letters had passed back 
 and forth between England and America. Ideas 
 on business and educational problems had been 
 exchanged, and yet we had never met. I dropped 
 into his office at 11 Haymarket, London, and found 
 the sort of person I expected to meet — a great 
 business leader of Great Britain. Lord Lever- 
 hulme is a rather small man, with pompadour, iron- 
 gray hair, keen gray eyes and an irresistible smile. 
 The query in both of our minds was, "Well, what 
 do you think of me?" It was answered as our eyes 
 met and the usual introductory phrases were 
 unnecessary. We began where our correspondence 
 left off. 
 
 He wears the same kind of white square derby 
 hat, such as he began buying as a young man from 
 the hatter of his birthplace, in Bolton. The bag 
 
 (22*)
 
 226 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 in which he carries his carefully-sorted letters has 
 been his traveling companion for forty years. 
 Handle after handle has been worn off, but the 
 portmanteau remains. 
 
 Five minutes' conversation with Lord Lever- 
 hulme covers a wide range of subjects. To him 
 the minutes of the day are made to count, whether 
 given to social or business engagements. That 
 afternoon he was to speak at Leighton House on 
 Holland Park Road, Kensington. 
 
 This fine old English mansion was the home and 
 studio of Lord Leighton. It remains as he left it. 
 Its vast art collection is preserved as a memorial 
 to the artist by The Leighton House Society, and 
 used for the promotion of art, music and literature. 
 
 Modestly ignoring his afternoon address, which 
 was the only feature of the occasion, Lord Lever- 
 hulme said: "I think you will at least find the 
 Leighton House interesting." 
 
 At Leighton House a cultured English audience 
 had assembled to hear Lord Leverhulme on 
 "Present-Day Ideals, Personal and National." A 
 delightful English custom was the aftermath, when 
 tea was served and a discussion followed which 
 would have graced the Victorian Age. It was a 
 touch of English life I had not seen, blending the 
 charm of the social and literary life of the old world.
 
 Cest la Guerre — It is the War %%7 
 
 Over the teacups I met Miss Gladys Storey, 
 who originated the fund to provide "Hot Com- 
 forts for the Men in the Trenches." These 
 "comforts" include Bovril, condensed soups and 
 other dainties not found in the regular rations. 
 The letters she has received from Field Marshal 
 Sir Douglas Haig, Lord French, General Sir Henry 
 Rawlinson and French commanders indicate the 
 value and appreciation of the work. Miss Storey 
 is a daughter of a famous artist, who was a mem- 
 ber of the Royal Academy. She was on the stage 
 prior to the war, but now gives her whole time to 
 this work. 
 
 On the following day an afternoon train took 
 us to Cheshire, where we motored to Thornton 
 Manor. The drive, through the ancient city of 
 Chester, and over roads once trod by the legions 
 of Caesar, was replete with interest. The quiet 
 dignity of English country life was in strange 
 contrast to the war-wrecked scenes of a few 
 days previous. I sensed the reason why every 
 Englishman has a vision of a country home. The 
 British Isles have become a veritable garden spot, 
 nursed by centuries of care-taking. Even in the 
 darkness I felt intuitively the presence of flowers 
 along the wayside. 
 
 The big open fireplace was sending out its
 
 228 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 cheery light as we sat and talked the evening 
 hours away. Then a bit of Lancashire cheese and 
 to bed, with sweet dreams in the Manor House. 
 
 In the morning, after a breakfast of shrimps, 
 bareheaded, but fully gloved — English custom — 
 we enjoyed a walk in the garden, still briskly dis- 
 cussing random subjects, ranging from ancient 
 philosophy or latest detail of war, to modern 
 methods of living. 
 
 One of Lord Leverhulme's hobbies is the hours 
 of labor. "I believe in only six hours' labor," he 
 said. "I am an advocate of a six-hour day. 
 Shorter hours of labor, running two shifts of six 
 and a half hours each, with a half hour for meals, 
 is the ideal working day. It will meet the one 
 great problem after the war. Decrease the hours 
 of labor, increase production and extend markets 
 — that is the business world's problem." 
 
 "That seems paradoxical," I ventured. 
 
 "Not at all," he responded. "By decreasing 
 the hours of labor you relieve fatigue of the 
 workers and can speed up machinery. Two shifts 
 in daylight, bringing twelve hours of production 
 without overtime, will increase production without 
 increased overhead expense. This increased pro- 
 duction naturally brings about an expansion of 
 markets."
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 229 
 
 There is keenness in Lord Leverhulme's logic. 
 As one of the great employers of labor in England, 
 his ideas carry weight. 
 
 We paused to view the vast stretch of green 
 running out to the Welsh Mountains, then on to 
 the River Dee and down to the sea. 
 
 "Six hours a day," he continued as we resumed 
 our walk, "would mean that young men and girls 
 could work in shops, offices and factories, and at 
 the same time continue their course of education. 
 It would do away with night schools. Education 
 would go hand in hand with work. It would not 
 induce idleness outside the six working hours; it 
 would give opportunity to grow and develop. It 
 would mean more time for military training and 
 drill. It would take away the dull gray monotony 
 of labor and do away with over-strain — the big 
 waster of efficiency." 
 
 "Are you limiting all labor to six hours a day?" 
 I ventured. 
 
 "Yes, six hours a day at employment, leaving 
 ten to twelve hours for education and recreation, 
 to change the trend of thought." 
 
 Not far away were the chimneys of Port Sun- 
 light, where, in 1886, Lord Leverhulme, then 
 William Hesketh Lever, began to carry out his 
 vision of ideal conditions for workmen. The
 
 230 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 library, auditorium, plant and the surroundings 
 indicate a crystallization of ideas and practical 
 plans, for Lord Leverhulme is first of all a builder. 
 He makes the waste places blossom with beauty 
 and productivity. It was my privilege here to 
 address three thousand girls at luncheon, and 
 never was there a brighter or more wide-awake 
 audience. It did my heart good just to talk to 
 these earnest, sincere English lasses, who have 
 been swept by the war into the tide of industry. 
 Their spirit was matchless. 
 
 At the meeting of the staff and managers of the 
 Port Sunlight Works, Lord Leverhulme presided. 
 I could understand then the reason for his busi- 
 ness success which stands out so conspicuously in 
 the annals of Britain's industrial development. 
 He thinks, feels and acts. Problems are as clear 
 before his vision as before a blaze of light. His 
 mind works with mathematical precision. One of 
 his employees told of his drawing offhand with a 
 lead pencil a diagram of land in almost exact pro- 
 portions, as subsequently proved by the surveyed 
 measurements. 
 
 Despite his high honors as member of the House 
 of Lords, member of Parliament and high sher- 
 iff of Lancaster, Lord Leverhulme remains an 
 exponent of intensified democracy. He enjoys
 
 Cest la Guerre — It is the War 231 
 
 everything he does, particularly his avocation. 
 Even his hobby for collecting furniture of different 
 periods, books and paintings, seems the utilization 
 of any slack rope in his daily activities. 
 
 He loves a joke or good story, and delights in the 
 American variety. He has traveled widely, and 
 his business experience has extended to all parts 
 of the world. He has a warm spot in his heart for 
 the United States, where he has large business 
 interests. It was while on a voyage to America in 
 1890 that he planned the "Port Sunlight" of today 
 and he came back with his plans consummated 
 to every detail. 
 
 As a leader in the industrial life of Great Britain, 
 Lord Leverhulme has fearlessly looked to the 
 future of capital and labor. "Following the war, 
 industry will be strained to meet the demand 
 for manufactured goods, and now is the time to 
 get ready for the inevitable adjustment that must 
 come with the demobilizing of large armies." 
 
 He has little patience with a nation that will 
 decry or underestimate its own natural advan- 
 tages, and he points out that a peace cabinet 
 composed of expert business men is as necessary 
 as a war cabinet. 
 
 Lord Leverhulme is an educational enthusiast. 
 
 "We must push education to the limit," said
 
 232 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 this sterling little man who had struggled for an 
 education. "We cannot depend on evening classes 
 and expect overworked and wearied brains to be 
 attracted to educational advantages." 
 
 Port Sunlight has been built up by making 
 employees co-partners. This gives a mutual inter- 
 est in the work and eliminates the benumbing 
 effect of a wage system. Lord Leverhulme does 
 not think any workman should be sentenced to 
 toil for wages without direct interest in profits 
 earned. 
 
 "And I have not much patience with the Ca' 
 Canny shirkers and slackers, either," said he. 
 "Piece work has been damned because some em- 
 ployers, after having ascertained the speed limits 
 of the efficient workmen, have cut down the piece 
 rates proportionately, contrary to the very system 
 on which an employer builds his business. I 
 believe in applying the good old rule — whatever 
 we put into business or life we can take out 
 and no more. The employer should apply the 
 same principles to his workers that he applies to 
 building up his own business." 
 
 "American trade unionism has disavowed the 
 co-partnership idea," I suggested. 
 
 "Naturally," he quickly returned, "it is due to 
 the fear that co-partnership might result in their
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 233 
 
 elimination. But they will see the advantage in 
 due time." 
 
 "I do not believe," he continued, "in the logic 
 of throwing the lion a small bit of meat to palliate 
 his appetite. He will eat the small piece and 
 attack the human sacrifice in the Coliseum as 
 well. Too little meat leaves the Christian martyr 
 in as much peril as before the lion is fed. 
 
 "Profits will vary in different institutions, and 
 it will mean some jobs will pay better than others. 
 It has always been so. Only this much is sure, 
 the lazy loafer, be he employer or employee, who 
 has not earned will not enjoy the fruits of profit. 
 
 "I do not believe in a pay envelope," said this 
 man, with startling surprise. "It is the most 
 unthrifty way of paying wages that could be de- 
 vised, as well as a great waste of time. To my 
 way of thinking, wages should be represented 
 merely by a credit to the employees' own account 
 at a bank of his selection. The effect of this would 
 be that he could draw from the bank from time to 
 time what was required for living expenses, and 
 would leave in the bank the surplus as savings from 
 week to week. The difference lies in carrying loose 
 cash in the pocket and trying to save it and not 
 having the money in hand when the temptation 
 comes for some little extravagance. Thrift is the
 
 234 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 natural corollary to increased wages, for the more 
 one accumulates, the deeper and more firmly 
 planted is the impulse to save." 
 
 Speaking of the industrial conditions of England, 
 he said: 
 
 "We never know what can be done until we do 
 it, for with five million men drawn for service of 
 navy and army of Great Britain, we still have been 
 able to keep pace with the enormous demands of 
 the hour. This is because the spirit of labor has 
 been appealed to. Back of it all is the patriotic 
 motive which only proves you have but to touch 
 the right chord in the human heart to meet with 
 some whole-hearted response." 
 
 At his London house, The Hill, at Hampstead 
 Heath, Lord Leverhulme exemplifies his love of 
 art with rare paintings and bric-a-brac collections 
 that would seem in themselves to involve a life 
 study. 
 
 Lord Leverhulme's career furnishes a note of 
 inspiration to thrill the heart of the English youth 
 ambitious to succeed. He was born in Bolton in 
 Lancashire sixty-seven years ago, educated at 
 the Bolton Church Institute, and was apprenticed 
 as a grocery boy at the age of sixteen. Here his 
 ambition to get on in the world was first mani- 
 ested. He made it his business to know every
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 235 
 
 customer personally and to serve him a little 
 better than he had been accustomed to. 
 
 Using brains and tireless industry, he mounted 
 steadily. His business success has been one of the 
 commercial romances of England. When the sand 
 dune peninsula of land opposite Liverpool, lying 
 between the Mersey and the River Dee, blossomed 
 from marshland into Port Sunlight, England saw a 
 new creation in its great industrial life. This 
 marvelous industrial city has been visited by many 
 of the world's most distinguished people — the 
 King and Queen of England, King Albert of 
 Belgium, and hosts of others. At Poet's Square in 
 Port Sunlight is a replica of Shakespeare's cottage 
 at Stratford-on-Avon. 
 
 As chairman of the Board of Lever Brothers, 
 Lord Leverhulme has laid his impress on world 
 trade. At home he is beloved by all his associates. 
 He served as high sheriff of Lancashire in 1917, 
 and later was elected to Parliament from Wirral, a 
 division of Cheshire. 
 
 He began life as William Hesketh Lever, was 
 knighted as Sir William Lever, and later was raised 
 to the peerage as first baron of Bolton-le-Morrs, 
 county Palatine of Lancashire. 
 
 An only son, Hon. William Hulme Lever, is 
 associated with him in the business. His father,
 
 236 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 appreciating the importance of early training in 
 public speaking, fitted the playroom of his boyhood 
 with a rostrum, and the young lad was taught daily 
 to think on his feet, and today he is a graceful 
 speaker and presiding officer, trained to carry on 
 the great work of Lord Leverhulme. 
 
 Lord Leverhulme's title is formed by combining 
 his own name with that of his wife, whose maiden 
 name was Hulme. A tender tribute to the one 
 who shared in the struggles of his early career and 
 whose death was the one great sorrow of his life. 
 
 His work in restoring Storoway Castle on the 
 Island of Lewis; in reforesting the historic lake 
 district where Wordsworth lived when he wrote 
 his ''Ode to Immortality"; his providing convales- 
 cent retreats for wounded soldiers — making his 
 own home and manor house a hospital — all this 
 indicates a great sympathetic heart acting with a 
 great business brain to live up to the family 
 motto, "I scorn to fear or change." 
 
 Our acquaintance continues as it began. The 
 letters of Lord Leverhulme are coming to me as 
 aforetime, bringing the joys of friendship, and giving 
 a higher understanding of a great soul imbued with 
 constructive ideals in inspiring others with the 
 glory of toil.
 
 XXII 
 
 AMERICAN AMBASSADORS IN WARRING 
 EUROPE 
 
 TRAVELERS abroad are more likely to meet 
 ambassadors and consuls in war than in peace 
 times. The word "American," as we use it, 
 sometimes annoys our Canadian and South Ameri- 
 can cousins, but we have been Americans from the 
 time of Benjamin Franklin's appearance in France. 
 Our use of the word is more traditional than 
 intentional. 
 
 Visiting embassies in the warring countries made 
 me more appreciative of our own State Depart- 
 ment and its extensive functions at home and 
 abroad. Responsibilities have multiplied and 
 there is an intensified efficiency to meet war con- 
 ditions. It is a welcome sight to a wayfaring 
 American to see the Stars and Stripes waving 
 over buildings in foreign lands, as familiarly as 
 in our own. For the first time in history, Old 
 Glory has floated from the Tower of London and 
 the House of Parliament. Not only on historic 
 
 (237)
 
 238 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 buildings in England, but in all the Allied countries 
 it has been unfurled. 
 
 The ambassadors have not only manifested a 
 high degree of statesmanship, but have carried 
 out in their leadership the spirit and purpose of 
 America. 
 
 When I was in Italy the popularity of President 
 Wilson was most apparent. All his messages and 
 every minute reference to the war were eagerly 
 read and fervently admired. His words were 
 accepted as the voice of America. The action of 
 the Italian government in making Woodrow Wilson 
 an adopted son of Italy on July 4th, 1918, reflected 
 his popular and growing favor. This action was 
 foreshadowed when, at a monster mass meeting 
 at the Coliseum Senator Marconi, the inventor 
 of the wireless, flashed over the seas the following 
 message : 
 
 "President Wilson, 
 
 "White House, Washington : 
 "The people of Rome unite today at the Coliseum 
 to celebrate the anniversary of the entrance into the 
 war of the United States. On this auspicious day is 
 accorded to me the honor of becoming the interpreter 
 of this message, transmitted through limitless space, 
 the sentiments of sincere friendship and close solidar- 
 ity that join the people of Italy with those of the
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 239 
 
 United States, and express to you our liveliest admir- 
 ation for your inspiring initiative and for those same 
 principles which made Rome, and renew our faith in 
 the triumph of right and civilization." 
 
 The placards announcing this meeting ran: "In 
 the presence of eternal Rome." It continued: 
 "History will record for the redeemed generations 
 to come the disinterested action of America. Keep 
 in your minds the sacred, powerful motives which 
 induced President Wilson to declare war for a 
 Society of Nations which will give to all the right 
 of free existence and impose upon all respect for 
 the liberty of others. Then come, citizens, to- 
 morrow with fervent spirits and grateful hearts 
 to the Coliseum ..." 
 
 Color was lent to the occasion by soldiers who 
 came from picked regiments from the fighting line 
 along the Piave. Children were there, many in 
 uniform — the little Garibaldians in red shirts; 
 green-hatted orphans of soldiers from the Red 
 Cross Home at Monte Porzio; women in nurses' 
 uniforms; distinguished men from Italy, Great 
 Britain, France and America, together with all 
 ranks of people from Rome. 
 
 Among American authors is a name familiar 
 in literary circles all over the world, and as Am- 
 bassador to Italy Thomas Nelson Page is adding
 
 240 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 to his illustrious career. The Italian people hold 
 him in peculiar respect and affection. Gold letters 
 over the door indicate the quarters of the Embassy. 
 Here the outer rooms were filled with Americans 
 having all sorts of problems and personal troubles. 
 These were the days of passports. The business 
 organization investigated the case of each one 
 thoroughly. The findings of Mr. Page were as 
 complete and carefully expressed as in a proof for 
 the press. 
 
 Long before I reached the Embassy, in the cafes, 
 I heard from the lips of the Italians warm praise for 
 the American Ambassador. He is more than a 
 representative of his government; he is a sort of 
 father confessor to all American strangers. His 
 office has the atmosphere of a study, papers and 
 documents being handled in a regular routine. 
 
 There was a wealth of Southern hospitality in his 
 greeting. His acquaintance with and knowledge of 
 the Italian leaders had fitted him for the work he 
 has accomplished in Italy. Not a detail of Italian 
 affairs on which he did not seem to be informed. 
 
 He speaks Italian fluently and has readily 
 adjusted himself to Italian ways. Thomas Nelson 
 Page closely resembles William Dean Howells, his 
 literary contemporary. He is thoroughly at home 
 in a discussion of the literature and art of Italy.
 
 Copyright, Harris & Ewing 
 
 KING ALBERT OF BELGIUM 
 
 This is the latest photograph of the Belgians' hero-king 
 
 17
 
 Copyright by Underwood & Underwood 
 
 HIS .MAJESTY, GEORGE V OF ENGLAND
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 241 
 
 At the Coliseum, where the American flag was 
 unfurled with the Italian flag, the Ambassador, 
 speaking for the American people, gave a thrilling 
 address. With the ancient ruins filled with the 
 great concourse of people, it was a scene not soon 
 to be forgotten. 
 
 As the ringing words of the Ambassador winged 
 their way through that crumbling structure, 
 speaking words of hope for the Italian people, it 
 was like the voice of prophecy for the future of 
 democracy spoken on the site of one of the most 
 ancient republics. 
 
 In war work activities, Ambassador Page and 
 his accomplished wife have been active leaders. 
 Mrs. Page is personally in charge of a workshop 
 where the prqfugi from Italy are given material 
 with which to make slippers, soles and all out of 
 pieces of cloth sewed together. Materials for 
 clothing and surgical dressings are also provided. 
 The workshop I visited is located on the top floor 
 of an old palace near the ancient four fountains 
 which, like Tennyson's "Brook," flow on forever. 
 The work has a very systematic handling. A care- 
 ful tabulation is kept each day of the articles made, 
 the cost, and where shipped. 
 
 They wished me to talk with the refugees, and 
 many were the pathetic stories I heard from the
 
 242 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 women now separated from their children and 
 hoping for the time when they might be reunited. 
 Their answers to my questions were given in 
 all the simplicity of the Italian language, and 
 in a most naive fashion. When I asked one 
 woman from Venice if she had any children, she 
 replied "Nearly." 
 
 In his soft Virginia drawl, the Ambassador 
 could not resist the impulse to tell a good negro 
 story now and then to illustrate a point. He had 
 been in close touch with all the Red Cross and other 
 activities in Italy; in fact, nearly all the American 
 Consuls hereabout feel that an hour of advice or a 
 visit to Thomas Nelson Page is an inspiration 
 which keys them up to the work in hand. 
 
 /"^LOSE back of the battle lines, the United 
 ^^^ States Embassy at Paris is a center of war 
 activities. Scarcely an American in Paris these 
 days who does not look on the kind and smiling 
 face of Ambassador W. G. Sharpe. He is a plump, 
 good-natured business man with a stubby mus- 
 tache, four-in-hand tie, and wears a business cuta- 
 way suit. He seems to be everywhere and at all 
 places. He remains American in every action and 
 word and has won the hearts of the French people. 
 At the chancery or door of the Embassy an
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 248 
 
 American soldier stands with a smile of greeting. 
 Unarmed, his uniform alone represents his au- 
 thority. In the Ambassador's office, over the 
 mantel, is a flag of the State of Massachusetts 
 with its stirring and warlike inscription, "By the 
 sword we seek peace." 
 
 The reception room of the Embassy was supplied 
 with papers from America, and it pleased me to 
 find the clerk was from Worcester. Visitors 
 are here received and appointments come thick 
 and fast. There was an interesting delegation that 
 morning representing a musical society, who desired 
 Mr. Sharpe to preside at a public entertainment 
 of twelve distinct types of Parisians. At the flat- 
 top desk the Ambassador was dictating to two 
 stenographers, one in French and the other in 
 English. Both languages are familiar to him. 
 
 When he finished his work we walked down the 
 boulevard. The internationality of Paris impresses 
 one who walks through the streets and observes 
 the names. It is like a lesson in geography. 
 Nearly every country and large city in the world 
 is honored by the names of Paris streets; in fact, 
 the boulevard changes its name every few squares, 
 as if to make the honors go around. 
 
 With the Ambassador I attended a luncheon in 
 Circle Industriale, the home of Baron Rothschild,
 
 244 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 in the center of Paris, given over for a club-house 
 for British and American officers. Everything 
 stops in Paris from twelve to two, and after the 
 luncheon the members retire to another room or 
 to a courtyard to drink coffee. It is over coffee 
 that the conversation of the dejeuner or luncheon 
 comes to a focus. Here, among other distinguished 
 people I again met Viviani, fixing his colored cuffs 
 — evidence of war times. He had the same win- 
 some smile, his sparse hair parted in the middle, 
 and his eyes danced as he recalled our previous 
 meeting in America. 
 
 "Of all the experiences that have come to me, 
 the speaking tour through America was the best," 
 he said. "You know how it is — speaking to audi- 
 ences who do not know your language — after your 
 experiences at Rome, don't you?" he said quizzi- 
 cally. "Sometimes it seems like talking into a 
 barrel, but when you catch the eye of an auditor 
 here and there who does understand the language, 
 it gives you courage to go on." I agreed with him. 
 Viviani is of Corsican descent and is considered 
 the greatest orator in France. There is something 
 Napoleonic in his double-fist gestures. 
 
 A liberal portion of Smithfield ham at a dinner 
 at the Ambassador's house that evening proved 
 him to be a true host. Under the spell, I forgot
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 245 
 
 every other viand of the French chef and just ate 
 ham. 
 
 Mrs. Sharpe and the two sons and daughter 
 are very popular with the French. The son, Mr. 
 George Sharpe, as Secretary Particular, is of great 
 assistance to his father. All speak French like 
 natives. 
 
 Ambassador Sharpe arrived in Paris the day 
 the Germans were nearest to the city. He began 
 his official duties on the day when blackest skies 
 overhung France. From his hotel window over- 
 looking the Place de la Concorde he saw Galleni's 
 troops rushed out of Paris in taxis, some of the 
 soldiers without uniform, to fight at the battle of 
 the Marne. 
 
 In these stirring days the Embassy was the 
 haven of excited Americans, and the skill with 
 which he handled the perplexing problems of the 
 hour enthroned him in the immediate confidence 
 of the Americans and French. . 
 
 Mr. Sharpe was born at Elyria, Ohio. He was 
 a manufacturer and former member of Congress 
 before he was made Ambassador. He had visited 
 Paris many times, but little dreamed of the honor 
 that was to come to him in later years. Whether 
 at informal luncheons or at a state function, he 
 appears to good advantage. Seldom a day passes
 
 246 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 that distinguished people from all over the world 
 are not in personal touch with him. 
 
 At the luxurious palace of the Bourbons, with 
 its blaze of red curtains and regal splendor, in 
 company with the Ambassador, I visited the 
 Foreign Secretary, or Minister of Strangers. It 
 was here I met Minister Pinchon, a genial, polished 
 gentleman, who as foreign minister knows how to 
 greet the strangers within and beyond the gates. 
 
 Few Ambassadors enjoy the confidence of a 
 country like Mr. Sharpe. Keeping in touch with 
 every phase of the war and diplomacy, he has 
 helped to cement the friendship of United States 
 and France. 
 
 He dedicated the monument at Verdun, and has 
 been accorded other high honors by the French 
 people. For the first time an American ambassador 
 in Paris is Dean of the Diplomatic Corps, having 
 served longer than the Ambassador of any other 
 nation in Paris at the present time. When this 
 distinction came to him, Mr. Sharpe was the recipi- 
 ent of hearty congratulations from Allied and 
 neutral nations. 
 
 AS a wag in London remarked while I was 
 
 waiting in the American Embassy at Gros- 
 
 venor Square, there are two bright "Pages" in the
 
 C'est la Guerre — It it the War 247 
 
 record of American diplomacy during the war — 
 one is Thomas Nelson Page in Rome, the other 
 Walter Hines Page in London, editor of the 
 World's Work, a conspicuous figure in international 
 affairs, and who, as Ambassador to the Court 
 of St. James, has ably met the responsibilities 
 of perhaps the most important ambassadorial 
 post. 
 
 Some Americans in London still think of the 
 Embassy as located at the old palace of St. James, 
 whereas the American Ambassador has his head- 
 quarters at Grosvenor Square, although enjoying 
 the title "to the Court of St. James," where the 
 court functions are held, and where the gay king, 
 Charles II, once lived. 
 
 In the large waiting room are files of newspapers. 
 Among the complicated questions he has to meet, 
 a good example is that of an American who wished 
 to know how he could avoid paying an income tax 
 on the same money in England and the United 
 States. The routine details are first sifted by 
 clerks, then the matter is taken to the second floor, 
 where Ambassador Page sits as Judge Advocate. 
 The rooms have all the evidences of the Ambassa- 
 dor's literary tastes in keeping with the traditions 
 of James Russell Lowell and John Hay. On the 
 walls are portraits of all the representatives to the
 
 248 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 Court of St. James. They were called "Ministers 
 to England" up to the time of Robert T. Lincoln, 
 son of Abraham Lincoln, who facetiously inscribed 
 on his photo in leaving, "The Last Minister." 
 After that the post was raised to the rank of 
 Ambassador. 
 
 Ambassador Page looks much as he did when I 
 saw him as editor of the Atlantic Monthly in Boston. 
 Even his spectacles were at the same angle, and 
 he has an eye for diplomatic business, the same 
 as he had for a good manuscript. He handles men 
 as he handled authors — good and bad. The first 
 suggestion he made was that I visit the Grand 
 Fleet and Queenstown Base, confirming the sugges- 
 tion of Admiral Sims. It is evident that American 
 activities abroad are co-ordinated. 
 
 When Colonel Whitman's regiment paraded in 
 London, Ambassador Page stood with King George, 
 and each soldier received personally a fac-simile 
 letter from the King at the suggestion of Mr. 
 Page. 
 
 He lives in the country, where, in these strenuous 
 days, he may find quietness and rest. The Embassy 
 post office is one of the popular places in London 
 and when the mail arrives, Americans line up in 
 the hall to receive what is sent in care of the 
 Embassy. In the diplomatic pouch papers are
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 249 
 
 carried these days which will have an international 
 import in all the ages to come. 
 
 Mr. Page's secretary, Mr. Shucraft, hails from 
 Kansas City, and while I was there left for 
 America after a few hours' notice on a special 
 mission. 
 
 On the desk of the Ambassador is a memoranda 
 which resembles the days of assignment in a news- 
 paper office. An interesting speaker, as well as 
 a graceful writer, Ambassador Page is in great 
 demand, and his appearance at the American- 
 Luncheon Club with the Premier was an occasion 
 of interest to Americans sojourning in England. 
 
 One of his greatest triumphs has been in the 
 direction of the various Missions which have 
 visited Europe. Particularly is this true of his 
 assistance to the Labor Mission, bringing the 
 leaders of Great Britain and America into fellow- 
 ship and securing an audience with the King 
 and Queen. "I feel like a perpetual reception 
 committee," he said. 
 
 During the days preceding the declaration of 
 war by America, Ambassador Page faced a situa- 
 tion in England calling for almost genius of diplom- 
 acy and patience. He reflected most ably the 
 thought of America as expressed by President 
 Wilson, and in every act has proven himself to be a
 
 250 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 thorough American. The result of his ambassador- 
 ship will mark closer relations between England 
 and America. 
 
 PRAYER OF A SOLDIER 
 
 Found in the pocket of a British Colonel who was killed in action in France 
 
 Father of all, Helper of the free, we pray with anxious 
 hearts for all who fight on sea and land and in the air to 
 guard our homes and liberty. Make clear the vision of our 
 leaders and their counsels wise. 
 
 Into Thy care our ships and seamen we commend; guard 
 them from chance-sown mines and all the danger of this 
 war at sea, and as of old give them the victory. 
 
 To men on watch give vigilance, to those below calm 
 sleep. Make strong our soldiers' hearts and brace their 
 nerves against the bursting shrapnel and the unseen fire 
 that lays the next man low. 
 
 In pity blind them from the sight of fallen comrades left 
 upon the field. 
 
 May Christ Himself in Paradise receive the souls of those 
 who pass through death. 
 
 Let not our soldiers ever doubt that they shall overcome 
 the forces of that King who "seeks to wade through slaugh- 
 ter to a throne and shut the gate of mercy on mankind." 
 
 O God of love and pity, have compassion on the wounded, 
 make bearable their pains or send unconsciousness. 
 
 To surgeons and dressers, give strength that knows no 
 failing and skill that suffers not from desperate haste. 
 
 To tired men give time to rest. 
 
 Pity the poor beasts of service, who suffer for man's 
 wrong.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 251 
 
 For us at home, let not that open shame be ours, that we 
 forget to ease the sufferings of the near and dear of brave 
 men in the fighting line. 
 
 O Father, may this war be mankind's last appeal to force. 
 Grant from the stricken earth, sown with Thy dead, an 
 everlasting flower of peace shall spring, and all Thy world 
 become a garden where the flower of Christ shall grow. 
 
 And this we beg for our dear Elder Brother's sake, who 
 gave Himself for those He loved, Jesus Christ, our Lord. 
 Amen. — Buffalo Commercial.
 
 XXIII 
 
 AMONG THE WORKERS BEHIND THE 
 LINES 
 
 AMONG the many and varied war activities 
 y\ behind the lines, which serve as rest and 
 recreation centers for the boys, one gets 
 a different picture of the great war. The comrade- 
 ship between the soldiers of Canada and the 
 United States on the soil of France is strong. 
 The universal tributes to the splendid work of 
 the Canadian hospitals were good to hear. The 
 recitals of the daring and dashing qualities of 
 the boys from over the border, brought a sense 
 of kinship. 
 
 "Fearless devils, those Maple Leaf lads," said 
 one French commander to me. "I saw them when 
 they returned from Vimy Ridge. They had the 
 bronzed cheeks and steady eyes of seasoned 
 veterans." 
 
 Their language, manners and tastes make 
 them seem closer to the Yankee troops. Many 
 from the States were in the Canadian Army, 
 
 (252)
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 253 
 
 and Canadians in the United States Army made 
 the bonds even closer. The Canadian khaki 
 resembles the British. 
 
 In the hospitals the Canadian nurses have won 
 particular distinction. A Nova Scotia nurse 
 went out with the Harvard unit, and served a 
 year in Canadian and British hospitals. She only 
 desired the hard cases. "There's real victory in 
 working to win back a life." Nurses take pride 
 in their cases, referring to them as "my boys." 
 Soldier life, after all, has its compensations. 
 
 I also met and talked with the soldiers from 
 New Zealand. This little colony, fighters to the 
 core, has a record of contributing its full quota 
 of one hundred and thirty thousand troops at 
 the first call. They talk through their noses, like 
 Americans, but cling tenaciously to their English 
 accent. They were the troops farthest away from 
 home — four thousand miles — and yet as closely in 
 touch with the great purposes of the war as their 
 Allied comrades. 
 
 People wonder what the boys are thinking 
 about. There is not a soldier among the millions 
 enrolled who cannot tell you definitely why he is 
 there. It is not only a matter of sentiment, but 
 a realization that the time had come for him to 
 render service that will make his home secure
 
 254 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 for all future time. Each soldier has his own 
 vision of the future, and when he may return. 
 
 Another picturesque soldier in France is the 
 Australian, his hat jauntily turned up on one side. 
 The insignia is a "sunburst," but that would not 
 be needed to distinguish them. The burly boys 
 from the Bush with their relentless energy make 
 them seem like Americans at a distance. Australia 
 did not adopt conscription, yet since she has 
 more than filled her quota, it was felt to be 
 unnecessary. 
 
 It was a treat to talk to our own strong, virile 
 young American soldiers. Where was the soldier 
 wearing khaki who was not prouder of it than of 
 any broadcloth suit he ever wore? He showed it in 
 his manner. Where is the silk hat that can rival 
 the Stetson of the service? The canvas leggings 
 are discarded in France for winding puttees. 
 
 "One thing you learn in the army," said one 
 of the boys with whom I talked, "is to remember. 
 If you don't remember a thing, off goes your 
 block, for there is no excuse when a man forgets 
 what he is told." 
 
 When one goes to an officer to ask for a privilege, 
 the officer says: "You are in the army now." 
 Realizing this, the boy is content, for no distinction 
 excels that of being in the army.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War %55 
 
 One virtue in the life of a soldier is the great 
 outdoors. Close to nature, whether it be in the 
 mud of the trenches or the dust of the roads, the 
 open has air worked wonders in producing strong 
 constitutions. 
 
 About the hardest thing to combat is loneliness 
 and homesickness. One of the lads told me a 
 pathetic story of his pal. They were in the trenches 
 and his buddy, Jim, was dispirited. He tried to 
 cheer him up, but mail after mail arrived with no 
 letter for Jim. He grew disconsolate. 
 
 "Everyone seems to have forgotten me, even 
 my own mother. To hell with everything." 
 
 They attempted to cheer him, but to no avail. 
 Just before starting out for a raid to kidnap a few 
 Boche that night, he said: 
 
 "Boys, I think this is my last trip with you." 
 
 Again they tried to brace him. In the light of 
 a lantern he sat down and wrote a letter to his 
 mother. 
 
 In No Man's Land, still wrapped in the early 
 morning mist, the little band of raiders were dis- 
 covered. There was a volley from the machine 
 guns of the enemy. Jim had fallen. That night 
 when his companions returned to camp, a de- 
 layed mail was distributed. Jim's name was 
 called twice. Two postals had come from his home,
 
 256 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 but too late. On one was the sentence: "We 
 were too busy to write before." 
 
 The one thing the boys crave more than any- 
 thing else is letters from home. The next best 
 thing is the home paper, for in the reveries of 
 camp life they constantly have visions of the old 
 home and the dear ones. To see them seize the 
 home papers and familiar American magazines 
 does one's heart good. Not in the excitement of 
 the firing line, but in hours of rest loneliness comes. 
 
 In some places I saw Red Cross girls driving 
 the trucks. When women drivers reach a certain 
 efficiency they are permitted to wear a belt. Such 
 insignia "over there" means more than silk and 
 satin — it means service. 
 
 Now and then I came across a Wellesley, 
 Vassar, Bryn Mawr or Smith College unit, proud 
 of its opportunity. 
 
 To find the Salvation Army lassies in the Sal- 
 vation Army cabins giving out doughnuts to the 
 boys was a real home touch. Thousands of soldiers 
 are served each day as they come from the trenches. 
 The food is served at cost, but if the soldier has 
 no money he gets it just the same. Salvation 
 Army officials told me these debts of honor seldom 
 remain unpaid. I heard the tributes the boys 
 paid to the Mclntyre girls of Mount Vernon,
 
 Copyright by Underwood & Underwood 
 
 PRESIDENT POINCARE OF FRANCE
 
 Undi rwood & Underwood 
 
 VICTOR EMMANUEL, KING OF ITALY
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 257 
 
 New York, who, under fire, distributed pies, 
 doughnuts and cakes, refusing to desert their post 
 so long as they could be of service. Yankee 
 doughnuts capture the boys. In one large ware- 
 house the lassies were washing clothes for the 
 boys, and when dry they would mend them like 
 so many mothers. Here was a mountain of shoes, 
 German, French, all kinds picked up, being 
 repaired for the soldiers. Nothing is wasted. 
 
 A familiar sight, as American troops march 
 through the villages, is to see the children run out 
 to greet them as "big brothers." 
 
 The colored troops from the States were in a 
 rollicking mood. They seemed the most carefree 
 of them all. There was never a moment when they 
 were not enjoying themselves, whether stopping 
 for a boxing bout on the way or just having im- 
 provised minstrel shows. The humor among them 
 has caught the fancy of the French newspaper 
 writers. 
 
 At another place I saw the great camouflage 
 drying sheds, where mats for artillery covers were 
 being made like awnings for porches. French 
 peasant women were cutting raffia-grass, for which 
 they were paid one dollar a day. The burlap of 
 these strange blankets of disguise is laid on ten 
 layers thick and painted green like the grass. As
 
 258 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 the workers filled in the designs arranged by the 
 artists, it all reminded me of a gobelin tapestry 
 workroom. 
 
 The one thing the American soldier exhibits with 
 the greatest degree of pride is the picture which 
 he has had taken of himself and of his captured 
 German prisoner. It is shown with the degree 
 of enthusiasm of a trophy after a bear hunt. I 
 met many of the chaplains and their work at the 
 front is inspiring. There was Chaplain Smith, 
 who is now at Rheims. Here, also, I talked with 
 Chaplain Danker of Worcester, Massachusetts, 
 who has since died of his wounds, and for whom a 
 public square has been named in his native city; 
 and Chaplain Duval of the Knights of Columbus. 
 It is difficult to tell the chaplains of one denomina- 
 tion from another, as they are all dressed in 
 khaki. Major Fay, secretary to Cardinal Gibbons, 
 has been made a prelate by the Pope in recognition 
 of his work, and wears his new honor becomingly 
 in his regimentals. 
 
 y. m. c. A. WORK 
 
 One is not long in France, especially near the 
 war zone, without becoming familiar with the 
 red triangle of the Y. M. C. A., which has erected 
 505 huts, where the soldiers pass their leisure
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 259 
 
 time in games and reading. The physical and 
 moral welfare of soldiers is being well cared for by 
 this organization. I found boys reading, always 
 reading, and the different tastes in books was not- 
 able. One young curly-headed fellow was search- 
 ing everywhere for books on psychology. He said 
 to me: 
 
 "You know we can increase efficiency if we 
 understand psychology and develop telepathy." 
 
 "And how do you expect to use telepathy after 
 you get it?" I asked. 
 
 "It's a good thing to know what a German has 
 in his mind when you are hidden behind the trench 
 line," was his laughing response. 
 
 In another Y. M. C. A. hut I found the boys 
 cultivating flowers, and the expert on horticulture 
 was telling them the difference between a French 
 and an American dandelion. In one aviation 
 camp the horticulturist had surrounded the onion 
 bed with a most beautiful fringe of roses, enhanc- 
 ing the lowly vegetable far beyond its usual 
 station. 
 
 At the Montaine Y. M. C. A. canteen on the 
 Champs Elysees, an old palace built by the last 
 Napoleon for Migne, his financial minister, and 
 amid handsome furnishings turned over to the 
 Y. M. C. A., I found a retreat in which to talk after
 
 260 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 wrestling with my bad French. Here the boys 
 gather for good times and comforts, to get a 
 glimpse of home living and perhaps something to 
 eat that smacks like "mother's home cooking." 
 There were real pies, "holed" doughnuts, canned 
 corn and things unknown in the triumphs of the 
 French chefs, and longed for by our American 
 boys. The waitresses are all volunteers, American 
 girls, who know how to create a home atmosphere 
 and give a social aspect to the lingering moments 
 over dessert. In the smoking room or billiard 
 room the lads seemed to forget that they were 
 away from home, for the old palace glowed with 
 the spirit of an American hostelry. The throngs 
 gathered after supper in one of the large rooms 
 where a program of music and entertainment was 
 furnished. The boys enjoyed it hugely, and well 
 they might, for they were given a concert that 
 would do honor to any salon musicale. There 
 were golden-voiced singers from the Opera Com- 
 ique; a pianist, who was the prize pupil of the 
 veteran Saint-Saens. The program concluded 
 with a message from the folks at home, and it 
 was my good fortune to deliver a tribute to the 
 flag. Their encore, three cheers and a "tiger," too, 
 by these lusty boys was a most thrilling moment 
 to me, and when, dim-eyed, I asked "What is
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 261 
 
 your message to the folks back home?" they 
 replied as one: 
 
 "We'll stick to the finish." 
 
 I could not leave without a further word. "Are 
 you all as happy and contented as you look?" 
 
 There came a chorus, in the new Franco- Anglo 
 language, "Om', oui — you bet your life." 
 
 I was never so proud of the unconquerable 
 American spirit as when I saw it glowing in their 
 faces! 
 
 The large signs "Quiet" on the walls of some of 
 the headquarters indicated that the flowing French 
 and twangy English chatter of the American and 
 French girls was too much. There was also a 
 sign "Save the paper," and waste baskets yawned 
 emptily. Used envelopes served as memorandum 
 paper — every "scrap of paper" was sacred in the 
 activities of the war, as distinguished from the 
 haughty Teuton phrase, "only a scrap of paper." 
 
 The American soldiers are not allowed to remain 
 lonesome if good books will help them to pass the 
 time. In every Y. M. C. A. hut, tent and canteen, 
 in every Salvation Army cabin, in every Knights 
 of Columbus building, in every Red Cross hos- 
 pital, in every club where soldiers of the A. E. F. 
 assemble, are simple placards announcing the 
 "War Service Library, provided by the People
 
 262 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 of the United States through The American Library- 
 Association." Hundreds of thousands of books 
 are already on the improvised book shelves, and 
 each reader is his own librarian. A red and black 
 card sign in fac-simile by the Commander-in-chief 
 is on the wall : 
 
 These books Come to us Overseas from Home. 
 
 To Read them is a Privilege. 
 
 To Return them Promptly, Unabused, a Duty. 
 
 John J. Pershing 
 
 The collection of books in each library ranged 
 from fifty to five hundred volumes, all of them 
 good American books of all sorts, from the red- 
 blooded Western stories to the latest scientific 
 treatise on aviation or other branches of military 
 service. 
 
 Attired in familiar khaki, with "A. L. A." on 
 his shoulder, Mr. Burton E. Stevenson, the 
 European representative of the American Library 
 Association, is doing efficient work. In many of 
 the larger cantonments at home, the A. L. A. 
 erected its own buildings as central libraries and 
 used the other recreational buildings in the camp 
 as branches. In France they make use of every 
 nook and corner to give the soldiers easy access to 
 the books. The nation-wide campaign in America
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 263 
 
 to secure books for the use of the A. E. F. in France 
 brought the astounding total of over three million 
 volumes, which were collected, prepared for issue 
 with a label, book-card and pocket by American 
 "libraries, and sent on to France. All of the books 
 are shipped in special A. L. A. cases, holding about 
 sixty books each. Three of these cases, stacked 
 on top of each other, form a six-shelf bookcase. 
 In these units they are easily moved about from 
 place to place. 
 
 At the request of General Pershing, the War 
 Department transports fifty tons of these books 
 every month for the men overseas. This means 
 approximately one hundred thousand volumes 
 and does not include books being sent across on 
 transports in care of Y. M. C. A., Red Cross and 
 other organizations. The books received through 
 public donation consist largely of fiction. The 
 War Department made up for the deficiency of 
 technical works by purchasing over three hundred 
 thousand special reference books, with the view 
 of their being of direct value to the education of 
 our men. 
 
 Eagle Hut, in London, is a central place, not 
 only for Americans, but for the British as well. 
 There is a splendid co-operation between both. 
 It is here that the American orators try their
 
 264 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 wings, and it suits the English and the boys as 
 well. 
 
 Perhaps the most popular song here is one 
 written by an American, Zoe Elliott, of Man- 
 chester, N. H., and whose poems were first printed 
 in the National Magazine. Any day one can hear 
 his inspiring song, "It's a Long, Long Trail?" 
 
 At the group meetings the boys call for the 
 songs they love most. And among the popular 
 numbers are: "Carry Me Back to old Virginny," 
 "My Old Kentucky Home," "On the Banks of 
 the Wabash," "Illinois," "California, I Love You." 
 And, strangely enough, the favorite song of the 
 Australians is "My Little Grey Home in the 
 West." 
 
 Y. W. C. A. WORK 
 
 I had opportunity to see the good being done 
 for the women munition workers of France by the 
 American Y. W. C. A. When I visited their head- 
 quarters in a building near the large munition 
 factories at Lyon, I met Miss Anderson, in charge, 
 holding a meeting on a Sunday afternoon. The 
 platform was a bower of flowers, surrounding a 
 piano, and other decorations to give the home- 
 touch. 
 
 Luncheon is served every day and meetings 
 to cement the bonds of friendship. The French
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 265 
 
 women seem especially appreciative of what the 
 Americans do for them. Miss Anderson insisted 
 that I make an address. I spoke in English and 
 it was translated into French. It was a novel 
 experience to try to say something gallant and 
 chivalrous and then wait for it to explode through 
 the translator. Before I could gather my thoughts 
 I had a wave of the hand and had to say some- 
 thing else. The few little pet French phrases that 
 I attempted to use seemed to please them more 
 than a real joke. 
 
 This is the work in which Mrs. Cashman, Mrs. 
 Coleman du Pont and many of the ladies who had 
 been fellow-passengers on the Espagne are greatly 
 interested, and is of importance to the women 
 workers of France and to the children as well. 
 It is getting close to the homes. 
 
 THE ROCKEFELLER FOUNDATION 
 
 With mortality records showing death from 
 consumption increasing three hundred per cent 
 among the civilian population of Paris, and also 
 in other portions of France, it was not surprising 
 to meet Dr. George E. Vincent, president of the 
 Rockefeller Foundation, on the soil of France, 
 giving his personal, vital energy to the work. 
 
 While the Rockefeller Foundation is world-wide
 
 266 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 in its scope, the work in France has been intensi- 
 fied. The spirit of the Rockefeller Foundation, 
 as explained by Dr. Vincent, was not one of com- 
 plaisant patronage. They found much to admire 
 in French tuberculosis sanatoria, dispensaries and 
 methods, and the purpose was to combine this 
 work with the French authorities, as the American 
 Army and Navy were brigaded with the Allies. 
 An active working agreement was made with the 
 Red Cross, and the first experiment was made in 
 the Department of Eure-et-Loire, southwest of 
 Paris, which was selected for special anti-tuber- 
 culosis demonstration by the Commission. In 
 every one of the areas a dispensary was established 
 with modern equipment and a trained staff. The 
 people were taught the best ways and methods of 
 fighting tuberculosis. Printed matter prepared 
 by French writers and illustrated by French artists 
 is widely distributed. Motor trucks are equipped 
 to generate current for projection apparatus, 
 in showing educational slides. In every way effort 
 is put forth to direct the thoughts of the people 
 toward stamping out tuberculosis. 
 
 When I saw sitting outside of the Rockefeller 
 Foundation dispensary a frail figure of a girl with 
 shining eyes, it recalled the story of "Camille." 
 Her cheeks had the unmistakable glow of con-
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 267 
 
 sumption, and she was there to receive treatment 
 and to get advice of the expert physician. It was 
 felt there was little hope. Her white face, enhanced 
 by black crepe, revealed her only wish: 
 
 "If I could only live until Jean comes back." 
 
 It was a love romance I saw at a glance. An 
 elderly French officer arrived and recognized her. 
 It was Jean's father. I did not understand the 
 language, but actions spoke aloud. The father, 
 at the behest of his boy at the front, was looking 
 for the fiancee with the blessing he had withheld. 
 
 Although dry and undemonstrative in its facts 
 and figures, scientific and exacting in its analysis of 
 things, there is a halo of life and death in the fight 
 which the Foundation is making in France. 
 
 The spread of the disease has already been 
 checked to an almost unbelievable degree. Sixty 
 people were working at the headquarters in Paris, 
 under the direction of Dr. Livingston Farrand, 
 who has been in France^for the past year. 
 
 At Circle Industriele lunch I found Dr. Carel, 
 dressed in his French uniform and engaged in the 
 big medical problems of the war. The treatment of 
 "shell shock," combining as it does both a physical 
 and mental disease, is one of the most baffling 
 with which medical science has to deal. The term 
 is used to describe a wide range of cases from true
 
 268 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 paralysis to simple cowardice. Dr. Thomas W. 
 Salmon is making a special study of these and 
 other nervous casualties. 
 
 KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS 
 
 The work of the Knights of Columbus is growing 
 rapidly. Supplies and men come overseas almost 
 every day. At present there are in France forty 
 huts in operation, with one hundred secretaries 
 and forty Knights of Columbus chaplains. 
 
 At the principal ports their large buildings are 
 seen. These are filled with comforts for the men 
 going to the front. 
 
 Out in the field of operations their unique 
 automobile kitchens roll along with the men 
 going to the front, each one, with their trailers, 
 able to supply two hundred and fifty men at a 
 time. 
 
 In the huts soldiers find comfort kits, boxing 
 gloves, baseball outfits, trench checkers, tobacco 
 and cigarettes, and plenty of stationery on which 
 to write home. 
 
 The comforts of the men are studied, even to 
 supplying them with bouillon cubes, from which 
 they may make hot drinks, and candies even are 
 among the cheer-bits which the workers supply. 
 
 No money is charged for any of these articles,
 
 C'est la Guerre— It is the War 269 
 
 they are freely given to the men so long as the 
 supply lasts. 
 
 The work is thoroughly cosmopolitan; the uni- 
 form is the only badge the organization knows, 
 and all who wear it are sure of a cordial greeting 
 and ready assistance from the workers in these huts. 
 
 To see Jewish Rabbi, Protestant and Catholic 
 chaplains working side by side in the great effort 
 of relief and comfort is one of the inspiring pictures 
 of the war. 
 
 LOYAL ORDER OF MOOSE 
 
 When I heard the clear ringing tenor voice of 
 my friend, Joe Jenkins, of Pittsburg, singing in a 
 Paris church, "I Know That My Redeemer 
 Liveth," it was to see in the expression of the faces 
 of the congregation the spiritual awakening of 
 France. When the clear vibrant notes rang out, 
 it seemed as if there must be a reconsecration of 
 faith in God. 
 
 Mr. Jenkins is in charge of the work of the 
 Loyal Order of Moose in Paris, and is doing much 
 for their soldier members at the front. The work 
 is being directed by Mr. James Davis, president 
 of the Order, who was widening the scope of the 
 civic war activities. Many branches of the Order 
 are being organized in France and other European 
 countries to cement the fraternal spirit in military
 
 270 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 organizations which will follow the war. The 
 Moose haunts in Paris are located opposite the 
 Madeleine. 
 
 JEWISH WAR RELIEF 
 
 True to the instinct of mercy, of relief to the 
 helpless, to the suffering of the maimed, the halt 
 and the blind, which has ever been part and parcel 
 of their religious belief, the sons of Abraham are 
 heart and soul in all helpful ministries. 
 
 Asking for no particular channel through which 
 to work, and seeking no gain, the Hebrew associa- 
 tions are contributing most generously of time 
 and means to the relief of war sufferers and to 
 cheering those in actual hostilities. 
 
 "BEACON OF FRANCE" 
 
 In a Toul cafe I met Miss Holt as she was 
 engaged in her "Beacon of France" campaign. 
 Later I visited this institution which was founded 
 by French and Americans for the relief of those 
 blinded in the war. It is located in one of the old 
 homes of Paris, and is surrounded by a peaceful 
 garden. It is here that the blind are taught some 
 useful occupation to enable them to earn a liveli- 
 hood. Not only are they taught to work with 
 their hands, but to use all their other faculties as 
 well. They are first taught to read and write by
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 2^1 
 
 the Braille System. Many of them also learn to 
 use a typewriter and some have even taken up 
 the study of stenography. 
 
 They are taught pottery, both modeling and 
 decorating, weaving of cloth, use of knitting 
 machines — nearly every vocational trade for the 
 blind is included in the curriculum. 
 
 Teachers are nearly all volunteers and include 
 well-known instructors and specialists. The recre- 
 ational phase shows the "Beacon of France" at 
 its best. In the gymnasium a fencing master was 
 teaching the blind to fence. In the music-hall 
 concerts and entertainments, now famous in Paris, 
 were being given. 
 
 To see the blind enjoying themselves on 
 roller-skates, merry-making, relieved the grewsome 
 shadows of war. 
 
 THE WORK OF RECONSTRUCTION 
 
 After travelling over the shell-ridden battle- 
 fields and ruined villages is to have a deeper 
 appreciation of the organization of women having 
 for its purpose the rebuilding of the destroyed 
 villages of France. This organization works in 
 co-operation with the authorities. Their able and 
 generous efforts will soon result in the chang- 
 ing of blackened masses of stone and plaster to 
 well-built and comfortable homes.
 
 272 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 "Homes Past and Future," a pamphlet written 
 by Mrs. Helen Choate Prince, tells the story 
 graphically. It is proposed to make a photograph 
 of every village adopted, showing all its ruined 
 misery, and afterward to make photographs with 
 the improvements made and send the records and 
 pictures to the godparents who adopted the de- 
 stroyed village. 
 
 Mrs. Prince has made a tour of the devastated 
 country. Her companion, pointing out the bare 
 branches of the dead trees, said: "But, look, this 
 is not winter — it is summer." It is the summer of 
 hopefulness in these French villages. The people 
 are cheered by the generous-hearted patronesses 
 of the movement to build again. 
 
 Among the patronesses of the movement are 
 the names of many prominent American women 
 in France who, working heart and soul with the 
 French women, are helping to rehabilitate rural 
 France and make her more glorious than ever.
 
 XXIV 
 
 KING ALBERT IN HIS TRENCHED 
 DOMAIN 
 
 IT'S a long way from Havre — now the capital 
 of Belgium — to the little area of French land 
 which represents the domain of King Albert 
 of the Belgians. 
 
 When I arrived in the quaint and picturesque 
 channel port of France, I thought not so much of 
 France as of little Belgium. Even the town of 
 ancient Rouen with its war activities and British 
 troops did not distract my attention from that 
 little strip of land to the northeast known in 
 our geography as Flanders. 
 
 Rouen revived memories of the old struggle 
 between France and England. It seems more like 
 an English city than any other town in France, 
 and has been virtually turned over to the British 
 as a base of supplies. 
 
 Passing through Brittany on the way to Havre, 
 herds of cattle seemed more numerous than on a 
 western plain, and presented a pastoral panorama, 
 
 (273)
 
 274 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 recalling Picardy before it had fallen under the 
 Prussian blight. 
 
 Arriving at Havre, I drove through the fog 
 mists to the home of Mr. Brand Whitlock, United 
 States Minister to Belgium, which is located on a 
 quiet street with a flower garden in front. He 
 was not at home, but away preparing to move — 
 a habit created in Belgium in the stirring days of 
 1914. In his study were masses of papers and 
 manuscripts, indicating a busy life. Ever since 
 the war cloud burst, Mr. Whitlock has been a 
 conspicuous figure in European affairs, and his 
 record of those days has already become history. 
 
 There was nothing suggestive of the stirring 
 days, nor of the strenuous work in caring for the 
 refugees who were driven ruthlessly from their 
 homes, though the quiet did not hide the tragic 
 memories of the first scenes in the war. Some 
 members of scattered families were still calling 
 at the Legation in hopes of news from their lost 
 ones, but always leaving with a blessing upon 
 the Nation which had helped them in the hour of 
 need. 
 
 On the streets of Havre were soldiers with little 
 tassels on their caps, a distinctive feature of their 
 uniform. The Belgian army is even larger than 
 when the green-gray lines of the Germans swept
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 275 
 
 across the border, pouring murderous shrapnel 
 into this peaceful realm. 
 
 This old seaport town fairly reeks with romance, 
 and is even now more picturesque with the rollick- 
 ing freedom of the sailors. The heart of Havre is 
 the large basin in which vessels, defiant of enemy- 
 raiders and submarines, are moored, representing 
 the free commerce of the high seas. The drive 
 along the seawall furnishes an inspiring picture. 
 Evidences of the old days of peace and restfulness 
 by the sea remain. 
 
 Bright-faced Yankee soldiers add a new touch 
 to the scene. One of them directed me to the 
 buildings in which the government offices of 
 Belgium are located. They are only temporary 
 quarters and resemble the beaver board structures 
 in Washington, and the governmental machinery 
 is intact and running just as if Belgium was not 
 occupied by Huns. 
 
 When I entered these quarters, I thought of 
 Brussels. The little American flag I wore at- 
 tracted the attention of the messengers. Every 
 face brightened and seemed to reflect a spirit 
 of gratitude toward America. Many of the 
 Belgians speak English, or at least, understand 
 it. One old man with his whiskers, looked like 
 Uncle Sam, and so attracted my attention that
 
 276 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 I shook his hand. He smiled and said in broken 
 English : 
 
 "American always good — he knows our hearts." 
 
 A char woman was busy brushing a Belgian flag. 
 As I stood [looking at it, my "Uncle Sam" friend, 
 proud of his English explained the colors in it, 
 saying: 
 
 "Red for blood, yellow for hope, black for 
 mourning." 
 
 The artillery activities at the front had been 
 resumed, but the attacks were repulsed. On the 
 banks of the Canal Yser, King Albert holds his 
 trenched domain with one hundred and eighty 
 thousand soldiers. The flag of little Belgium still 
 proudly floats over her troops. 
 
 No conqueror has ever passed the River Yser. 
 Even Caesar with his legions never did it; Napol- 
 eon pushing his armies into Russia, even when 
 conquering Prussia, never crossed the Yser. It 
 may be called the modern Rubicon over which 
 no invader ever passed. The banks of the river 
 are low and marshy, and Germans in frequent 
 attempts to cross on pontoon bridges were re- 
 pulsed. Belgian soldiers for diversion now and 
 then swim across with knives and cold steel to 
 worry the Hun. 
 
 The Belgian frontier extends from Nieuport to
 
 Cest la Guerre — It is the War 277 
 
 Ploegsteert, and a journey toward it recalled a 
 succession of the ghastly memories of 1914. In 
 the salient extending out from Ypres (pronounced 
 all way from I-prees to Wy -press, according to 
 the country, or as the British "Tommies" say 
 "Wipers), is a part of the bloody cockpit of 
 Europe. 
 
 The "big show" at Ypres is still conversation 
 for many of the British with whom we chatted 
 on the speed-record tour. Now we began to 
 know what the Hindenburg line meant. What 
 stories some of the old dilapidated and crumbling 
 trenches, yawning like open or abandoned graves, 
 could tell! In many the dead had been placed 
 while shells were falling and armies retreating. 
 
 The trip was fast because we had to make many 
 detours and go roundabout ways. We carried a 
 schedule of the junction points at which to make 
 changes, but would have been lost or missing to 
 this day except for the kindly help of the officers 
 who straightened us out, with many a disgusted 
 nod as they looked at the photograph of my blank 
 and guileless face, talking real languages I didn't 
 understand. 
 
 Truly it was a whirlwind jaunt. The most I 
 remember was telephone poles. In a three-cor- 
 nered house where one wing had been left standing,
 
 278 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 we had lunch. The old lady pointed proudly to 
 the picture of Woodrow Wilson on the wall and 
 told of how her family had been scattered, and of 
 her boys still in the army. "We will all unite 
 again," was her hopeful reply when the interpreter 
 told her the latest war news. Though the house 
 was ruined, she had kept together some trophies 
 of Flemish art, as well as heirlooms. 
 
 To see Flanders was like visiting sacred ground. 
 I had looked forward to meeting King Albert as 
 the one great event of the trip, because I had met 
 him in 1898 as he traveled incognito through the 
 United States. While waiting for the long-looked- 
 for appointment, which Mr. Whitlock had earlier 
 tried to arrange, my thoughts went back to the 
 days when the young Prince, after his visit to the 
 United States, became to his own people the 
 pulsating voice of democracy. After he had made 
 his farewell visit to President McKinley, I saw him 
 turn and point to the flag over the White House 
 and say: 
 
 "W T hat a great flag you have." 
 
 "You bet that's a great flag," I replied, in all 
 the gusto of '98. 
 
 "Yes, but out of that flag has been born a new 
 flag — a flag with a single star representing free 
 and independent Cuba."
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 279 
 
 This tribute to Old Glory from the lips of Prince 
 Albert has never been forgotten. 
 
 Mr. Brand Whitlock in his reports has charged 
 the Germans with specific facts and dates of the 
 atrocities at Dinant where ninety people, including 
 six babies in their mother's arms, were driven into 
 the street and shot. This was in August, 1914. 
 The city of Namur was made to pay thirty-two 
 million francs for indemnity before the murderous 
 German guns had stopped smoking. Then, too, 
 there was the tragic spectacle at Ardenne — but all 
 this is now a record. 
 
 As has been said: "A highwayman demands 
 your money or your life," but the Huns took both. 
 
 Driven back at times in their invasion, they 
 returned to rob and loot and kill with redoubled 
 fury. Each town has its authentic record of these 
 atrocities. The blackest pages of human history 
 are those written by the Boche in the blood of 
 Belgium. They will ever remain the black curse 
 of Germany. 
 
 Long before I saw King Albert there was a rush 
 among the tassel-capped soldiers, a look akin to 
 lovelight in their eyes, as they anticipated the 
 frequent but always prized privilege of seeing 
 the one they affectionately call "our hero King." 
 And now he appeared — the stoop of the Prince
 
 280 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 was gone. In simple khaki he looked every inch 
 a King in deed as well as birth. His greeting had 
 the same cordial manner of twenty years ago. 
 There was more in his actions than in his words. 
 He stopped to read a paper a messenger brought, 
 and although near-sighted, he sees everything 
 about him. His manner indicates a thoughtful 
 kind-hearted friend. 
 
 "You Americans always awaken inspiring mem- 
 ories," he said looking up. 
 
 My usual question, "Will you visit America 
 again?" 
 
 "I am visiting America often in my thoughts," 
 he replied graciously. 
 
 Just then an orderly came up. I felt that the 
 plans made to see him later might go awry, for 
 there was news of activity on the front, and war 
 waits for nothing. 
 
 The one passion of King Albert is to be with 
 his soldiers, and to spend as much of his time as 
 possible on the soil of his beloved Belgium. This 
 was all I saw of the men I had so much desired to 
 meet, but I had learned already to keep out of 
 the way when "artillery activities" were reported. 
 
 King Albert is the grandson of the founder 
 of the dynasty which ruled Belgium for nearly 
 ninety years. He was born in 1875, being the
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 281 
 
 son of the youngest son of Leopold the First. As 
 such, his likelihood of wearing the crown was con- 
 sidered remote. His education was military, and 
 his tastes industrial, for early in life he loved to 
 meet and mingle with the people at work. He 
 also knew the value of silence, and although by 
 virtue of his rank a member of the Belgian Senate, 
 he never took part in the discussions involving 
 partisan matters. He made trips to England, and 
 his journeys to the Congo State, and the United 
 States were at first opposed by his uncle, King 
 Leopold II, but the young Prince prevailed. 
 
 Two years after his tour of the United States, 
 he married the daughter of a Bavarian prince who 
 was famous as an oculist. The daughter had helped 
 her father in his work and as Queen Elizabeth of 
 Belgium, she has truly been a helpmate to her hero 
 King. When he took the oath of his office in 
 1909, he gave expression to words that fore- 
 shadowed his career. "I swear to observe the 
 constitution and to defend the integrity of the 
 national territory." When the crucial moment 
 came he immortalized his oath. 
 
 His utterances are cherished by the Belgian 
 people. 
 
 In one of the headquarters I saw a sheet of 
 crude wrapping paper in a gold frame, which had
 
 282 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 once contained a painting, on which is engrossed 
 the following: 
 
 "The sovereign must be the servant of the law 
 and supporter of social peace. I love my country 
 and the Queen shares with me the unalterable 
 feeling of fidelity to Belgium which we are in- 
 culcating in our children. I will endeavor to 
 deserve your confidence myself and before the 
 country I take the pledge to do my duty scrup- 
 ulously and to consecrate all my strength and life 
 to the service of our country." 
 
 These were words spoken before the flame of 
 war had appeared and indicate the foundation of 
 the faith on which King Albert has builded. Even 
 then he seemed to sense the coming storm, and 
 against bitter opposition ardently supported the 
 army bill. He seemed to have a premonition of 
 Germany's purpose, and of the fateful Sunday, 
 August 2, 1914, when the Prussian ultimatum was 
 issued. 
 
 There was a suggestion of humor in his famous 
 remark that "Germany seemed to believe Belgium 
 was a road, not a country." 
 
 The masterful retreat which he made before 
 the first German drive, and in establishing his 
 line from Nieuport along the Yser Canal showed 
 military training and genius. Frequently he goes
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 283 
 
 to the front line trenches in undress uniform with 
 only the star of Leopold hidden under his cape 
 to indicate his rank. An unerring marksman he 
 was seen to take the rifle of a soldier who had just 
 been killed and to continue the actual defense 
 of his country, glorifying his saying: 
 
 "My place is with my brave soldiers." 
 
 A strong figure, clinging to the little corner of 
 Belgium, and refusing to cross the Channel to 
 England for greater safety he declared: 
 
 "It is better to die here than in a foreign land. 
 If Belgium loses her freedom to brute force, I 
 will perish with its defenders." 
 
 There is only one dominant feeling among 
 Belgians today. The trenched domain, consisting 
 largely of sand dunes stretching from the North 
 Sea along the sluggish waters of the Yser, means 
 more to King Albert and the Belgians — defended 
 as it is with honor — than Continental Russia 
 crumbling under the treason of the Bolsheviki.
 
 XXV 
 
 LONDON IN WAR TIMES 
 
 BRACKETTED between my first and last 
 impressions in London were many things, 
 but the first and last scenes not only stand 
 out clearly, but are an index of the whole spirit 
 and temper of London today. 
 
 The first picture was when I arrived in the 
 Waterloo Station and looked upon a Red Cross 
 hospital train bright and fresh from the car shops. 
 An eager throng was passing up and down on a 
 tour of inspection, examining the equipment and 
 perhaps wondering how soon their own might be 
 there. Americans were among them. This hos- 
 pital train was built in England for the medical 
 department in France. In it was a surgical room 
 filled with dressings and fitted with the latest 
 improvements. The Glennon bunks are built 
 into all the cars for the sick and wounded. A 
 kitchen car was attached in which there was 
 running water and a room for the cooks. The 
 
 (284)
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 285 
 
 large Red Cross, the international insignia, was on 
 the windows of the cars, shining fresh and radiant 
 amid the grimy surroundings. And that very 
 night an air raid occurred and the cars were used. 
 
 The second picture was on the day of my depar- 
 ture, when at Victoria Station, an out-going train 
 was thronged with British "Tommies," going to 
 the front. A mass of people had gathered to say 
 farewell. Fathers, mothers, sisters and sweet- 
 hearts were in the crowd. Officers in uniform 
 were there, many of whom were of the gentry. 
 A suppressed feeling, and sometimes a tearful 
 expression overspread the faces of the onlookers, 
 though the soldiers seemed to be in the tradi- 
 tional jovial mood. In that train the officers 
 were traveling first-class, others second and third 
 class, but in the heart of each soldier was a spirit 
 which bespoke a new comradeship, animated by 
 one purpose and welded in a common cause. 
 
 In all that concourse, two figures standing 
 together engaging in conversation, particularly 
 attracted me. No word would be needed to tell 
 you that one of them was a nobleman — he looked 
 noble. The other was a man fully seventy. His 
 hair white, his face furrowed, with a slight stoop 
 to his frame. He was a Yorkshire textile worker. 
 It was the old man who was speaking :
 
 286 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 "I have six sons, sir, in the war, four of them 
 wounded, one in the big drive now on, and the 
 baby's off tonight, sir! See him there?" pointing 
 him out. 
 
 The scion of ancient lineage, with not so much 
 as a quiver though he was bidding his only son 
 good-bye, said: 
 
 "We are each giving our all now!" 
 
 Just then the tall manly figure of the baronet's 
 son appeared for the last word with his father. 
 
 "Let me have a line often, Governor," he 
 merrily chirped and was off with a wave of his 
 hand. 
 
 Within twelve or twenty-four hours that train- 
 load of British sons would be at the front, as a 
 part of the emergency reserves stemming the waves 
 of the onrushing Huns. 
 
 On arriving in London I stood for an hour 
 outside the station waiting for a taxi. None ap- 
 peared, so a-top a bus I started through the streets. 
 Nowhere was the gay sprightly life of other days 
 visible. London seemed war-worn, yet it was 
 wrapped in a quiet stern glory. 
 
 Walking along the Thames Embankment, I 
 observed the walls on my right covered with every 
 conceivable kind of poster with appeals for war 
 relief, but it was the finest literature I ever read.
 
 Cest la Guerre — It is the War 287 
 
 One of them displayed large letters across the 
 top, "The Die Hards" — a poster with a grim 
 meaning. Some of our American food posters 
 were there — also appealing to a hungry traveler. 
 
 I had to go to Scotland Yard to report — Mecca 
 for Conan Doyle and the great detective eye of 
 the world. Finding I could not report there, I was 
 sent to Bow Street, where many a famous criminal 
 was incarcerated. After being duly Londonized 
 by the sergeant, who was very considerate of me, 
 I found myself in a long line of people waiting 
 for identification cards to be stamped. 
 
 A good American cigar facilitated the dispatch 
 of my affairs. The sergeant took me into a side 
 room and I was through in a hurry. He seemed to 
 want to talk about America and asked: "When 
 are your boys coming over?" 
 
 Lunching at the old Cheshire Cheese Inn — 
 made famous by Dr. Johnson, whose head rested 
 so many times against the wall that it was said to 
 have made a niche in it — I, too, rested my head. 
 There was very little on the menu except fish. 
 From others at the table could be heard the 
 exclamation: "Same old salmon." Beef and 
 Yorkshire pudding were among the missing. 
 
 London has always prided herself on her police- 
 men. When I reached the Strand, not one of the
 
 288 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 old guard was in sight. Neither was there a single 
 pleasure automobile rolling along the streets. 
 People were using the tubes and busses. Rigid 
 economy was in the very air. The people as they 
 moved about still manifested remarkable cheeri- 
 ness. In the parks blue uniformed wounded 
 soldiers were to be found in great numbers. They 
 were also threading their way through the crowds 
 on all the streets. London is the center of hos- 
 pitals for wounded soldiers. In the open spaces 
 and parks, war huts were tucked into every avail- 
 able space, together with larger buildings for 
 officers. 
 
 The only way I could get around was in a 
 rackety taxi. In it I spent many busy hours 
 rolling about London. It was the only way I 
 could make my calls. 
 
 One of the great shopping centers in London is 
 a department store founded by my old friend, 
 H. Gordon Selfridge. He was formerly manager 
 of Marshall Field's retail store in Chicago, and 
 when he decided to locate in London, there was a 
 shaking of heads, showing evidences of doubt 
 among both English and American friends. Yet, 
 in the astonishingly short space of a few years, the 
 establishment of Selfridge has become a prominent 
 institution of Great Britain, foreshadowing in a
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 289 
 
 business way what has later come about in the 
 military and naval alliance. 
 
 It was a real American feeling to be caught by 
 the crowd and carried to the soda fountain in the 
 corner. Fizz fountains are rare in London. Here 
 I drank to the health of my friend, H. Gordon 
 Self ridge. 
 
 At Crewe House Lord Northcliffe, the news- 
 paper ruler of Great Britain, has his office. As 
 the owner of the London Times (The Thunderer) , 
 and other papers and periodicals, he is a powerful 
 voice in the public life of the Empire. He had been 
 ill for some months, due to the strain of his service 
 on the American Commission. He made an 
 appointment for me to see him, but the taxi 
 service was too slow to enable me to make all 
 points on the schedule. 
 
 Then I had a hurried luncheon with Arthur 
 T. Pollen, reputed as the expert writer in naval 
 affairs. He has visited the United States, and his 
 analytical discussions of American affairs and 
 public men contain a perspective not attained by 
 any man since Lord Bryce. 
 
 We had not left the table after another pisca- 
 torial feast, when the somewhat stooped form of 
 the Right Honorable Winston Churchill, former 
 First Lord of the Admiralty, stood before us.
 
 290 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 He was in a jovial mood. He wore a winged collar, 
 black cravat, and his grey eyes glistened as he 
 whistled "The Yanks are Coming." That was 
 his unique way of greeting me. He was swinging 
 his cane up and down with a movement that indi- 
 cated the rise and fall of his political fortune — 
 for Churchill must be reckoned with. 
 
 Americans in London seem to be thoroughly 
 purged of the braggadocio of tourist days, and 
 British reserve has been melting accordingly. 
 London seems more homelike than ever to Ameri- 
 cans. My good friend, Mr. George Thomas of 
 Manchester, always warm-hearted with strangers, 
 is now looked upon as a model host by his English 
 friends. He may yet sacrifice his whiskers as a 
 compliment to the smooth-face American. 
 
 Going out to Wimbledon I called on Mr. Byron 
 Miller, of the Woolworth Company. Mr. F. W. 
 Woolworth was himself in France when the war 
 broke out, and his experiences in getting out of 
 the field of hostilities well illustrates his favorite 
 phrase: "There must be some way out." Calling 
 later on Lord Morley at Flower Heath, I passed 
 the golf links, which, together with the parks, 
 had been cut up into "allotments." Myriads of 
 people have gardens there. They were dotted 
 all over with tool houses, resembling "claim"
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 291 
 
 shanties. For the first meal at Norfolk Lodge, Mrs. 
 Miller had a vegetable loaf, looking like sausages 
 side by side. Vegetables, corn fritters and peanuts 
 constituted the meal. In their garage, were two 
 automobiles neither of which had been used for 
 two years. Everybody was under war regulations. 
 The most complete unit I saw anywhere in 
 Europe was composed of a few American women, 
 called the "Care Committee for American Soldiers." 
 Here every American woman is working with 
 both hands, including the wife of the Ambassador 
 and Consul. Their quarters are located on Bond 
 Street, over a jewelry shop, the rooms being gen- 
 erously contributed by the proprietor. These 
 elect women personally visit the hospitals where 
 there are American wounded to ascertain what 
 each would like and to see that it is provided. 
 It was here that I met a young lieutenant who had 
 fallen with his airplane, his jaw crushed so badly 
 that he could scarcely talk, yet able to express 
 his gratitude for the painstaking kindness of this 
 little group of American women. The one thing 
 most desired by this Care Committee is American 
 magazines and papers, the only way to secure 
 which is to order from the publishers. Only the 
 individual order can be sent, no packages are 
 allowed.
 
 292 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 Yielding to what was now a habit, I started 
 for the Red Cross headquarters where I found 
 Major Endicott in charge. Here were hundreds 
 of wives of soldiers making surgical dressings. 
 So painstaking were they in the preparation of 
 these that not even a stray thread was allowed 
 for fear it might irritate a wound. 
 
 Not far from here is the statue of Florence 
 Nightingale. Statues, as well as men, have their 
 day. This statue reflects the heart of London in 
 the war, a fresh wreath of flowers being placed 
 there daily. 
 
 Rodehampton Hospital specializes in artificial 
 limbs. One man treated walked for the visitors, 
 who were asked to guess which one was the arti- 
 ficial limb. One guessed the right and another 
 the left. 
 
 "Wrong," he laughed, "both the bloomin' pegs 
 are gone." 
 
 In one of the hospitals I found the son of a 
 friend. His mother had asked me to look him up 
 and to ascertain why he had not written. I found 
 he was recovering rapidly, not at all anxious to 
 get out, for he had fallen in love with his nurse. 
 "We are engaged," he whispered, and I came away 
 whistling "I don't want to get well, I'm in love 
 with a beautiful nurse."
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 293 
 
 St. Dunstan's Hospital was for blind soldiers. 
 The structure was formerly the home of Otto 
 Kahn of New York, now turned over by him for 
 a hospital. Here I saw the blind enjoying them- 
 selves on roller skates or being taught useful 
 occupations. Sir Arthur Pearson, founder of 
 Pearson's Magazine, is in charge, devoting his 
 time to the relief of the blind. 
 
 On Carlton Terrace, standing with a group of 
 Americans, in which there was a mixture of 
 Englishmen, we saw Colonel Whitman's regiment 
 swing by with that peculiar freedom of movement 
 of the shoulders made possible, so it is said, by the 
 wearing of belts rather than braces. As they 
 passed in review of King George V, at Buckingham 
 Palace, he was heard to say: 
 
 "The boys look fine. They have the swing of 
 confidence.*' 
 
 The King recently threw out a baseball at a 
 game between the American Army and Navy. 
 The comments of a London newspaper writer 
 about the game was an appreciative observation 
 on the American national sport. 
 
 It was an inspiring moment when American 
 troops swung down the Pall Mall lined on either 
 side with the Stars and Stripes. Following the 
 troops was a gray-bearded Civil War veteran
 
 294 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 carrying a little flag. Every American in our 
 party uncovered. The British pay honor to 
 the King, while Americans venerate the flag as 
 expressing an ideal. 
 
 All unexpected to him, undoubtedly, I wrote 
 the King extending my felicitations. My English 
 and American friends laughed at my informal 
 manner; yet in twelve hours I had received a 
 reply from the King's Secretary, thanking me 
 for the fine spirit of my letter. 
 
 Meeting the leaders of the American Labor 
 Mission, my friend, McCormick, told me how 
 they had been received by the King. I said to 
 him: "I think I ought to call on the King before 
 I leave." The Embassy arranged the matter, but 
 the date set was after that on which I was due to 
 sail. Mr. Shucraft, the secretary of the Embassy 
 said: 
 
 "I know the Assistant Secretary to the King 
 and will advise him of your early departure." 
 
 Borrowing a frock coat and a silk hat and a pair 
 of white spats from an English friend, forty -four 
 stout, and buying a cane and pair of lavender 
 gloves, I started for Buckingham Palace. Stand- 
 ing at the foot of the Strand until I could get a 
 cab which seemed to correspond to my attire, and 
 entering the "chariot," I said to myself, as I lolled
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 295 
 
 at a patrician angle on the cane with care-flung 
 gloves: "They'll think a real duke is coming now." 
 
 As I went toward Buckingham Palace I saw 
 English soldiers nearby training with gas masks. 
 I then wondered how my voice would work in 
 the presence of royalty. 
 
 I rolled up the graveled drive to the palace. 
 Alighting I asked for the Assistant Secretary. 
 I was escorted into a large room and while waiting, 
 spent my time in looking at the pictures on the 
 walls. The King was leaving that day for Sand- 
 ringham. One by one other men gathered until 
 there was quite a group. Finally the attendant 
 appeared and motioning that we were to follow, I 
 found myself in the room where stood the King of 
 England. The first glimpse I had of him was with 
 his back toward me. As the different men melted 
 away and my turn came, the attendant presented 
 me. I extended greetings. He bowed and said 
 in his quiet democratic way : 
 
 "It is always a delight to meet you Americans." 
 There was something so good, noble and earnest 
 in the way he said it. I bowed and earnestly paid 
 my tribute to the kingly man and manly king, and 
 with the same spirit as I would sing the "Star 
 Spangled Banner," I now would sing "God Save 
 the King."
 
 XXVI 
 
 HOMEWARD BOUND— SMOKE TALK 
 
 SEATED on wooden benches, like school 
 children in the old days, the few who were 
 to sail that morning waited in the Landing 
 Stage at Liverpool. Every person was separately 
 examined, for once on board, it was to stay. 
 
 Out in the Channel lay the great ship which was 
 to take us home. To reach her we boarded a 
 tender. The skies were pouring rain, and though 
 soon wet to the skin, none of the enthusiasm for 
 the voyage was lost. To be home again! To tell 
 the people what I had seen with my own eyes! 
 To relate experiences, probably given to no other 
 man of my capacity in equal space and time! 
 To carry the messages from soldier-boys at the 
 front to fathers and mothers! To bear greetings 
 from Premiers and Cabinet officers! That was 
 my purpose. I knew not what precious cargo was 
 aboard our ship, but in my brain and heart I 
 carried a wealth untold. 
 
 (296)
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 297 
 
 What a thrill swept over me as I first learned that 
 our ship was the Carmania — she of the charmed 
 life. Had she not been reported sunk a number 
 of times? Three hundred and three shots were 
 in her hull. Five had penetrated below the water 
 line. She had been through the battle of the 
 Falkland Islands, but — she was still afloat. Then, 
 too, she was in the hands of Captain Irwin, still 
 undaunted, who had seen two ships torpedoed 
 from under him. 
 
 Near us lay the great Aquatania — the largest 
 ship alive. In her great arms she was tenderly 
 bearing the wounded soldiers home. 
 
 Once on board there was a long wait of nearly 
 twenty -four hours. In our squadron were eight 
 ships, and we were waiting for convoy. After 
 what seemed an interminably long time, the con- 
 voy appeared, steaming out of moorings to take 
 their place in the line on either side. There were 
 seven. Outside the line of our ships were the 
 big battle craft, while outside of these were the 
 destroyers, which, during the voyage, darted in 
 and out, ahead, astern, and between the battle 
 craft, always steering a zigzag course, humming 
 like a hornet, and looking as spiteful. 
 
 Now we are moving down the Channel! The 
 ship was threading the graveyard of the Mersey.
 
 298 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 Masts of sunken ships push out of the water here 
 and there, mute reminders of the myriad tragedies 
 of the past four years! 
 
 Not once during the first three days out to sea 
 did our convoy relax its vigilance. When we 
 reached a certain longitude, the convoy swung 
 off; each of the eight ships was left to its own 
 defense, and each began to steer a different course. 
 In a few hours it was hulls down on the horizon, 
 and our good ship was alone. So rapidly did she 
 zigzag, that, walking the deck one evening with 
 the sun directly astern, by the time I had crossed 
 the deck, where I had seen the sun on that side, I 
 now saw it on the other. 
 
 It was here, on my first day at sea, that I 
 asked a stranger for a match. That match lighted 
 a most enjoyable friendship, for the donor, Mr. 
 H. E. Worthington, an Englishman by birth, and 
 now a resident of Philadelphia, became my seat- 
 mate and companion. 
 
 Our passenger list numbered thirty-eight, only 
 two of whom were women. The smoke room, 
 then, naturally became the inner shrine of the 
 ship, and it was not long before it became an open 
 forum, where topics pertaining to the war were 
 threshed out. 
 
 Our party formed a very cosmopolitan company.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 299 
 
 Among others were Dr. George E. Vincent, 
 president of the Rockefeller Foundation; Dr. 
 Livingston Farrand, tuberculosis expert, who 
 had been in France for a year; a Y. M. C. A. 
 secretary from America; the president of the 
 British Seaman's Union, and a native of New 
 Zealand; a lieutenant of the British Army, who 
 had been serving in South Africa, teaching natives 
 how to use machine guns; a captain of the British 
 Army from Australia; a soldier from New Zealand; 
 a Y. M. C. A. secretary from India, Rev. Joseph 
 Clare, for five years minister of the British- 
 American Church at Petrograd; expert aviators 
 from the British Air Force; an aviator from 
 Argentina, and a nurse from Nova Scotia. The 
 commander of the convoy detailed by the Ad- 
 miralty had been for many years the captain of 
 tramp steamers all over the world. Of all the 
 company he alone seemed indisposed to talk, but 
 he was a hard listener. 
 
 The forumesque character of the evening gath- 
 erings soon assumed definite shape. My friend 
 Worthington, extremely modest, was persuaded 
 to act as judge advocate. Dr. Vincent, whose 
 father was the founder of Chautauqua, and who 
 had listened to all sorts of oratory for forty years, 
 was chosen presiding officer. His task was to
 
 300 Well Stick to the Finish 
 
 keep the speakers within the time limit. He 
 proved to possess a rare combination of wit and 
 repartee. 
 
 From the personnel of the party, it seemed as if 
 the ends of the earth had been brought together. 
 "Parson" Clare had been in Russia during the 
 Revolution, and his sidelights of the situation 
 there were most illuminating. Representatives 
 from Africa, New Zealand, Australia, India, 
 France, Great Britain, Canada and the United 
 States made contributions to a better under- 
 standing of war conditions. Some of these were 
 called upon once, but two of us, I remember, 
 were called upon every night. It might be said, 
 however, that we were on the program committee. 
 
 An illuminating argument came personally to my 
 attention one day. Two English lads coming to 
 America had been having an animated discussion. 
 They chose me as arbiter. One said, "How many 
 stars are there in your flag and how many stripes 
 has it?" One contended that it had sixty-four stars 
 and nine stripes. It gave me an opportunity to 
 deliver one Flag Day oration on a subject with 
 which every child in our public schools is familiar 
 when he pledges allegiance to the flag. 
 
 During the progress of the voyage there was 
 one exciting moment. It was when the foam of a
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 301 
 
 torpedo hissed astern of the ship. From that 
 moment the captain posted a notice of warning 
 that each must wear life preservers — eating, sleep- 
 ing or waking. Then began the life-boat drill in 
 earnest. 
 
 The journey also afforded an opportunity to 
 inspect the ship. Under the gracious guidance 
 of Captain Irwin, I was shown the accommoda- 
 tions for our boys who are being taken across. 
 The ship had capacity for about two thousand 
 seven hundred, or all she dared to carry and 
 "get off." Every possible comfort was provided. 
 Many of the officers and soldiers have staterooms, 
 but an additional bed has been built in the space 
 between the two tiers of regular bunks on the side 
 by taking out the partition. Each stateroom is 
 scrupulously clean and provided with fresh sheets 
 and clean blankets. Hammocks serve as a resting 
 place for the others during the night. All in all, our 
 boys go across under most comfortable conditions. 
 
 MacDonald, the chief engineer of the ship, was 
 aboard the Carmania when she was fighting in the 
 battle of the Falkland Islands. 
 
 On the bow of the ship the triangle paroplanes 
 were placed the last night out. These cut the 
 wires of the mines and set them adrift. We then 
 knew that it was the last dav at sea. As we neared
 
 302 We'll Stick to the Finish 
 
 the end of our journey, they were hauled up. 
 They were covered with fish, partly dressed and 
 masticated ready for a meal, if anybody wanted 
 one of that kind. 
 
 Finally Ambrose Light hove in sight. We 
 had received the wireless news of enemy sub- 
 marines in American waters. This explained the 
 bits of wreckage we had seen. As we came nearer, 
 airplanes were hovering about and observation 
 balloons stationed in the air were watching for 
 submarines. Our ship was still zigzagging. The 
 bell in the pilot house was ringing every ten 
 minutes, the signal to change the course. The 
 submarine could not fire a torpedo inside of 
 fifteen minutes. When we caught a glimpse of 
 Staten Island there was a cheerful look on the 
 faces, its emerald green flashing in the red of the 
 sky like an opal. 
 
 And now we are abeam of the Statue of Liberty. 
 If a fitting scene for the close of a most memorable 
 journey were desired, nothing more dramatic 
 could have been laid than that which was staged. 
 Fifty -five ships, the decks piled high with supplies, 
 guns bristling fore and aft, camouflaged in baffling 
 designs, were passing the Statue of Liberty on 
 their way to France. 
 
 America was busy.
 
 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 303 
 
 These cargoes carry on the war pledge of "our 
 entire resources," but in the transports bearing 
 our soldiers overseas is carried the treasure untold. 
 Your boy and my boy — from a million homes — 
 have sailed for France, and gazed long upon this 
 emblem consecrated to liberty, whose arm is ever 
 uplifted while facing the glowing east, where the 
 hope and love of our evening prayers greet the 
 rising sun of tomorrow.

 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL 
 
 AA 000 832 99 
 
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