Passed by the censor; the experience of an American newspaper man in France

Front matter

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Preface

Special correspondents in great numbers have come from America into the European '^zone of military activity," and in almost equal numbers have they gone out, to write their impressions, their descriptions, their histories, their romances and songs.

Other correspondents who are not "special," but who by the grace of the military authorities have been permitted to enter the forbidden territory, and by the favor of the censor have been allowed to tell what they saw there, have entered it again and again at regular intervals.

These are the ** regular" correspondents, who lived in Europe before war was declared, and who during many idle hours speculated on what they would do with that great arm of their vocation — the cable — when the expected hour of conflict arrived.

Few of their plans worked out, and new ones were formed on the minute — on the second. For the Grermans did not cut the cable, as some of the

PREFACE

correspondents, in moments of despair, almost hoped they would do, and the great American public clamored insistently for the *'news" with its breakfast.

It is a journalist's methods in covering the biggest, the hardest ''story" that newspapers were ever compelled to handle, that this book attempts to describe.

Wythe Williams.

Paris, October, 1915.

Former Premier of France.

**In the crowded picture which this American journalist has presented we recognize our men as they are. And he pronounces such judgment as to arouse our pride in our friends, our brothers and our children. Such a people are the French of to-day. They must also be the French of to-morrow. Through them France sees herself regenerate.

*'0f our army, Mr. "Wythe Williams says :

** 'It seems to me to be invincible from the standpoints of power, intelligence and humanity.'

*'Is there not in that something like a judgment pronounced upon France before the people of the world? Where I am particularly surprised, I admit, is that the eye of a foreigner should have been so penetrating, and that our friendly guest should have coupled the idea of an * invincible ' army with the supreme ethical consideration of its 'humanity. '

AN ENDORSEMENT

*'Mr. Wythe Williams is right to proclaim this, even though it is something of a stroke of genius for a non-Frenchman to have discovered it.'* — (From an editorial in L'Eomme Enchaine.)

LETTER TO THE AUTHOR FROM SENATOR LAFAYETTE YOUNG

My Dear Williams:

I am glad to know that you are going to write about the war in book form. In doing this you are discharging a plain duty. You have been in the war from the start. You have studied the soldier in the trench, and out. You have witnessed every phase of battle. The war is in your system. You are full of it. Therefore, you can write concerning it with inspiration and fervor.

I remember our long marches in and near the trenches in Northern France in April and May, last. I know how deeply you are interested; therefore, I know how well you will write.

A thousand historians will write books concerning the present great conflict, but the real historians will be the honest, independent observers such as you have been.

Newspaper reports will be the basis of every battle's history.

Take the battle of the Marne, for instance. Who knows so well concerning it as men like your-

LETTER FROM SENATOR YOUNG

self, who were in Paris or near it during the seven days' conflict?

The passing years may bring dignified historians who will compose sentences which shall sound well, but none of them will be so full of real history as your volume if you write your own experiences.

I never knew a man freer from prejudice, and at the same time fuller of enthusiasm than yourself. I want you to write your book with the same free hand you write for the New Yorh Times. Forget for the time that you are writing a book.

I am pleased to know that you have been with the army several times since I parted company with you. This, with your experience as an ambulance driver, when the first hostilities were on, has certainly made you a military writer worth while.

I count you to be one of the three best and most truthful American correspondents who have been in the war from the start.

I am hoping the time will come when these wars shall end, when bright men like yourself shall return to the work of journalism in America.

With greatest affection, I subscribe myself,

Lafayette Youhtg.

CHAPTER PAGE

XI Under the Croix Rouge ....... 120

(A) Trevelyan

(B) The Rue Jeanne d'Are

(C) Those from Quesnoy-sur-Somme

PART FOUR WAR-CORRESPONDING DE LUXE XII Out with Captain Blank 145 XIII Joffre 157

XIV The Man op the Marne and the Yser . . . 172 XV The Battle op the Labyrinth 184

XVI "With the Honors of War" 193

XVII Sister Julie, Chevalier op the Legion op

Honor 209

XVIII The Silent Cannon 226

XIX D'Artagnan and the Soul op France . . . 230

PART FIVE THREE CHAPTERS IN CONCLUSION XX A Rearpost op War 245

XXI Myths 256

XXII When Chenal Sings the "Marseillaise" . . 264

AN INTRODUCTION By Myeon T. Herrick,

Former United States Ambassador to France.

The rigid censorship placed on journalism upon the declaration of war in Europe brought the representatives of the American press into close relationship with the Embassy. The news which they brought to the Embassy and such news as they received there, required unusual discretion, frankness and confidence on the part of all concerned in order that the American public should receive accurate information, while avoiding the commission of any improprieties against the countries involved in the great conflict.

In this supreme test the American newspaper representatives appreciated that they were something more than mere purveyors of news; they arose to the full comprehension of their responsibility, and were of invaluable assistance to the Embassy, and through it to the nation.

While there has been no opportunity to read the advance sheets of this book, my confidence in the

Introduction

character and ability of the author, begotten in those days when real merit, and demerit as well, were revealed, makes it a pleasure to write this foreword, and to commend this volume unseen. (Signed)

A FOREWORD

At the outbreak of the European war, the author, who was then stationed in Paris as the correspondent of the New York Times, was refused, with all other correspondents, any credentials permitting him to enter the fighting area. He entered it later, immediately after the battle of the Mame, with what were in Paris considered sufficient credentials. But he was arrested, returned to Paris as a prisoner of war and lodged in the Cherche Midi prison, the famous military prison, where Dreyfus was confined. He was released upon the intervention of Ambassador Herrick, but still baffled in getting to the front as a war correspondent, he volunteered for service in the Red Cross as an orderly on a motor ambulance. A few of the descriptions in the following pages are written from notes made during the two months he remained in that service.

At the beginning of 1915, the author was officially accredited as a correspondent attached to the French army, and at the beginning of Feb-

Foreword

ruary sent to his paper the longest cable despatch permitted to pass the censor since the beginning of the war, and the first authentic detailed description of the French forces after the battle of the Marne.

The following spring, at the height of the first great French offensive north of Arras, the famous ground, every yard of which is stained with both French and German blood, the author was selected by the French Ministry of War as the only neutral correspondent permitted there. The first description given to America of the battle of the Labyrinth was the result.

Since then the author has made a number of trips to the front, always under the escort of an officer of the Great General Headquarters Staff, and has seen practically the entire line of the French trenches, up to the moment of the autumn offensive in Champagne. He was the first American correspondent to foreshadow this offensive in a long cable to his paper at the end of August, in which he asserted that the attack would commence ' ' before the leaves are red, ' ' that being the only wording of the facts permitted by the censor, but which exactly timed the date of the action. A few of the following chapters have been rewritten from the author's article published in the New

FOREWORD

York Times, to which acknowledgment is made for permission to use such material. The author however wishes alone to stand sponsor for the sentiments and opinions expressed throughout the volume.

PAET ONE THE HECTIC WEEK

CHAPTEK I

THE DAY

A MEMBER of the Garde Republicaine, whose duty was to keep order in the court, was creating great disorder by climbing over the shoulders of the mob in the press section. He ousted friends of the white-faced prisoner in the dock, to make room for a fat reporter from Petit Parisien, who ordinarily did finance but was now relieving a confrere at the lunch hour. The case in court was that of the famous affaire Caillaux and all the world was reading bulletins concerning its progress as fast as special editions could supply them.

I was sitting in the last of the over-crowded rows allotted to the press, but filled with whoever got there first. I was one of the few Americans permitted to cover this important ** story" first hand, instead of having to write my nightly cables from reports in the evening papers.

As the Petit Parisien man wheezed and jostled his way to a seat on the bench just in front of me, I caught some words he flung to a friend in passing. Maitre Labori was proclaiming the innocence of the prisoner with all the fervor for which he is celebrated, and I was wondering how soon an adjournment would let us escape from the stifling heat of the room. It was the latter part of July, 1914 ; and true to French custom all of the windows were shut tight.

The words of the fat reporter pricked my flagging attention, ' ' There is a panic on the Bourse. ' '

The words caused a buzz of comment all around me. One English journalist, monocled and superior, even stopped his writing, and the financial reporter, his fat body half crowded into his seat, paused midway to add: "The Austrian note to Serbia that has got them all scared."

Another French newspaperman some seats away overheard the talk and joined in loudly. It did not matter how much we talked during the proceedings of the affaire Caillaux. Everybody talked. Often everybody talked at the same moment. This journalist prefaced his remarks by a derisive laugh.

''They are crazy on the Bourse," he said. ''You may be sure that nothing matters now in

THE DAY 3

France but this trial. No panic, or Austrian note, or Russian note or anything, will rival it as a newspaper story, I am certain."

The fat reporter again wheezed into speech.

"I do not know very much concerning this affaire Caillaux," he replied, ^'but I will bet you money that the verdict will not get a top headline."

''Why?" cried some of us, mocking and incredulous.

"Because of what I've told you. There is a panic on the Bourse."

The presiding judge announced the luncheon adjournment ; we trooped to the basement restaurant of the Palais de Justice. I found myself sitting at a table with the superior Englishman. We discussed the qualities of French cuisine for a moment ; then he said :

*'It will be jolly annoying if this Bourse business develops into war, you know."

This was the first mention that I remember of the word ''war" in connection with the events that followed so fast for the next few weeks, that now as I look back upon them, they do not seem real at all. One week to the day following this luncheon, I remember saying to a fellow newspaper correspondent, "Is it a week, or is it a year, since we had Peace in the world!" But at the first mention of the word — the first premonition of the nearness of the tragedy that was descending upon Europe — I remember signaling somewhat abstractedly to a waiter, and giving him an order for food.

Every one of the Americans who covered that session of the Caillaux trial had lived in Europe for years; and the majority were to remain as onlookers of the great war that had been so long predicted. But on this day none of us realized, and none of us knew; and that was the greater part of all our troubles.

I remember a conversation only a few weeks before all this happened, with Mr. Charles K. Miller, the editor of the New York Times, who was passing through Paris on his return to New York from Carlsbad. He asked me when I intended going home, and I replied to him as I had to many others :

**Not until they pull off this war over here. I have been in the newspaper game ever since I left college, but I have never been lucky enough to cover a war. So I do not propose to miss this one. ' '

Then came the invariable question:

''When do you think it will come?"

THE DAY 5

I had my reply ready. All of us had made it many times.

*'0h, perhaps in a few years. Perhaps it will not be so very long."

The next remark of at least half the persons with whom I discussed the question was, "Pooh, pooh, there'll never be a European war." Mr. Miller only said, "What will you do when it comes?"

Again the reply was pat to hand, but how vague it seems now, in the light of then fast approaching events! It was:

"There will be warning enough to make our plans for beating the censor, I am certain."

It is easy enough to look back now and declare that incidents such as Agadir, the Balkan war and Sarejebo should have been sufficient handwriting on the wall. All those affairs were exactly that, but we simply could not grasp the idea, that actual Armageddon could come without at least months of announcement — time enough for all of us to make our plans. In this I do not think we should be blamed, for we followed so exactly the fatuous beliefs of even foreign ministries. That the great moment should come in a week never entered our imaginations.

We filed back to the court room on that afternoon of the Caillanx trial and fought for the last time the twice daily battle for our seats. I sat beside the superior Englishman. We listened idly to famous politicians and famous doctors and famous lawyers garbling as best they could the dead question of the murder of Gaston Calmette, and the more burning though irrelevant one as to whether Joseph Caillaux was a traitor.

My companion and I discovered that our arrangements for a summer vacation included the same tiny Brittany hamlet by the sea. We passed a portion of the afternoon making mutual plans for the coming month, and at the adjournment drove away from the ancient building on the banks of the Seine in the same fiacre, both trying to align the chief features of the day's sitting, and planning the writing of our night's despatches.

After an hour at my desk that evening, I remember turning to Mr. Walter Duranty, my chief assistant, and saying, "It is about two thousand words to-night. With all the direct testimony that the Associated Press is sending, it ought to lead the paper to-morrow morning. Mark it 'rush.' "

''But about this panic on the Bourse story! Don't you think we should send a special on that?" Mr. Duranty asked.

THE DAY 7

''Why I" I questioned.

"Because there is an Austrian brokerage firm that has been selling like mad — started all the trouble; it is the identical firm that two years ago — " His voice broke off suddenly. "Listen!" he then shouted. We made a rush to the front windows looking upon the Boulevard des Italiens near the Opera.

The street was seething, which signified exactly nothing, for the Caillaux case had kept the boulevards stirred up for days.

"They are yelling, 'Down with Caillaux!' " I said, as we tore open the window sashes.

"No — it's something else."

We leaned far out. Under the lights moved thousands of heads. Hundreds were reading the latest editions, but in the middle of the road a mob was surging, and we heard a monotonous cry. It was a cry heard that night in Paris for the first time in forty-four years.

The mob was shouting, "To Berlin!"

I slammed shut the window. "Cut that Caillaux cable to a thousand words," I yelled, as I seized my hat, ran down the stairs, and plunged into the crowd, snatching the latest editions as I ran.

The Austro-Serb and Russian news had become worse witliin a few hours, and there were already rumors of Franco-German frontier incidents. I hurried along the boulevards, calling at the offices of the Matin and the London Daily Mail, but could get no inside information ; nothing but official announcements which would be cabled by the news agencies, and did not interest me, the correspondent of a paper receiving all agency matter.

Later I returned to my office, cabled a story that pictured the scene in the boulevards and gave some details concerning the Austrian brokerage firm that had precipitated the trouble on the Bourse by its selling orders. My paper alone carried the next morning the significant information that this same Austrian house, with high Vienna connections, had made an enormous fortune just two years before, when it had accurate and precise information concerning the hour that the conflict in the Balkans would begin.

This story was a "beat" — probably it was the first **beat" of the European war, but it was almost lost in the mass of heavy despatches that on that night began crowding the cables from every capital in Europe. The next morning probably every newspaper in the world led its columns with the subject of war. Even in Paris the affaire Caillaux was relegated to the second page.

Chapter II The Night

A ''beat'* or a ''scoop," otherwise known as exclusive news, is a great matter to a newspaper man. To "put over a beat" gives soul satisfaction, but to be beaten causes poignant feeling of another sort.

There have been some great beats and a multitude of little ones, but up to the beginning of the European war, the greatest beat that was ever put over came from a Paris correspondent.

This was the occasion when Henri de Blowitz, the famous representative of the London Times, gave the full text of the treaty of Berlin before the hour when it was actually signed. That was a real beat, not to be classified with the majority of beats of later years, which were often scandalous, more often paltry, and which often caused us to wonder whether they were worth the cable tolls.

In ante-bellum discussions, the Paris correspondents often opined that the coming conflict would open a more important field. At least we would no longer chronicle the silly ways of fashion and the crazy ways of society. The turf, the mannequin, the Eue de la Paix, and those who drank tea at the Pre Catalan would give way to real and stirring matters. We all schemed to put over a real beat as soon as the war drums began to roll and the new Paris was revealed. The old Paris, in the minds of American editors, had only been an important place for unimportant things.

Looking back now at the beginnings of Armageddon, and at the particular corner in which I performed a minor role, I can say generally that all our schemes went wrong and that there were no "beats" of the slightest importance secured by anybody. Eemember, I am only speaking of Paris and France. There were a few great beats elsewhere. There was the famous "scrap of paper" interview given to the Associated Press. There were some exclusive interviews secured in both Germany and England. But France, the real theater of action, where beats were expected, was quite the equal of Japan in her sudden tight sealing of every crevice from which news either big or little might leak.

France had learned several lessons from the year 1870, but this one she learned almost too well.

THE NIGHT ii

So far as the neutral opinion of the world was concerned, it was scarcely known that France had an army. Later, but much later, and then very gradually, some real stories were passed by the censor — but even then very few of them were beats.

But during the hectic week when France went to war the censorship was almost overlooked and there were a few precious hours during which the correspondents and their methods of communication were free. The first sign of the censor was the shutting off of the telephone between Paris and London. It had been my custom to talk with our London office nightly in order that the news of the two capitals might be checked, and that we might not duplicate stories.

The second night following the events of the foregoing chapter I talked to our London bureau for the last time. All that day my mind had been busy with one idea : ' ' If war is declared, how can we beat the censor T'

The first answer that probably occurred to every correspondent was : ' ' Code. ' ' Alas, events moved too quickly. A secret code was a matter that might have been arranged had we been given our expected months of notice, but there was no time now.

I gave the call for our London office, however, with this idea still uppermost in mind. I waited a quarter of an hour to be put through. Then I heard the voice of my colleague. It sounded harassed. I shall never forget his first remark after the communication was established. I could almost see him pass a hand over a fevered brow ; I could almost hear the sigh that I am sure accompanied the words which were :

''My gracious, I never expected to live to see such days as these!"

It was quite natural that he should have said just that, but somehow there did not seem any fitting reply. Also it seemed rather hopeless to talk about codes. So I said:

*'I am told that we will not be allowed to telephone after to-night."

He replied: ** That's a fact. I guess this is good-by for a while." He paused — then as an afterthought, added: "I think you would better just send everything you can from Paris without paying any heed to whether London does or not. ' '

Inasmuch as a moment had arrived when there was only one possible way to do many things, I quite agreed with him.

The conversation lagged.

"Well, good-by," I shouted.

THE NIGHT 13

*'Good-by," he replied, "and good luck."

That was the end of the telephone as an adjunct to transatlantic journalism. I have never spoken with our London office from that night.

After hanging up the receiver I had an idea.

It did not and does not now seem a particularlybrilliant one ; but, again, it was the only possible thing to do. I turned to Mr. Duranty and said:

"We will have a little race with the censor. We will crowd everything possible on the cable before he gets on the job."

All the late editions were on my desk. I clipped and pasted everything of interest on cable forms and sent them to the Bourse. Mr. Duranty took them himself, "just to see if there were any signs of the censor," as he expressed it. Then I began to write, interrupted continually by my dozen extra assistants. I had hired every freelance newspaper man I could find — and I had also a number of volunteers, young American visitors, too interested in events to be in a hurry to get out of the city.

The night was warm and the windows all open. The boulevards were dense with shouting people. There was no mistaking the cries on this night. "A Berlin — A Berlin," echoed above the roar of the traffic and the mob. Cuirassiers frequently rode through the streets but the crowd immediately surged in behind them.

At ten o 'clock the concierge mounted to protest against the street door being open. She was afraid. She was alone in the loge. I told her that the business of the office required the doors kept unlocked. She went away and in a few moments came back with the proprietor of the building, whom she had called by telephone. He insisted on closing the street door. I told him this was a violation of my lease. In view of the circumstances he persisted in his demand. I wheeled my chair about and said to him:

' ' This office remains open — all night if I desire. It is a newspaper office and we cannot close. If you interfere with me I guarantee that I will keep a man there, but if necessary that man will be a soldier."

''What do you mean?" he asked,

"I mean that I will apply to the American Embassy for the protection of my rights as an American citizen."

He went away and that difficulty ended.

I turned back to my work. I wrote thousands of words that night ; when not writing I was dictating, and piecing together the reports of my assistants.

THE NIGHT 15

Mr. Duranty returned from the Bourse. His clothes were awry and he was trembling with excitement. He had diverged, in his return trip, to the Gare du Nord, to get a story of the stormy scenes there — thousands, chiefly Americans, fighting for places in the trains for England. He had been arrested, he explained. Oh, yes, he had been surrounded by a mob at the Grare, who spotted him as a foreigner, and the police had rescued him. He explained his identity and was released.

At the end of the story he suddenly leaped across the room to the window. I leaped at the same moment and so did the stenographer. Across the boulevard was a store that dealt in objects of art. The proprietor was a German. During the day he had boarded the place with stout planks. As we reached the window the sound of splitting and tearing planks sounded above even the cries and roars of the angry people. One look and Duranty was out of the office and in the street.

I sat in the window and watched the mob do its work. The torn planks were used as battering rams through the plate glass, through the expensive statuary and costly vases. In five minutes the place was a ruin. Then the cuirassiers came and drove the crowd away. Duranty returned with the details of the story. I asked him what the police had said to the crowd.

*'A man came out holding a marble Adonis by the arm," he replied. ''A cop said to him, 'Be good now — be good!' and the chap replied, 'Well, if I can't smash it, you smash it!' — So the cop took it and leaped upon it with both feet."

"Write it," I said; "also the Gare du Nord story. ' '

It was midnight and the uproar was greater than ever. Processions blocks long wended through the middle of the streets singing the "Marseillaise," the "Carmagnole" and other fire-eating songs of the Revolution. Through it all I worked, and steadily sent messenger after messenger to the Bourse with the latest news from the various scenes of action. No signs yet of the censor.

About one o'clock the crowd concentrated just below my window. The cries grew fiercer and louder, with a more terrible note. I went to the window. The faces of the mob were turned to an upper window of the building next door. Some rash voice had shouted from that window a cry that no man might shout that night in Paris with safety. He had cried: "Hurrah for Germany!"

I crawled out on my window ledge and watched.

THE NIGHT 17

The crowd filled the street completely. They watched that upper window, they yelled their rage and they battered against a great grilled iron door that baffled their efforts. The police tried to disperse them, but as soon as the street was partly cleared they surged back again. They hung about that door, their faces turned up, the hate showing in their eyes, their mouths open, bellowing forth their rage. They waited as patiently as wolves that have surrounded a quarry that must come out to meet them soon. But the waiting was so long that I crawled back from my window ledge into the office.

I finished a despatch that I had compiled from various documents given out to the morning papers by the Foreign Ministry, and of which I had secured a copy. They were an undisputable proof thaf Germany meant war on France, for they noted a dozen incidents proving that German mobilization had been under way for days. The dawn was breaking as I pushed my chair from the desk.

I told the stenographer and other assistants to go home and get some sleep — not to report again until late afternoon. Duranty, who, like myself, kept no hours but worked always while there was work to do, sauntered into the private room. He had counted the words of copy that had been filed that night — nearly twenty thousand.