WHEN the European War began, Henry Weston Farnsworth, '12, was in Mexico as a correspondent of the Providence Journal. An eager lover of life outside the beaten paths, he had already seen something of one war --- in the Balkans --- and had published a book, "The Log of a Would-be War-Correspondent." Again he set out for Europe, and before the end of 1914 found himself in Paris, a candidate for enlistment in the Foreign Legion of the French Army. The following passages from his letters between January 1 and September of 1915 will give some glimpses of the heroic service in which he met his death at Tahure on September 29, 1915. His schoolmate at Groton and fellow graduate of Harvard, Victor Chapman, '13, whose own death in the French aviation service nine months later is recounted in the later pages of this book, was also a member of the Legion when Farnsworth fell, and on November 2, 1915, wrote thus of his death to Groton School:

"I suppose you have heard by now that Henry Farnsworth was killed in Champagne in the last days of September. A brave fellow he was and a gallant one. The two or three times I met him at college he made little impression; but in the months I knew him in the Legion, I respected him and enjoyed him more and more. When everything was going badly, . . . he was always optimistic, serene, and an immense moral force in his company. 'Leave the Legion? Never!' When we were transferred to the 2me de Marche and the true Legion, then he was exultant. Many of the 2me felt insulted to be put with the ‘desperate characters,' but he only told them since they had come to fight they should be the more happy to be put with the most fearless --- perhaps the most famous regiment in France, since the 9th of May and the 16th of June. I knew he could have wished for nothing more glorious than to die as he did when the Étrangère covered itself with honor on the 29th. The Tirailleurs Algériens flinched on the right, but his battalion went on and was demolished."

The ensuing passages from Henry Farnsworth's letters to his family shall be anticipated by no more than a single, censored passage from one of them: "If anything happens to me you can be sure that it was on the way to victory, for these troops have been . . . but never beaten."

PARIS, January 1, 1915.

I AM trying to join the Legion. Of course, I may have to drill for two, or even three months, and that will delay matters; but on the other hand, a company of recruits was sent right into the first line after two weeks' training, to replace a company that had been wiped out. The new volunteers in the Legion --- those that joined during the month of September --- were sent forward in November and have had heavy losses. That may mean that we shall be wanted to fill up gaps. At the worst we are bound to take part in the big spring campaign when the serious offensive begins, and with a stroke of luck I might be in at the death --- the Prussian death, that is.

January 5.

I GO into barracks here in Paris, and, as soon as a company is ready, onto the front. The joining was to me very solemn. After being stripped and examined as carefully as a horse, and given a certificate of "aptitude," I went to another place and was sworn in. A little old man with two medals and a glistening eye looked over my papers, and then in a strong voice asked if I was prepared to become a soldier of France, and, if asked to, lay down my life for her cause. Then I signed, and was told to report the next morning, and be prepared to start training at once. Lately I have come to love Paris beyond all cities, and now I think in a dim way I can understand how the French love it.

PARIS, January 9, 1915.

I HAVE now been five days in the Legion, and am beginning to feel at home there. We are at present in the barracks of Reuilly, but already there is talk of going to the front. .

As for the Legion ---as far as I have seen it so far --- it is not much like its reputation . . . . In the first place, there is no" tough" element at all. Many of the men are educated, and the very lowest is of the high-class workman type. In my room, for instance, there are "Le Petit Père U----," an old Alsacian, who has already served fourteen years in the Legion in China and Morocco; the Corporal L----, a Socialist well-known in his own district; E----, a Swiss cotton broker from Havre; D---- C---, a newspaper man, and short-story writer, who will not serve in the English Army because his family left England in 1745, with the exception of his father, who was Captain in the Royal Irish Fusiliers; S----, a Fijian student at Oxford, black as ink; H----, a Dane, over six feet whom C----- aptly calls, "the blond beast" (Vide Zarathustra); von somebody, another Dane, very small and young; B----, a Swiss carpenter, born and bred in the Alps, who sings, when given a half litre of canteen wine, far better than most comic-opera stars and who at times does the ranze-des-vaches so that even Petit Père U----- claps; the brigadier M-----, a little Russian; two or three Polish Jews, nondescript Belgians, Greeks, Roumanians, etc. I already have enough to write a long (10,000 word) article, and at the end of the campaign can write a book truly interesting.

We live in the Caserne de Reuilly in the barracks of the 46th régiment de ligne, a very well-known regiment who have been in all the wars since 1650, and have their campaigns painted on the wall. Also it is the oldest and most uncomfortable barracks in town. It is about a mile from the Place de la Bastille and in the quartier du Faubourg St. Antoine. We rise at 6.30, drink one cup of coffee, and drill from 7.30 to 9.30, good fast drill with guns at the regulation French "carry arms," a hellish position, most of the time. At 10.30 la soupe, and rest until 12.30. Then drill till 3.45, clean arms, more soup at 5, and freedom till 8.30. It is hard on those in soft condition, but easy for the others.

C----- is a really interesting man; Harrow, and then all over the world in most capacities. He never mentions it, but I suspect from certain tricks of the trade that I picked up from R-----, whom he knows, that he is no stranger to the British secret service. His acquaintance in Paris is of the amusing type. He has already taken me up to the Daily Mail office ----- where I met some very nice men, among others, S. Ward Pryce, whom I knew slightly in Turkey, and Rourke, whom I knew pretty well in Vera Cruz and Mexico. All these people seem to respect us very much for joining the Legion. C----- is not over respectable, from the New York, New England standpoint, but he is a man and a gentleman, for a' that ---Scotch of course, by descent, although of French upbringing, in spite of an English school.

L----, our Corporal, is also worth knowing ---of Belgian descent, although in Paris since six years of age. He is of the type which brought victory to the French Revolution. Wounded at the beginning of the War, he asked to go back to the front; but when requested to stay and drill recruits, he accepted on the condition that he might remain a corporal. He does not approve of authority, and if all men were like him it would not be necessary. Like all Socialists he likes to argue. Last night, after the lights were out, he began to argue with the cotton broker and became very heated. So much so that C----- was afraid of bad blood. The broker had announced himself as a radical anti-clerical. Finally C---- made himself heard, and L----, angrily asked him his party. "French Traditional Royalist," replied C-----; and L----- gave up with a good-natured laugh. Extremes met. B-----began, "Nous sommes tous les frères," the Legion's song, and all passed over.

March, 1915.

WHEN I wrote to Mother last, bombs were bursting not far away, and two of the bunch had already been slightly hurt, but I was not yet a soldier. Now I am; having just come back from four days in the trenches.

At the moment I am sitting in the sun and writing on the back of a biscuit tin, which came last night to S----. The idleness is explained by the fact that six of us are mounting guard in a little wood outside of the village. I have been washing clothes all the morning, and am now about to cook some macaroni, also the property of S----. The same kind soul has also provided me with some good cigarettes. There is a little hint of warmth in the sun --- only random rifle shots and a distant battery, and the quacking of wild ducks breaks the silence.

I have not the time here to try to put you in the full atmosphere of the trenches and their sensations and reactions. You read the papers and know that there is a deal of mud and water and cold, and not overmuch room. S-----, C-----, and myself are stationed in an avant petit poste. Our cabin was 10 by 5 by 4, and, all of us being lazy souls, filled with no ordinary clutter and dirt. All day we slept, ate, cleaned our trenches and rifles, and smoked S-----'s tobacco. Then came the magic of the nights. At sundown we began to do sentry, hour on and hour off till daylight. We were about 50 metres from the German trenches, and not allowed to shoot (why I don't know). As the night grows and you stand crouching and watching for any sign of life ahead of you, the very air seems to come to life. All is still, nobody talks above a whisper, and all lights are out. From trenches, all along the maze of line, shots crack out and stray impersonal bullets whiz by on unknown errands. A huge rocket candle shoots up and hangs for a moment above the earth lighting up a section of the country; big guns boom out, and shells, like witches riding to a feast, whiz by. Sometimes with a whistle and bang a half dozen "75's" swoop over like a covey of devil's quail, and we stand crouching and watching for any sign of human life. It never came. Just the impersonal bang and whistle.

I must do my cooking now and leave a lot unsaid. We go again to the trenches in two days.

May 19, 1915.

I AM writing once again from a new cantonment, this time after six days in the trenches. Thank God, the repos of our regiment is over. They woke us up at three one morning. "Allez hop! Sac au dos et en route." We trooped off on a hot, muggy morning, and did thirteen kilometres before the grande halte which was held in a small village. Here for the first time it was definitely known that we were bound to relieve a battalion of Tirailleurs Algériens in trenches, some twelve kilometres further on. We ate and lay about on the grass all the afternoon, and at seven heaved up our sacks once more and went off at the command, "Pas de route. En avant marche," which means a long journey ahead. In the gathering darkness we passed through a couple of villages where the Tirailleurs were drawn up on both sides of the streets. As the stars began to come out we approached a black Pelléas et Mélisande sort of forest with high towering oaks and small young birches, and beech in amongst. We passed through a high gateway of ancient brick, with the top of the coat of arms shot off by a shell. Inside the woods it was so dark we had to go in single file, each holding to the back of the other's pack. Big guns were pounding occasionally in their mysterious way, and the big war rockets at times sent their light flickering through the trees so far over our heads. In time we came out on a brick wall, pierced with loop-holes and shattered by shells. All was dim in the starlight, for there was no moon. There the boyau began, two kilometres of it, narrow and deep. Before our backs broke we came to our trenches, and found the Arabs already at the entrance with their sacks beside them. In silence we threw our packs on the cabins allotted. The most of the sections slept, and our squad took the guard. The Arabs went off wishing us good luck, and once more after six weeks I was alone under the stars----peculiar gun-broken silence, watching my section, leaning on my rifle watching the rockets and thinking long thoughts.

May 30, 1915.

. . . Or the last six days in the lines rien à signaler, except two patrols which lacked nothing but the Germans to make them successful. Between the lines is a broad fertile field of beet sugar and clover. It grows high enough to hide a man crawling on his stomach, and in spots even on all fours. It is here that the patrols take place. The first was an attempted ambuscade. Fifteen of us, with an adjutant, a sergeant, and two corporals, went out and hid in a spot where Germans had been seen twice before. None appeared. The next night seven of us were detailed to carry French papers, telling of Italy's declaration of war, into the German lines. We crawled from nine o'clock till 11.30, and succeeded in sticking papers on their barbed wire. They have since then steadily ignored them, much to our disgust.

There is a certain fascination in all this, dull though it may seem. The patrol is selected in the afternoon. At sunset we meet to make the plans and tell each man his duty; then at dark our pockets are filled with cartridges, a drawn bayonet in the belt, and our magazines loaded to the brim. We go along the boyau to the petit poste from which it is decided to leave. All along the line the sentinels wish us good luck and a safe return. In the petit poste we clamp on the bayonets, blow noses, clear throats, and prepare for three hours of utter silence. At a word from the chief we form line in the prearranged order. The sentries wish us luck for the last time, and the chief jumps up on the edge of the trenches and begins to work his way quickly through the barbed wire. Once outside he disappears in the beet weeds, and one after another we follow. Then begins the crawl to the appointed spot. We go slowly with frequent halts. Every sound must by analyzed. On the occasion of the would-be ambush I admit I went to sleep after a while in the warm fresh clover where we lay. It was the adjutant himself who woke me up with a slight hiss, but, as he chose me again next night, he does not seem to have thought it a serious matter. Then too, once home we do not mount guard all the rest of the night and are allowed to sleep in the morning; also there are small but pleasing discussions of the affair and, above all, the hope of some night suddenly leaping out of the darkness, hand to hand with the Germans. . .

June 4, 1915.

. . . There are obvious drawbacks to being a soldier of second class, but I was always a runner after the picturesque, and in good weather am not one who troubles much where I sleep --- or when, and the picturesque is ever with us.

It so happened that the Captain was pleased with our bringing the papers to the Germans, and gave the seven of us twenty francs to prepare a little fête. What an unforgettable supper! There was the Sergeant, Z----, a Greek of classic type who won his spurs at Zanina, and his stripes in the Bulgarian campaign. Since he has been a medical student in Paris---that to please his family, for his heart runs in different channels, and he studies music and draws, in his spare time. From the amount he knows I should judge that "spare" time predominated. We first fell into sympathy over the Acropolis, and cemented a true friendship over Turkish war songs and Byzantine chants, which he sings with a mournful romanticism that I never heard before. Then there was N-----, the Company Clarion, serving his twelfth year in the Legion, an incredible little Swiss, tougher than the drums of the fore and aft, and wise as Nestor in the futile ruses of the regiment.

The Corporal, M----, a Legionary wounded during the winter, and cited for bravery in the order of the army---he was a commercial traveler in his native grand Duchy of Luxembourg, but decided some five years ago to leave his debts and troubles behind him and become a "Petit Zephyr de la Légion Étrangère "; S----, a butcher from the same Grand Duchy, a man of iron physically, and morally and mentally unimportant; C-----, a Greek of Smyrna who might have spread his silks and laces at the feet of a feudal princess and charmed her with his shining eye and wild gestures, into buying beyond her means: he also has been cited for reckless gallantry. S----- and myself brought up the list. We were all in good spirits and flattered, and I being in funds, put in 10 francs and S----- the same. Some of us drank as deep as Socrates, and we ate a mammoth salad under the stars. N----- and M------ talked of the battalion in the Sahara, and Z----- sang his eastern songs, and even S----- was moved to Tongan chants. Like Aeneas on Polyphemus Isle, I feel that some years hence, well out of tune with all surroundings, I shall be longing for the long warm summer days in northern France when we slept like birds under the stars, among congenial friends, when no man ever thought of the morrow, and you changed horizons with each new conversation. . .

June 10, 1915.

. . . I wrote E----- how S----- and I fell in for the job of observateur. It was decided after the first night that the roof where the post was situated was insufficient. Shortly after finishing my letter to E-----, the Captain came along and sent us out to hunt up a better place. We at once seized on the belfry of the ruined church, and found that, though in a terribly delapidated state, it would still bear our weight on the very top. The view from there was excellent. At night-time we mounted for the first time, accompanied by the Russian corporal in charge of us. He turned out to be what we'd call a "married man," meaning one with whom the thoughts of wife and family weigh more than the "lure of danger." The wretched man protested bitterly, but we had already boosted up straw into the room under the belfry, and there was nothing for it but to let us sleep there. Not a shot was fired all night long and the night after we went up in the fortified tower which the artillery had just given up. To the north of us the French have made a successful attack, and to the south there has been terrible rumbling of heavy artillery.

I suppose some day it will have to be our turn. When it does, everything being comparative, I am more and more sure that I shall be able to give a good account of myself. . . .

August, 1915.

. . . The other day we were waked at 2 AM. and at 3 sent off in a pouring rain for some indefinite place across the mountains for a divisional review. We went off slowly through the wet darkness, but about dawn the sun came out, and as is usual with the Legion, everybody cheered up, and at 7 A.M. we arrived at the parade ground, after fifteen kilometres, in very good spirits. The two regiments of Zouaves from Africa were already drawn up. We formed up beside them and then came the two Tirailleurs regiments, their colors with them, then the second Étrangère, 2,000 strong, and finally a squadron of Chasseurs d'Afrique. We all stacked arms and lay about on the grass till 8.30. Suddenly the Zouave bugles crashed out, sounding the "garde à vous," and in two minutes the division was lined up, every man stiff as a board and all the time the bugles ringing angrily from up the line, and the short staccato trumpets of the Chasseurs answering from the other extremity.

The ringing stopped suddenly, and the voices of the colonels crying, "Bayonnettes aux cannons," sounded thin and long drawn out, and were drowned by the flashing rattle of the bayonets going on; a moment of perfect silence and then the slow courtly sounding of the "général, général, qui passe," broken by the occasional crash as regiment after regiment presented arms. Slowly the general rode down the lines with the two brigadiers and a division general in his suite. Then came the Défilé. The Zouaves led off their bugles play "As tu vu la casquette, la casquette." Then the Tirailleurs playing some march of their own, slow and fine, the bugles answering the scream of the Arab reed flutes as though Loeffler had led them. Then the Legion, the 2e Étrangère, swinging in beside us at the double, and all the bugles crashed out with the Legion marching song "Tiens voilà du boudin pour les Belges, y en a pour les Belges y en a parce qu'ils sont des bons soldats ---pour les Suisses y en a et les Alsatiens, Lorraines, etc." --- on and on, went the bugles, playing that light slangy tune, some of the verses of which would make Rabelais shudder and the minor variations of which bring up pictures of the Legion marching with thin ranks in foreign, blazing lands, and the drums of which, tapping slowly sound like the feet of the regiment scrunching through desert sand.

It was all very glorious to see and hear, and, to wind up, the Chasseurs went by at the gallop, going off to their quarters. To wind up the day, the Colonel took us home straight over the mountain --- fourteen kilometres over mountain goat tracks. When we got in at 3.30 P.M., having had nothing to eat but a bit of bread, three sardines, and a finger of cheese, few of the men were really exhausted. It was then I got your letter about the training camp. Really it did make me feel a bit superior and make me think less than ever of our military system --- and if possible, more of the French. I don't think any other army would have done it on the food ration we did, and even S----- admitted that it was doubtful if many English regiments would have done it under any conditions.

September 23, 1915.

WE are now moving again, and I have hopes that the repos is over. To be sure, we are not up to anything very exciting as yet, only trench-digging in a section duller than any as yet seen, but once out of the infernal village, I have hopes that we will not go back there.

As usual we left at 2 AM., and marched under a full moon through a misty sunrise and on into the early heat of the morning, doing twenty-seven kilometres. There we stopped for the night, and went on at 1 AM. the next day, the Captain wearing his Moroccan burnous and looming ghostly white at the head of the company. We did thirty-one kilometres, much of it up and down steep hills, and some of the men got sore feet and fell out. I was so glad to hear the booming of the cannon again that I was more than healthily weary of the sac, and could have done ten or fifteen more in the afternoon after a "grande halte."

The surroundings here are no more sordid than those of the common soldier anywhere, and as long as you arc soldiering, I think it as well to do it with people who are soldiers to the very marrow of their bones. As for my "refinement" and fears that I may lose it, my hands are in poor form, rather toughened, and naturally I have picked up a lot of argot, otherwise I have of late been reading Charles Lamb, Pickwick, Plutarch, and a deal of cheap French novels, and "War and Peace" over again. If I see we are to spend winter in the trenches again, am thinking seriously of writing to London for a pair of real waterproof, and practical boots, and some Vicuna underwear. H. G. Wells's "Ann Veronica" I found interesting, though it was trite and irritating at bottom. I wonder if you remember it. I wish from time to time you would send me one novel that you find interesting. Books are too heavy to carry when on the move, naturally either in French or English. The State of the German Mind, Plato or Kant, are not necessary for the moment, and I have read Milton, Shakespeare, and Dante.

CHARLES D. MORGAN, '06, has had the double experience of serving with the motor corps of the American Ambulance Hospital and as a lieutenant in the Royal Field Artillery of the British Army on the Western Front. At the beginning of July, 1916, early in the drive on the Somme, he received injuries described officially as "gunshot wound, multiple, slight," and was taken to a military hospital at Rouen, whence he was moved to London. In August he was awarded the Military Cross. The following passages from letters to members of his family afford glimpses of his experiences, both at the front and in the hospital.

November, 1915.

. . . I went last night to a cinema show in a neighboring town. One entered mysteriously from a muddy dark street, through an estaminet, and along a narrow passage. Suddenly one was ushered into a large auditorium thronged with fully a thousand soldiers --- gray with smoke. A balcony for officers around the walls. We saw Charley Chaplin and the others --- the Tommies thoroughly enjoyed it. I find that the music-hall company I heard the other night is entirely made up from men and officers of the Sixth Division. They were really remarkably good ---all professionals and semi-professionals in peace-time, I should think.

November 29, 1915.

. . . I am very busy at present, as F----, the senior Sub. in this section, is on leave, and I am on the move every day keeping the old ship "full and by." There are a thousand details of internal management which are petty in themselves, but keep one on the jump. The standard set for the British officer is unquestionably very high. He must always personally supervise every detail of the nourishment and comfort of his animals and men, and never allow his own comfort to come first. This takes a bit of learning, for the civilian mind. It is certainly a good training in self-denial and thoughtfulness for others; and my first impulse, I am sorry to say, is often wrong --- the lingering, reflex-action of bachelordom and self-indulgence.

I had a rather busy night on Friday with a fatigue party to dig a telephone-wire trench. There was more or less stuff coming down --- of all kinds, each one with a different noise; while numerous of our own batteries were loosing off unexpectedly from neighboring hedges under our noses. The effect on the nerves, one realizes when one gets back to quiet billets, and feels a sort of let down and " thank-God-that's-over " feeling. However, the danger in this sort of party is comparatively small. It is surprising how many shells it takes to kill or even wound one man.

January 3, 1916.

WE had expected to go out of action today, but now find that we are to be kept in a week longer. It is hard on the men who have had a pretty bad doing in this position since October. However, our casualties have been very slight.

I find my nerves very much better than those of the men who have been out here longer --- it gives me confidence, and makes me feel that I can be of good to the battery.

The routine here is pretty strenuous in one way, and slack in another. As we are short-handed, and have night turns at the trenches, at the guns, and at the observation post as well, it means most nights without much sleep, fully dressed. That is the worst side of it. On the other hand, there is almost nothing to do throughout the day, even when on duty at the O. P. [Observation Post] or trenches, and the time of actual fire is small. One cannot venture out for a walk, or even walk about the gun position more than is actually necessary, for fear of detection; so that there is a good deal of time for reading and letter-writing. The lack of exercise is the chief draw-back to such days.

My turn in the trenches was most interesting. One lives with the infantry officers, and takes part in their regular trench life, so that one feels very much a part of it. Those of the battalion who were in the other day --- one of the Lincolns --- were first-rate chaps. They are the cheeriest people in the whole show --- in fact, the nearer you get to the line, the better spirits you find, from Boulogne eastward. They all live in dug outs, of course, and have a rather more spacious one for the men. Our dinner on New Year's Eve was quite a feast, followed by bridge, and topped off by a bit of a "Strafe" on the part of the "Huns", to which our heavy guns replied. Today I am on duty in the O. P., and we have been doing what is called registering our zone for the benefit of an officer of the incoming battery --- that is to say, we fire at longer intervals over our allotted target, and carefully watch the burst of the shells through our glasses. Of course, this zone has by this time been so carefully registered that there is practically no correction to make. . .

April 12, 1916.

. . . I am still in the trenches on my twelfth day --- a bit long for one's first tour, but I have had excellent weather --- today the first rain --- and comparative quiet 'shellatively' speaking. The machine-gun fire at night is very obstreperous, but I stick close to my smoking hearth, and listen to them patter outside. My dug out is really a very strong one, but has the chill of death unless the stove is going. As we get practically no fuel, and the little that comes is non-igniting coke, I have domestic cares.

I have moments of loneliness up here; but I have only to pick up my telephone to listen to a concert which one of the telephonists in an adjoining station gives on his mouth organ for the benefit of all the other stations on his circuit. After each number, there is a frantic buzzing of Morse code, "splendid," "encore," etc., from the auditors.

When the concert is not in progress, one can listen to priceless dialogues between the telephonist here and his mate back in the subsidiary line who will later bring up the rations. What these rations will consist of is topic A---matter for a good half hour's conversation; topic B is their next leave, and what they will do thereon.

There are many compensations for the discomforts and hazards of this job. (1) You are largely your own boss. (2) You get (when the relief is properly organized) six days out of twelve absolute rest, well back in comparative comfort. (3) You are "strafing the Hun." (4) If you are looking for ribbons, there are lots of decorations knocking about.

You have greatly exaggerated ideas of the dangers of the gun itself. It is largely a matter of care and proper preparation. In a well-made position, the detachment are all well under cover when the gun is fired. Besides which, the officer is usually some distance away observing the fire on the front parapet. Retaliation from the Hun is the chief danger, but he finds it very difficult to absolutely mark down a position. If he comes near, the position is shifted.

July 1, 1916.

I HAVE come through a very trying and critical period. We have been on the go for about eleven days; and I believe my battery (little 174) has done itself proud, and performed satisfactorily the task allotted to it. I have never had so much responsibility, or slept so little for days on end; but somehow I seem to have come through extraordinarily well ---just a healthy tired feeling. I hope to see my way clear to put in for leave very soon. It must, of course, depend on military events. I am beginning to feel rather hopeful about the course of things in general---it is something to have seen the "Hun" on the run, and to view trenches once held by him, running over with British troops. I have seen many extraordinary and never-to-be-forgotten things it seems very often that life cannot possibly hold more, but new marvels befall the next moment. My men have been a source of inspiration to me. One couldn't do anything but one's best, amongst such a splendid lot; and in humor and repartee they are a constant delight. I am sorry to say I have lost several some of the finest lads I had---and in a rather horrible way. You will know all about it some day. I have never found any of them wanting at a pinch, and feel really proud to be in command of them. . .

HOSPITAL No. 8, ROUEN

You mustn't worry at all about me --- it is in no way serious. I am what might be called "peppered," a number of small shrapnel wounds all over my body. No vital spot was hit. I narrowly missed losing an eye, by about a quarter of an inch, and my note-books stopped another one from going into my chest.

I am en passage at No. 8 General Hospital at Rouen, and shall probably be sent to Blighty today. I should be quite fit again in a fortnight, I should think, and then I shall need quite another fortnight for the dentist ---two lower teeth knocked out by one hit in the mouth. I was lucky in being right in the thick of the big push. It was a most tremendous experience, much of which I try not to let my mind dwell on. My men did well, and when their regular task was finished, volunteered to help bring in the wounded.

I shall have at all events a much-needed rest, but strangely enough, I kept very fit to the last. . .

July 13, 1916.

I was lucky enough to be in the "Big Push" on the Somme. It was a wonderful experience, but one which I shouldn't care to go through very often; and from which I am quite content to rest awhile in a comfortable bed with a few "cushy" wounds (you have read the junior Sub., so you know what that means).

Lord and Lady Aberconway have turned over this big house as an officers' ward. They continue to live here, and are most solicitous of their guests' comfort, and every evening make the rounds of the beds.

I shall soon be up, depending somewhat on whether or not they deem it necessary to operate on my leg.

I am full of small splinters, most of which work out of their own accord. Every morning now I can pluck a "fragment from France" from an arm or a leg. I got one through the lip, which knocked out a couple of teeth, but fortunately left my tongue whole, to wag on as heartily as ever.

The invalids' régime here would turn our American dietitians quite green with dyspeptic horror. We have an enormous English breakfast: porridge, fish, bacon, and mushrooms---or some such horror; coffee, and rolls and jam. Lunch! A hearty English lunch of very high specific gravity, and aggravated at the end by quantities of sweets, and fruits, and cheeses. A five-course dinner---wine with all meals. But although rigorously English in design, the cooking is so superexcellent that I suspect the chef of having a little Latin blood in his veins. .

It took me five days to get here, including twenty-four hours in the Casualty Clearing Station, where I was shoved into a lonely tent on a stretcher and forgotten --- my only companion a poor Tommy, hit in the throat, who was raving continuously. Fortunately, I had brought my servant, and he purloined cups of tea and crusts of bread; and finally brought my case to the notice of the C. O. Although the tent was full of nice white beds, all empty, I was kept on the beastly stretcher on the purely academic theory that I was taking the next train. Finally, after three trains had gone without me, they compromised so far as to lift the stretcher on top of the bed. However, one must make every allowance in a time of great stress like this when there are thousands of wounded pouring in every day.

July 14, 191G.

I shall never regret going into this show. The inspiration of the men under one is enough in itself to make it worth while. They are really splendid --- far ahead of their officers, I fear, in relative efficiency. And so far as it is possible in this selfish world, we all feel we are fighting more or less for an ideal. It stirs inarticulately even in the breast of the Tommy, I think.

THE work of the successive Hospital Units despatched from the Harvard Medical School for service at a British military hospital in France has been touched upon in the Preface. The names of the men who have served in the so-called First, Second, and Third Units will be found in the list at the end of this volume; the general nature of the work they have done is described in an article written for the Harvard Alumni Bulletin by Dr. David Cheever, '97 (M.D. '01), Chief Surgeon of the Second Contingent of this service. It may be taken as fairly representative of the work of all the Units. The special service of the Dental men has won a peculiar distinction for Harvard. Its character is clearly suggested in an article contributed by Frank H. Cushman, D.M.D. '15, to the Bulletin. A brief passage from a letter to the Bulletin by Dr. William Reid Morrison, '10, on "Baseball and Surgery in France," presents a pleasant bit of relief in the record of exacting labors.

THE second contingent of the Harvard Surgical Unit has now been for three months in the field in the service of the British War Office, and the few of its members who were able to give only three months' service having just returned, it is possible to give the readers of the Bulletin a little idea of how the enterprise has fared.

It will be remembered that the original Unit under the leadership of Dr. Edward H. Nichols, '86, who was later succeeded by Dr. W. E. Faulkner '87, conducted a British Base Hospital in France for the three months of July, August, and September of last year. It had been the plan to have the work carried on from that time by Units from other medical centres, but owing to certain unforeseen circumstances and an unavoidable change in the conditions of service, this succession had to be abandoned. It became a matter of giving up the project entirely, or of its continuation by Harvard alone. It was decided to adopt the latter course, and after some correspondence with the British War Office as to the conditions governing the advent of a new Unit, the enlisting of another group of men, and their leadership, were committed to the writer.

A group of thirty men, about one-half holders of degrees from Harvard and the others volunteers from other medical schools, were enlisted, and also thirty-six nurses, to take the place of an equal number of the first contingent, who wished to terminate their stay abroad. These men included specialists in surgery, medicine, and X-ray work, dentists, an opthalmologist, an aurist, an orthopedist, and a bacteriologist. The party sailed on the Steamship "Noordam" on November 17th, and reached England without mishap on November 27th.

The Unit was organized exactly like a Base Hospital in the British regular service, that is, the chief surgeon ranked as a lieutenant-colonel, and the other men received ranks as majors, captains, and lieutenants, according to the duties which they were to perform. A regular commission was not given, because, naturally, the men did not give up their American citizenship, which would have been necessary in order to receive commission under the Crown; but relative rank was given in accordance with the plan pursued in such cases by the War Office.

A stay of ten days was made in London, in order to enable the men to procure their uniforms, which in every respect corresponded to the British regular officer's uniform, except in the absence of certain insignia indicating a commission under the Crown.

Advantage was taken of this time to visit the London hospitals, other places of civil and military interest; and one day was devoted to a visit to Oxford where Sir William Osler, in the uniform of a colonel of His Majesty's Forces, devoted the entire day to guiding the visitors about Oxford, entertaining them at Christ Church, and later at tea with Mrs. Osler. The characteristic ending of the day was a most enjoyable and informal talk by Sir William on the most notable books marking epochs in the history of medicine, copies of all of which were found in his library. Later, also, the Unit was most hospitably entertained at luncheon by the Harvard Club of London, presided over by J. H. Seaverns, '81.

The Unit crossed the Channel on December 9 to find that the exigencies of the military situation had made it necessary to move the 22nd General Hospital from its summer quarters to winter quarters in two large empty hotels, not far distant from Boulogne. This change involved the reduction in the number of beds available, and as the Unit was therefore somewhat over-manned, certain of the officers, at the request of the War Department, were detailed for service in other hospitals. Officers thus detached found great pleasure and profit in the intimate association with the work of the purely British Units, and there was no complaint because they had been separated from the Harvard Unit.

A few days of organization and preparation were necessary in the new quarters, and the first convoy of sick and wounded from the front was received on December 19, and from that date forward new convoys were received, at irregular intervals, but usually as frequently as three times a week, until a total of some one thousand four hundred patients had passed through the hospital during the first three months. Throughout this period, as the readers of the Bulletin know, there was comparative quiet on the Western Front, that is, there were no actions of any magnitude, and for that reason, the resources of the hospital were never strained. It was noticeable, however, that the authorities always gave the hospital fully, if not more than, its share of the wounded, and thus kept it busily occupied.

It would be out of place here to discuss the professional aspects of the work. As would naturally be expected in the winter season, probably one-half the cases were sick rather than wounded, these cases consisting chiefly of bronchitis, pneumonia, rheumatism, digestive disturbances, febrile diseases, usually of the para-typhoid type, and various complaints associated with the peculiar conditions of life in the trenches, and rightly or wrongly attributed to them; designated somewhat vaguely as "trench feet," "trench fever," "trench nephritis," and the like. The wounds were almost entirely due to high explosive shell fire, machine-gun and rifle fire, and bombs, the proportion of injuries by shrapnel being comparatively low, owing to the fact that there is a great preponderance in the use of high explosive shells over shrapnel. There were practically no bayonet or other wounds sustained in personal encounters, owing to the fact, as stated above, that no great action took place.

One of the interesting but sad experiences was the arrival in one of the earlier convoys of a large number of "gassed " patients, that is, soldiers suffering from an attack by asphyxiating gases launched by the Germans in the neighborhood of Ypres. Naturally, with them as with the wounded, the most serious cases died either in the field hospitals or at Casualty Clearing Stations before it was possible to transport them to a Base. Consequently, cases arriving at the 22nd Hospital were of a comparatively less severe type. They presented a distressing picture of acute bronchitis, with incessant cough, difficulty of breathing, and lividity.

Five of these cases died at the hospital in spite of everything that could be done to save them, and the remainder made slow recoveries, although, even after they were ready for discharge to England, they were far from completely recovered. With the exception of a few similar cases, arriving at a much later date, this was the only group of "gassed" men with whom the Unit had to deal. And, owing to the efficiency of the anti-tetanic and anti-typhoid inoculations, no cases of tetanus, and no undoubted cases of typhoid fever came under the observation of the Unit. A good many cases of para-typhoid, closely allied to true typhoid, were found, and had to be transferred to a special hospital for contagious diseases. There was no death from an anaesthetic, and the total mortality of the cases under the charge of the Harvard Contingent was considerably less than one per cent.

From the purely professional side, it may be said that the medical officers gained much experience in the best and most expeditious and practical methods of handling the wounds common to modern types of warfare, and especially the complications caused by severe infections, and by extensive injuries to bone. They also gained much insight into the practical details of the organization and administration of a hospital of this type. The dental surgeons found a large field of usefulness in caring for the badly neglected teeth of the average enlisted man, and those who were so fortunate as to be detailed to work with Dr. Kazanjian of the Harvard Dental School, at his clinic attached to a neighboring hospital, were able to bring him material aid in the splendid work which he and his assistants are doing in the repair of destructive injuries of the jaws.

On the human side, it is certain that every member of the Unit had an experience which he will remember for the rest of his life. Although he was but on the fringe of the great conflict and not even within sound of its guns, the realities of the war were brought home very strongly.

One of the most satisfying and pleasant features of the experience was the sincere appreciation which was manifested in every way by the British officers, whether English, Canadian, or Australian, with whom the members of the Unit came in contact. The Briton is not given to complaining and asking for help, but when help is proffered by citizens of a friendly nation, no one could be more frank and expressive than the Briton in showing his appreciation of it. Let it not be thought that the Harvard Unit served in other than a neutral capacity, bringing aid to the wounded and suffering irrespective, of nationality, as opportunities came their way. It was natural, however, that racial affiliations and personal feelings of most of the members caused them to feel and express the warmest sympathy with the British cause and the soldiers fighting for it, and they were made to feel, at every opportunity, the gratitude and appreciation of those they were aiding.

On the departure of the Unit from the winter quarters, above described, to summer quarters elsewhere, the medical consultants of the Boulogne Base, Colonel Sir Almoth Wright, Colonel Sir Bertrand Dawson, Colonel Lister, and Colonel Fullerton, together with all the principal officers of the Base as guests, gave them a complimentary dinner, at which sentiments were expressed which made the members of the Unit feel that their services were given a higher value than they deserved professionally, and that their motives in bringing aid were well understood and thoroughly appreciated. It was perhaps the most satisfying aspect of the experience of the Unit that they could justly feel that they constituted a small but effective centre, diffusing the true feeling of sympathy and understanding which exists between most Americans and most Englishmen. This could not be better exemplified than by the cordial relations existing between the members of the Unit and the Administrator of the Unit, Colonel Sir Allan Ferry.

The Unit, as stated above, is now under canvas and occupies nearly the same location that it did last summer, and the writer has been succeeded as Chief Surgeon for the three months ending June by Dr. W. E. Faulkner, '87, who most unselfishly volunteered to return, in spite of the many personal considerations which must have impelled him to remain at home.

The British War Office informed the writer that the work of the Unit is a real help, that its services are needed and that the authorities hope that these services can be continued indefinitely. It is planned, therefore, to despatch a new contingent(23) to begin service June 9, succeeding the present one, whose term will then expire.

WHEN in June 1915, the First Harvard Surgical Unit, for work in the war zone, was being organized, the part that dental surgeons might play in the work of war hospitals was just beginning to be realized. Extensive work in the treatment of mutilated mouths, and in the preparation of the soldiers' mouths for the unfavorable conditions of life at the front, had already been under way for some time in the German army. Among the French, too, it had been recognized, and, in addition to the French dental surgeons, several American dentists, among them, Dr. Stuhl, D.M.D. '05, and Dr. Potter, of our own administrative board, had been doing admirable work at the American Ambulance at Neuilly.

Just what might be the conditions in the British army, with which the Unit was to work, was not at the time known here, but arrangements were made for taking three Harvard Dental men, with all necessary equipment, since modern trench warfare had been productive of so many head-wounds, which, if not fatal, generally involved the jaws.

No account of this work can be given without special mention of Dr. Kazanjian, Senior Demonstrator of Prosthetics at the Harvard Dental School, and in charge of all fracture cases there. Surely no better selection could have been made for the position as leader and organizer of the work than he. Dr. Ferdinand Brigham and I were fortunate enough to be detailed as his assistants.

Upon the arrival of the Unit in France, dental conditions were found to be much worse than expected.

Whereas it was reported that with the original German army invading Belgium as far back as August, 1914, there were five hundred dentists, there were among all the British troops in June of last year, but fifteen. Even allowing that these reports were somewhat exaggerated, the scarcity of men, combined with the terrible condition of the mouths of the "Tommies," was nothing short of appalling. Preparations for the furnishing of dental supplies were also very incomplete, and this, combined with the lack of facilities such as electricity, gas, and water, made the work even more difficult.

Work was begun, however, with such facilities as were at hand or could be devised. Until it became known throughout the district that fractures of the jaws were being treated by the Harvard Unit, much of the work was concerned with the extraction of teeth and the making of artificial dentures. The original bad condition of the men's mouths, combined with the lack of opportunity at the front for proper cleansing and the unhealthful water which the troops are obliged to drink, made it necessary, during the summer, to send increasing numbers back to the base for dental treatment alone. The use of novocaine in all cases of extraction is new to army methods and to the men, and does much to expedite and facilitate the work. Septic roots in the mouth were early recognized by the medical men as a causative or contributing factor in many cases of arthritis, gastritis, and ear and nose affections, and the cleaning up of mouths came to be regarded in the hospital as part of the routine treatment. Appalling as it seems in the light of dental education in America, a British army order provides that no man with two teeth, one on either jaw, which occlude, shall be furnished by the government with dentures. This means, of course, that only those in most desperate need of artificial teeth are provided with them, but even with this limitation, two laboratory men are kept constantly busy on this sort of work.

The most important phase of the work of the dental men in the Unit was, of course, the treatment of the cases of fracture of the jaw, and before the work was long under way, many cases of this sort were being brought in from the front, and from other hospitals. The injuries are often very extensive, involving, in addition to the jaws, other parts of the face and cranium. External wounds necessitate an entire change of procedure from the methods used in jaw fractures in civil hospitals. Owing to the drainage of saliva through these wounds, the sepsis is wide-spread and persistent. Too much credit cannot be given to Dr. Kazanjian for the masterly way in which these cases are being handled. Each new case requires the devising of especial appliances to fit its particular needs; but this Harvard man is always found equal to every occasion. The hearty co-operation received from surgeons and medical men is proving most helpful in the successful carrying on of the work.

That the value of the work is not going unrecognized is proved by the mention of Dr. Kazanjian in the despatches of January 1 for distinguished service. At the beginning of October, when the Unit was disbanded, it was urged from the War Office that the work be not discontinued, and that Dr. Kazanjian and his two assistants remain, with the promise of the increased facilities of a building equipped especially for jaw surgery. Permission was also granted to keep the patients longer than the three weeks allowed other cases.

The consideration given the patients themselves does much to popularize the work among them. Of all the fracture cases treated during the summer and winter, only one man expressed a desire to be sent to England before the completion of his work, and a letter was received from him shortly after his return home, asking that steps be taken to secure his transfer back again.

The cheerfulness and courage of the men themselves should not go unrecognized. Such pluck as that of a nineteen-year-old Irish boy with eye and nose gone, both jaws broken and two bullets through one arm, who always felt, "In the pink, thank you, sir!" or the Scotch lad with both jaws fractured, and a bullet through his chest with a consequent very severe pneumonia, whose invariable answer to inquiries was, "Champion, thank you, sir! ", did much to make the work easier.

When it became known in September that the Unit was returning to America the following month, the parents of one of the patients even tried to arrange for the discharge of their son from the army, so that he might return to Boston to continue his treatment with Dr. Kazanjian.

The arrival of the second Harvard Unit added three more Harvard Dental men to the work: Drs. R. S. Catheron, C. F. MacDonald, and J. F. Dillon. Drs. Dillon and MacDonald are with the Harvard Unit, while the other three men are occupying the splendidly-equipped building in the English Hospital to which, on account of the increased facilities, the jaw-work was transferred in December when the Harvard Unit was moved into cramped winter quarters. The equipment of the building is all that could be desired, electricity, running hot and cold water, and all the facilities procurable for carrying on the work in any temporary hospital. The dental staff comprises, besides the three Harvard men, two mechanics, two operating-room nurses, and nurses and orderlies for the two wards of about forty beds.

Altogether, between July 20 and December 1, over one thousand two hundred cases of all kinds received treatment, varying from a single visit to work covering daily attendance for several months. Careful records, including charts, pictures, plaster models and casts of the teeth and faces are being kept, and will be added to the Dental Museum of Harvard. The work is drawing extensive interest from men in the medical service, many visitors coming to the hospital, and Dr. Kazanjian is called on for numerous clinics before the field medical societies. The work is pursued in the name of the "Dental Unit of Harvard University," and the coming summer should see its extent and scope much broadened.

Such results as these could not have been attained but for the energy and devotion of Dr. Kazanjian and the hearty cooperation of medical men and those in higher authority in the medical service. There is much need for this sort of work, and the supply of men who can do it is limited. It is therefore to be hoped that, although the school is losing the active help of Dr. Kazanjian, he can be kept where he is, doing perhaps a higher service and bringing to the school much credit.

May 28, 1916

. . . During March and April, much snow and rainy weather were encountered, but we managed to keep reasonably warm in our tents. This month, the weather has been excellent, allowing our baseball team to round into shape.

We are very proud of our Harvard Unit players. organized among the medical officers in this hospital. The opening game of the season was played last week, with a team from Canadian Number One Hospital, and it attracted a large crowd of medical officers, sisters, and patients from surrounding hospitals.

Many of the spectators had never seen a baseball game, and it was indeed a novel experience for them.

The Harvard nine started off with a rush, scoring 8 runs in the first inning, and knocking the Canadian pitcher out of the box. We won handily by a final score of 16 to 8.

A return game was played on the Canadian field a few days ago, and we were vanquished by a score of 8 to 5. In this game, our surgeon-in-chief, Dr. Faulkner, put aside his lieutenant-colonel's uniform, and proved to be a heavy hitter, and good base runner, as well as an able second baseman, and much credit is due him for the team's good performance. We play a third game next week, and hope to win again.

The surgeons and medical men have had a valuable service, with many interesting experiences, and we, as well as the nursing sisters, have been very glad to do what we could for the sick and wounded.

AGAIN it is time to remind ourselves that there is another American Ambulance Corps besides that of the American Ambulance Hospital in Paris, namely the American Volunteer Motor-Ambulance Corps, formed and directed by Richard Norton, '92. Passages from two of his letters have already been given. Two others must now be brought forward, the first to Mr. H. D. Morrison, the Honorable Secretary and Treasurer of the Corps in London --- a letter in which the general character of the service is memorably described --- the second to Mr. Norton's brother, Eliot Norton, '85, describing a day at Verdun no more remote than mid-June of 1916.

FRANCE, February 15, 1916.

DEAR MORRISON: The letters which have been received from American applicants to join our Corps since the British Red Cross refused to allow Englishmen of military age and qualification to work with us have been very numerous, and I have found them, as a mass, so interesting that I have sent most of them to the office to be filed. It is evident, however, that there are many misconceptions in the minds of our compatriots regarding our work, and it is in the hope that you may be able to clear up some of these that I now write you.

. . . It is not surprising that we receive letters from quantities of persons who are firmly convinced that their mere desire to help in our work is all that is needed to make them of use to us. Of course, and this is natural enough---in fact, could hardly be otherwise --- their ideas of the work of an ambulance corps are based on accounts of battles, as this is about all the newspapers put before them. The fact is, however, that what nowadays are considered battles occur only at long intervals, and most of the time the ambulances are performing an essential, but by no means thrilling, service among the field hospitals and along the line where, although the fighting never ceases, things are generally comparatively tranquil. Especially is this so in the winter months, during which both last year and this there has been no attempt at a great offensive, by either side, on the Western front. It isn't that the armies couldn't fight if they wanted to; the Russians show us well enough that they could. But for one reason and another, probably because the English have not been ready, they don't. So our work goes along quietly for the most part, and there is many a day when the men don't have enough to do to keep them from thinking of their discomforts. These are really nothing very bad, but still a volunteer from another land, one who is not fighting for his own people, has to have a strong sense of the ultimate value of the work he has chosen to do to enable him to forget them. That, I find, is the most serious trouble with any of the men who have been with me. When, as last September, there is heavy fighting, they are as keen as possible and take all the various risks and troubles in the most pleasant spirit. But when, as sometimes happens, the Corps is en repos they get restless and don't know what to do with themselves. For this reason, among others, I don't want you to send out volunteers who are too young. It is not that they lack courage, but that is a quality we are not often called upon to show. What this work chiefly demands is resource. Our men are not like the soldiers constantly under the eye of an officer, but are generally dependent on their own intelligence for the conduct of their work. Such driving as we do was never conceived of by motorists before this war. Borghesi's ride from Pekin to Paris was a summer day's excursion through a park compared to our job. Driving a car laden with men whose lives depend on reaching the hospital as soon as possible is a considerable responsibility. When, in addition, they have to be carried along roads, or more likely mere trails, that are being shelled or maybe swept with rifle fire, often at night, with no light, and through the unending crowd of moving troops, guns, ammunition and revictualling trains, the responsibility is considerably increased. A man must keep absolutely cool and his temper unruffled, and he must be able to size things up so as to do the best he can for his load of fading lives. Experience of life is what is needed to do this successfully, and that is just what a youth has not got. Of course, there are the rare exceptions, and we are lucky in having some of these, where imagination and instinct take the place of experience. But you cannot count on a youth having these, and I have no time to test them, one by one, to see if they will take the bit; so don't send me boys unless you are dead certain of their quality.

There are really three sorts of work we have to do. One is the risky and very hard work during a battle, such as my account of the Battle of Champagne gave you some idea of. The men who can do that successfully will, when they get home after the war, be able to do anything from running a railway to managing an Art Museum.

Then there is what might be called our regular job, the post duty, the daily going and coming from certain stations just back of the line to the hospitals with the occasional casualties. During the winter months one carries more sick and sorry than one does wounded, but there is a never-ending trickle of these latter. For the last few months, as you know, we have been working along the Tahure to Mesnil front. There has been a very slight ebb and flow of the line, but on the whole it is a little more advanced than it was when the French got through pounding the Germans last September. They certainly did give it to them then, and it is an open secret that had the English attack been so well conducted as the French, the line would be further forward than it is now. However, when it was over we sat down for the winter, and posts were arranged to which the wounded are brought. Just who picks out these posts I have never discovered, but the general rule is that they should be as near the actual fighting line as the condition of the roads and general safety permit the cars to go. We have served two such posts. One was all right, though, owing to the mud which prevented the close approach of our cars, the stretcher bearers had a weary long walk with their painful burden. The other, however, was to my mind most quaintly placed, as it was on the crest of a ridge and in plain view of the enemy. Though the doctors' tents and dug outs were sheltered by a cluster of pines, the coming and going of the cars were perfectly obvious and daily drew the fire of one of the enemy batteries. Some of the gunners were excellent shots, too, and although they never scored a bull's-eye, they made several "ringers" which spattered us with mud. Their favorite projectile was what is known as a "whiz-bang," a confounded thing that goes off with a peculiarly disagreeable crash at the same instant that you hear it. Now a respectably educated shell whistles as it comes, and gives you time, if you have wisely adopted the habits of the wood-chuck and don't go far from your hole, to make an Annette Kellerman dive. Maybe the tune it whistles is the "Last Rose of Summer," but still you are at least on the way underground when it hits, and, such is the strange working of our minds, that gives one a great feeling of comfort. But these whiz-bangs were brought up on Kultur and come in without knocking. I hate them --- in fact, I hate them all --- I have collected many things in my life, but I was never born to be a conchologist. Some men tell me they get used to such things. I can only say I feel no symptoms of acquiring the taste. Well, so long as the doctors could stand this post on the hill, we had to. At both posts the men did duty for twenty four hours at a stretch, and had tents pitched under the trees in which they cooked their picnic meals and took what rest they could. Most of the time it rained, and it was always cold. To my way of thinking a tent is a beastly thing. A considerable portion of my life has been passed in them, and no one can convince me they are anything but disgusting. I love to read about them in the summer magazines, when the wily Redskin is pursuing the heroic trapper, or the beauteous millionairess heroine has fled from the seething city to soothe a broken heart, catching trout and a cold in the head by the pellucid lake --- all that sounds lovely, but were I ever to play Redskin to the heroine I'd never be so mean as to ask her to pass the honeymoon in a tent. They are cramped in space; they leak; the wind loosens the ropes at night; they flap, they are damp in winter and hot in summer; they are harbor lights for everything that creeps or crawls within thirty miles; the oil stove explodes in them, and you spoil most of your bedding putting it out; and when anybody, whether an Arab or a Boche is trying to straf you, they are about as much comfort as an ice-cream soda to a polar bear. However, they are better than sitting in the mud, so at the posts we sit and get damp till the relief comes, and then hustle back to the base camp, where there are no satisfactory means of getting dry, but where you mop yourself up and steam over any form of fire you or your friends can produce. You see, there is not much in that kind of life but plain, hard, uncomfortable work. So anyone who thinks he is coming out here to wander over the stricken field doing the Sir Philip Sidney act to friend and foe alike, protected from harm by the mystical light of heroism playing about his hyacinthine locks, had better stay home. This hero business will only win him the Order of the Wooden Cross. What one really does is to look like a tramp who has passed the night in a ditch and feels as though he were doing ten days "hard" for it. That is what the ordinary work is.

Then there is the third kind, which is when we are, as now, en repos. No corps can go on indefinitely at the front. The men get worn out and the cars get out of order. During the early part of this winter our cars stood in the open where the mud was so bad that we often had to pull them out in the morning with the lorry before we could start. There was so little water that sometimes there was insufficient for the radiators. Under such circumstances cleaning the cars was entirely out of the question, and any but absolutely essential repairs had to wait till we could move somewhere else. When, finally, we were relieved by a French convoy, only one-third of our cars could go, and several of the men were working on their nerve.

We were sent a few miles back to the large farm where we now are. Here there is a splendid big barn with lean-to sheds round about, in which most of our cars are housed. There is plenty of water, as there is a large stream just beside the house, and the cars have been washed, springs mended, the engines cleaned, and everything possible done to enable us to work many months more before there will be need of another overhaul. For this sort of work you will easily understand that we must have men who know something about motors and who are ready to work on them themselves. A man who is unwilling or unable to help in the care of his car would be nothing but a nuisance to us. For a man who knows how to work there is always plenty to do, but the life of so-called repos here at the farm is decidedly monotonous. We never see outsiders, and we do not often get out of sight of the farm buildings. Châlons is not many miles away, but we only send there when we hear that one of our cars which had to be repaired at the army shops is ready for us, or when there is something to buy for the upkeep of the cars, or when a new volunteer comes to join us. Of course, the Government will give us anything we need for the upkeep of the cars, but one is allowed to apply only on certain given days of each month for certain things, while others are applied for on other days. This often means a delay of many days before one can begin to repair the car, because not only must the proper day of application be waited for, but several days elapse between the application and the arrival of the material. Consequently it is often best to send to Châlons and buy what is needed. We would send there oftener could we have more petrol, but while en repos we are allowed only twenty-five litres a day! As we have twenty-five cars, which have to be cleaned and tested in addition to routine work, every motorist will realise that we are much like interned prisoners. If this lack of essence merely meant our incapacity to get the mail or enjoy an occasional bath no one would mind, but its chief effect is to delay our work. . . We have never yet been unable to do whatever work was asked of us, but this is because we have gone ahead on our own plan and bought from time to time many hundreds of litres of essence when we foresaw that we would be held up for lack of it. This is all dull to write, and dull for you to read, but perhaps it will make you realise that it is aggravating for the men to have to live through it, and you will understand why a mere general readiness to do anything is not the only or the most important characteristic that volunteers must possess.

The foregoing will also make clear to you why we need neither doctors nor nurses. Our work is the transport of the wounded, and we provide no opportunities for either doctors or nurses to practise their ministrations. What we need are, first and foremost, good motorists, and it is practically essential that they should know some French. Many of the writers whose letters I have sent you express a delightful confidence that they can learn enough of the vernacular on their voyage out to render their service effective. It is a shame to dash cold water on such pleasing beliefs, but the fact is they are hopelessly wrong. They are like the man who, when asked if he played the violin, replied, "I don't know; I have never tried." Still, the general spirit of the letters is fine. It is certain that we can get all the men we need if we can get others to give us money to bring them over, and I haven't a doubt there are plenty of people who cannot come themselves but who will be glad to send out someone else. . .

Always sincerely yours,

RICHARD NORTON.

VERDUN, June 15, 1916(26)

IT is some time since I wrote, but we first were moving up here, and since arriving have had strenuous times. We are camped some five miles outside Verdun, where we have our permanent post; another is at a hospital between us and Verdun; while every night, as soon as it is dark, we send out eight cars to evacuate the advanced posts. This is extremely risky work and can only be done at night, owing to the road being in view of the Germans, who are not a kilometre distant. At night I have my office, as it were, at Verdun, where L'hoste has his main post. Thence, as there is need, he and I go up and down the line of posts to keep the work moving.

The advanced posts can be reached only at night, so, as there are only four hours of darkness, we are extremely busy. Two days ago we were ordered to evacuate one of these posts by day --- a thing heretofore unheard of. Of course, I obeyed and sent the five cars demanded, following them up a short time afterward. I arrived at the starting point to find the first car had been steadily shelled as it went along the road, that the second, containing Jack Wendell and a chauffeur named Hollinshed, had not returned from the trip, and that another car had gone to see what the trouble was.

I started at once to go after the missing cars, but at that moment Hoskier, who had gone after Wendell, came hurrying round the corner. He told me that both Wendell and Hollinshed had been wounded, but not seriously, as they were putting some wounded in their car; that they were being cared for at the poste; that they begged me not to come up till dark; that the authorities at the poste begged us to keep away for fear the poste would be shelled, and, lastly, he said it was obvious the Boches were laying for us, for they were shelling our road steadily.

This was obviously the right thing to do, but Lawrence MacCreery at once asked to be allowed to go by the boyau with his chauffeur; they would reach the poste as dark fell and would bring Wendell and Hollinshed out on their car if that had not been destroyed. This they very pluckily did. I, meanwhile, had to report to the authorities, and got back just as Wendell and Hollinshed had been fixed up by the doctors. Wendell has a slight wound in the back, Hollinshed a rather more severe one in the shoulder. They behaved in a way to give cause to their families to be extremely proud of them, absolutely refusing to return with Hoskier, but insisting on his taking the four bad cases they had gone to get. They will both be given the Croix de Guerre, and they well deserve it.

Since then we have had one car blown to pieces and five others hit. Our Verdun post is shelled every evening, and one of the others was heavily peppered last night. The division has suffered heavily, and I do not think can stay more than a few days more. We can't either, if we go on losing men and cars at this rate.

Till today it has rained steadily, which has added to our difficulties. However, we are sticking to it and I think will pull off the work all right.

IN contrast with the reports from men of riper years, a letter to the Crimson from a former member of its staff, Philip C. Lewis, of the class of 1917, presents the first impressions of one who would normally have been passing through his junior year at Cambridge.

NEUILLY-SUR-SEINE, PARIS, March 30, 1916.(27)

I'LL start my story from the beginning in the hope that it may interest some of you in Cambridge. There were four of us on the "Finland," George Hollister, Ray Baldwin, and Bert Williams, and the trip across was uneventful until we approached the danger zone, about forty-eight hours out of Liverpool. American flags were painted on both sides of the boat, fore and aft; these were illuminated at night by immense searchlights, as was the flag flying at the stern. All lifeboats were swung out on their davits ready to be lowered instantly. But nothing disturbed our peaceful entry into Liverpool early in the morning of March 7.

Here we struck our first war time red-tape, and for three hours we had our passports, credentials and baggage examined. By noon we were on our way to London, a five-hour ride. We reached there as night was coming on, and there we got our first impressions of "darkened London." All that has been written about it is no exaggeration. It seems impossible to believe that such an immense city could be so completely darkened. Hotels and other large buildings seem like empty hulks, so completely do the heavy curtains shut in the light. The huge busses go about at their usual speed with lights even smaller than ordinary tail-lights. Horse-drawn vehicles have no lights at all. Street lamps are painted black, except for a three-inch band at the bottom. The whole effect is practically absolute darkness, and over it all, huge searchlights are continually on the watch for "Zeps."

Before coming to England I couldn't conceive of a population in which every man of military age had joined the army --- it seemed that there must be thousands who would lag behind. But to see London now is to be entirely convinced. There are three groups of men, those in uniform (home on leave), those wearing arm-bands showing that for some good reason they are exempted, and the old men. We in civilian clothes felt painfully conspicuous and embarrassed --- people would look at us curiously and scornfully. In London, as in Paris, women are seen doing men's work in countless ways, on street cars, trains, in hotel offices, etc.

After sundry delays, due to the necessity of getting French passports and visés for our American passport, we sailed from Folkestone for Dieppe, March 11, on the "Sussex," which was recently torpedoed, reaching Paris finally at 1 A.M. that night. The next week was spent in getting all our necessary credentials, getting our uniforms, taking driving tests, learning a little about repairs, etc. We met Walter Wheeler, Paul Tison and Julian Lathrop who had arrived a few days before. By March 1, Williams and Baldwin had gone to the front in the Morgan Harjes service, and Lathrop had gone to section No. 1. I can't mention any names of places, so that will have to suffice. The rest of us had to stay on duty, although there was nothing to do, until we were sent to the front.

The monotony was relieved by a dinner given by the Harvard Club of Paris, attended by about twenty five, with Mr. A. P. Andrew, '95, as toastmaster. Harvard, by the way, has made a remarkable record in this work. Although complete figures were not available, for the transportation department alone, out of two hundred and fifteen college men enrolled, ninety are Harvard men. Yale and Princeton are next, with twenty-five and twenty-two respectively. This does not include the many Harvard graduates engaged in the executive offices, nor does it consider the Harvard Units. The hospital itself is a wonderfully complete one, especially when it is considered that it is a war hospital exclusively, established in an immense building which was to have been a school. Every detail is complete --- all the latest medical ideas are embodied here. Its capacity is about six hundred and fifty, only two hundred and fifty being cared for now.

On March 18 I was sent here to Section No. 1. Hollister and Tison are to go to Section No. 3, and Bill Crane, who came just before I left, was still unassigned. The other Harvard men here in this section are Lathrop, Winsor, and Frank Magoun. There are twenty-three of us here and twenty machines, the last three of us being forced to wait a few weeks before getting cars of our own. Meanwhile, we are to go on all the routes without the trouble of caring for the cars. We live here about sixty kilometres from the lines, and on our three different routes we visit seven postes de secours, one being eight hundred metres from the German lines, another slightly over a kilometre, the others ranging from one and one-half to three kilometres.

One route entails night duty, and I went out on it the first night. We went by a plateau road furnishing us a wonderful view. Brilliant signal bombs were going up all along the semi-circle of lines, and then we could see the lightning-like battery flashes, white and red. On reaching the poste we were given some wounded and took them to another town to the hospital. Returning at about 11, we were sent off again with still more, returning at 3 A.M. to grab a three-hour nap. The next morning an immense English naval gun opened up behind us, and as the Germans quite naturally replied, I had my first experience of listening to the whistling of shells over my head. Of course, there was no danger, for the Germans were after a mark about two kilometres behind us. I could tell many stories in connection with the wounded, innumerable examples of French courage shown to us every day, but I have gone on long enough.

A FORMER member of still a younger class than that of the undergraduate whose letter has just been read kept a record of his experiences with Field Section No. 1 of the American Ambulance Hospital Motor Service. From the diary of John F. Brown, Jr., '18, the following passages are taken:

February 11, 1916.

ON service at V---- again today . . . . Yesterday was a pretty busy day. I was on No. 1 route. Made Over 120 kilometres during the day. Ran through V---- three times; each time it was being bombarded. Less than five minutes before I pulled into the yard here for lunch two "105's" hit the gate-keeper's lodge, which is connected with the stable where we sleep. All our men were at lunch and nobody was hurt.

After lunch I got three couchés at R----- for V-----. They were shelling V---- when I passed through, and the only person I saw was an officer standing in a doorway. He waved us back, but we made a run for it. Smoke was pouring out of a little store that had just been hit. We crossed the bridge all right, although the shells were hitting uncomfortably close.

The Boches dropped five shells into C----- just as we got there, and we took out four blessés ---one a four-striper. On the way home Nelson and I stopped for a few minutes on the plateau to watch the artillery duel below us. It was a weird an(l fascinating sight in the gathering darkness the flashes of the French cannon outlined against the dark pines of the valley, and the breaking of the German shrapnel over R---and F-----, the deep, dark red flashes of the French guns, and way over on the opposite plateau the bright flash of the bursting shells.

As I am writing this I can hear the shells whistling overhead. This time they are higher up. These don't screech --- sound like an electric motor starting up, and then, as they go by, a whistle. I must admit it gives me a funny feeling, especially as they are getting closer, and none of them are exploding, so you can't tell how really close they are. And I can't help thinking of the two holes in the gate-keeper's lodge, and wondering if they still have that gun set. One of those shells a few feet further to the right or left, and ----! It doesn't pay to get thinking of things like that. Nelson has just grabbed his helmet and gone out to see if he can see where any of them are landing, and I guess I'll go too. That's the funny part of it all, the shelling fascinates you, and you stand out in the open, liable to be hit at any minute, but perfectly happy as long as you can watch what is going on.

February 13, 1916.

YESTERDAY about two o'clock all the French batteries along this section opened up. It started all at once ---an almost continuous roar, all sizes of guns; and every few minutes the machine-gun would rattle out, and this mingled with the rifle fire and the roar of the big guns was almost deafening. For two hours there was no let-up, and then the Germans answered.

It got so hot in V---- that our men had to stay underground. At R---- several shells landed on the lawn in front of the hospital, and finally one tore its way into the operating-room and exploded there. Finally it was decided to evacuate the entire hospital, and our cars did the job without the loss of a man.

At eight o'clock I had just finished a game of chess with "Huts" when orders for extra cars began coming in. Nelson and I went down at 8.30, and the shells were still coming in then. I took a post call to H-----. It was the first time I had ever been over that road, and I won't forget it in a hurry. The moon was shining, and the road for the most part was very good. Here and there was a shell hole, or a piece of a tree in the road; and at one place an army wagon which had been demolished by a shell. We drove pretty fast, the brancardier and I, for a line of brush screen between one and the mitrailleuse doesn't give one a very secure feeling. All the time the French artillery was firing over us, and the Boche shells were coming in. After turning the corner at H------ the road to the poste was very steep and rough. There were many shell holes and piles of brick and stone in the road. Here it was very narrow, and we had to climb it on low speed, it was so steep. We climbed through two rows of buildings, but came to a place where there was a break in the buildings on the right. "A little faster here, the mitrailleurs sweep the road at this point," said my comrade. We pulled up to the poste, and I shut the engine off, as it was boiling. There was no one in sight when we stopped, but the brancardiers were waiting for us, and they brought our man from underground. As they were putting the stretcher in the car I could hear the bullets from the mitrailleuse and rifles smashing against the court-yard wall. My brancardier looks at me and smiles.

The blessé is loaded slowly and carefully, and I am just cranking my car, when the doctor in charge of the poste walks out, shakes hands with me, thanks me for coming, and wishes me good luck on the return trip.

As we shot down the hill, I couldn't help but think of that open space in the walls. "The Boches are less than 300 metres from us at this point," said my companion. All the time we could hear the rifle bullets go "spat" up against the wall, and every few minutes the " plop, plop, plop" of the mitrailleuse; and now there is no wall, and we hold our breath. Now we hit a pile of bricks while trying to dodge a shell hole, and at last we turn the corner into H-----, and the walls again. A good straight road to V-----, and we make the most of it. Our blessé is to go to the hospital at C-----, "vitement." He is like most of them badly wounded and dead game! Not a sound as the car rolls and rocks down the road in the moonlight!

February 17, 1916.

I WAS on No. 1 again to-day. While at the hospital in V-----, I met a Harvard man (1910) who had been wounded three times and was just getting over an attack of fever; outside of that, as he said, he was feeling fine. He had served with the Legion.

I saw one of the saddest sights today I have seen since I have been over here. I had stopped at the hospital in V----- to unload my sick and wounded. The last man to crawl out was forty if he was a day, and so sick that he could hardly walk. He was shaking with fever and couldn't stand up straight. It took him a very long time to get from the car to the hospital, even with my help. As I left him I pressed a franc into his hot and shaking hand, and said, "pour les cigarettes." He looked at me with tears in his eyes, and as he thanked me and saluted, I turned away with my own eyes moist. I felt almost ashamed of being young and healthy, and of driving an ambulance. It is a crime to put men of that age into the trenches in the winter time! They can't stand the strain. I have seen it time and time again. It is bad enough to see a man wounded, but to see a man who hadn't been touched, all broken in health, and unable to hold his head up, that to me is the saddest thing of all.

February 18, 1916.

YESTERDAY the lieutenant got a letter from the Médecin-chef at R----, commending the section for its "bravery and devotion in evacuating the wounded during the last bombardment of the V----- R------- sector," and mentioning Woolverton [a Yale man] particularly, as having "several shells break very close to his machine." Of course, we are all pretty much pleased, and everybody is tickled to death that "Woolvy" was mentioned, as it means a " croix-de-guerre " for him.

February 24, 1916.

HAD a call to the poste at V----. After I had turned my car around at the poste, a doctor came to the front of the car and said. "We want you to wait about five minutes." Had I not seen that his arms were covered with blood, nearly to his elbows, I would have known by the quiet manner of the little group around the door of the poste what the five-minute wait was for. I got out of the car and saw the bloody sac and rifle standing by the door, and the look on the faces of the men pausing on their way to and from the première ligne. But I arranged my stretcher and blankets and waited At the end of a few minutes the doctor reappeared and said, "You may go now; he is dead." I asked him how it happened, and he said, as he shrugged his shoulders, " Nobody knows. He lay in the boyau for an hour and a half before he was found." He had bled to death almost within call of his comrades. Just one more man who has died, without any mention of his name, even--- for France. One more croix de bois in the ever-growing graveyard on the hillside behind the lines he had helped to hold in the attack last week. One more letter to a family stating that so and so had been killed in action on such and such a date. Sometimes we wonder how many crosses there are on the hillside behind the gray lines of the Boches, and which group grows the more rapidly.

We are all speculating on the attacks around Verdun, and what they signify.