Lest We Forget: World War Stories

The civilized nations of the world, in which we do not include Germany and her allies, have agreed that the execution of Captain Fryatt was a murder. Possibly the Germans also know it, but defend it as they did the invasion of Belgium, as "necessary" to German victory.

History will forever record it as an example of the black deeds done by desperate men who care only to accomplish their selfish ends, and will explain how these evil deeds of horror and of terror have injured those who committed them more than those who suffered from them.

On the very day of the execution of Captain Fryatt, the British passenger liner Falaba was torpedoed and sunk without warning. She sank in eight minutes carrying with her one hundred and four men, women, and children, who were "not members of a combatant force."

RUPERT BROOKE[3]ToC

Among the losses that the World War has caused—many of them losses that can never be made good—is that of the promising young English poet, Rupert Brooke.

He was a fine type in mind and body. His father was a teacher in the great English school at Rugby, and here the boy learned to write, and to play cricket, tennis, and football. He was interested in every form of athletics and was strong and skillful at all. He was a great walker and a fine diver and swimmer. He was said to have been one of the handsomest Englishmen of his day, tall, broad, easy, and graceful in his movements, with steady blue eyes, and a wavy mass of fair hair.

He had traveled much in France, Germany, Italy, the United States, Canada, and the South Seas, where he visited Stevenson's home in Samoa. Of all lands, however, he loved England best.

When the war broke out, Brooke said, "Well, if Armageddon's on, I suppose I should be there." He enlisted, was commissioned as lieutenant, and was sent almost immediately with the English forces to relieve Antwerp, at that time besieged by the Germans. This experience, lying day after day in trenches under German fire, followed by the terrible retreat by night with the thousands of Belgians who had lost everything except their lives, changed the careless, happy youth into a man. He was but twenty-seven years old when he enlisted. He wrote but little poetry after his enlistment, but it is all of a finer, more spiritual quality than any of his previous work.

He spent the following winter training in England, and then joined the British Expeditionary Forces for the Dardanelles. He never reached there, however, for he died at Scyros on April 23, 1915, and was buried by torchlight at night, in an olive grove on the island.

One of his friends, Wilfred Gibson, has paid a beautiful tribute to him in a short poem entitled "The Going." It is a tribute that might well be offered to any of the thousands of young heroes from many lands who have gone with a sudden glory in their young eyes to give all, that human liberty should not be lost.

Death appeared to be in his mind constantly after his terrible experience at Antwerp, but he seems never to have feared it. It is really the subject of all of his five sonnets written in 1914, and these are the best of his work. He thought constantly of England and of all that she had done for him and meant to him. He thought also of the little meaningful things of life, and put them into these sonnets—dawn, sunset, the beautiful colors of the earth, music, flowers, the feel of furs, and the touch of a cheek. Strange that he should have thought of the touching of fur. It probably gave him a strange sensation as it does to many. And then he thought of water and its movement in the wind, and its warmth under the sun, which seemed to him like life, just as its freezing under the frost seemed to him like death. All of this and more he put into a beautiful sonnet entitled "The Dead."

Note how significant is every human experience which he mentions from "the quick stir of wonder" which the youth feels, to the kindness which comes with years. "They had seen movement" is strange, and yet many like Rupert Brooke are fascinated with movement and see life chiefly in motion,—in smiles and steps.

His finest poem, however, is the last of the five sonnets and is entitled "The Soldier." Here he pours out his heart in love of England and in the pride that he feels in being an Englishman. Read France or America or some other worthy homeland in place of England and it will appeal to other hearts beside Englishmen. It is a beautiful poem, one that will live forever.

One of our American poets, George Edward Woodberry, has beautifully said:

FOOTNOTES:

"LET US SAVE THE KIDDIES"ToC

At 12:20 noon, on Saturday, May 1, 1915, there steamed out of New York harbor one of the largest and fastest passenger ships in the world. It was the Lusitania, flying the British flag, and bound for Europe, via Liverpool. On board were nearly two thousand men, women, and children. They were not overcrowded, however, for the Lusitania was the finest, the most comfortable of ocean boats. It was more than an eighth of a mile in length, 88 feet in width, and 60 feet in depth, and had a speed of nearly 30 miles an hour.

Her passengers, once out from shore, settled down to seven days of life in this immense, floating hotel. Tiny babies toddled across the smooth, shining floors of the new home, or watched with gurgles of delight the older children rollicking and romping over the decks. The women chatted and sang, and played all sorts of games. The men, too, engaged in many contests, athletic stunts, and games. At night, when the little ones were quietly sleeping in their bunks, their elders gathered in the grand saloon and there listened to some fine singer, a famous violinist, or a great lecturer.

So the days passed, the people living as one great family. New friendships grew, and many delightful acquaintances were formed. The complete harmony and restfulness of such a life, the clear skies and sunshine, and the vast expanse of blue-green ocean, all made them forget that they were riding into a region of horror and war.

For nearly ten months Belgium, England, France, and Russia had been waging war against Germany. Around England's coasts lurked the horrors of the German submarine. The travelers on the morning of sailing had read the warning against crossing. It has since been called the "Death Notice." It read:

It had been printed in the newspapers beside the advertisement of the sailing of the Lusitania, and was posted that very morning by order of Count von Bernstorff, German ambassador to the United States. But most of the travelers paid no attention to the notice after reading it, for they were sure that no implement of war would be turned against a passenger ship. With stout hearts, many of the travelers said, "We are Americans. No country will refuse respect and protection for an American citizen in any part of the world." Or they said, "We are British citizens,—not soldiers. We are on a merchant vessel—not a battleship. Surely our rights will be respected. We cross under necessity."

So they dared to exercise their freedom and their rights when they boarded the steamer for this return trip.

After sailing for five days in safety, they came at last within sight of land. Early on Friday morning a heavy fog had lowered, but the ship continued to plow steadily through the tranquil waters. Toward noon the fog lifted and the sunshine and blue sky came to view, contributing to the full enjoyment of the travelers.

They had just finished luncheon. Some were quietly writing letters—others playing games. Many had strolled to the upper decks. They greeted their new acquaintances, regretting that they were so soon to part, for they were now but ten or fifteen miles out from shore off "Old Head of Kinsale," and within a few hours all would land, going on their separate ways for the rest of the journey. Though they were nearing a world at war, all seemed peaceful.

The ship's clock pointed at two, when a few men standing on deck saw what looked like a whale rising from the water about three quarters of a mile away. They saw it speeding toward them, and suddenly they knew what it was; but no one named it, until with a train of bubbles it disappeared under the ship, and they cried, "It's a torpedo!"

With a fearful explosion, the center of the ship was blown up through the decks, making a great heap of wreckage. The passengers fled from the lower to the upper decks, many of them not stopping for life preservers. Some of those who did strap on the life preservers did not put them on correctly. Many leaped into the water, trusting to be picked up by a passing boat. Although every one was terribly frightened, yet there seemed to be no panic. The men lowered the lifeboats, which were crowded to the full. As many as seventy or eighty people, it is said, were packed into one small boat.

Leslie N. Morton, a mere lad, has been officially named as bravest of the crew. He was stationed on the starboard side, keeping look-out, when the torpedo struck. He, with the assistance of his mate, rowed a lifeboat for some miles, put the people on a fishing smack, and returned again for other survivors, rescuing in all nearly a hundred.

There were many acts of heroism among the passengers, but in all of the distress one young man stood out among the hundreds upon the ship. Alfred G. Vanderbilt, a young American millionaire, quickly realizing that the steamer was sinking, turned to his valet and cried, "Let us save the kiddies!" The two sprang to the rescue of the babies and small children, carrying two of the little ones in their arms at a time and placing them carefully in the lifeboats with their mothers. Mr. Vanderbilt and his valet continued their efforts to the very last. When they could find no more children, they turned to the assistance of the women that were left. When last seen, Mr. Vanderbilt was smilingly, almost happily, lending his aid to the passengers who still remained on deck.

The whole civilized world honors the memory of this brave youth, who gave his life in serving helpless women and children. Gratifying indeed it is to know that the little ones were cared for, though sad to learn that even then only twenty-five of the hundred and twenty-nine babies on board were saved. About one hundred children were innocent victims of that dastardly deed which the Germans, through savage desire to terrorize, became brutes enough to do.

Elbert Hubbard, a noted American writer, and his wife went down with the ship. Charles Frohman, a leading producer of plays, was another prominent American lost. He has been cited as the finest example of faith and calm strength, for, realizing that there was little hope for him, he smilingly remarked, "Why fear death? It is the most beautiful adventure that life gives us."

In less than twenty minutes after the torpedo struck, nothing except floating pieces of wreckage strewn on the disturbed surface of the water marked the place of the great calamity.

The wireless operator had sent the S.O.S. signal of distress several times, and also had time to send the message, "Come at once, big list, 10 miles south of 'Old Head of Kinsale.'" He had received answers before his apparatus was put out of use, and soon trawlers and pilot boats came to the rescue and brought to shore those who had survived. The cold ocean water, however, had made many so numb that they were unable to help themselves enough to be lifted into the lifeboats, even when the life preservers had kept them afloat. Of the 159 Americans on board, 124 perished. In all, only 761 people were saved; 1198 perished.

That day the terrible news came over the cable to America,—the great passenger steamer Lusitania had been torpedoed by a German submarine; probably a thousand lives had been lost, among them many Americans!

At the White House, the President realized the awful import of such a message.

In a day or so, nearly two thousand telegrams poured in from all parts of the country; and it is said that the President read them all, for he wanted to know how the individual American felt.

The Germans offered all sorts of excuses for their cruel deed. A German paper printed the following:

A blockade of an enemy's ports is, and always has been, a perfectly fair kind of warfare. In our Civil War, the southern ports were, from the beginning, blockaded by the northern warships. Germany was in no danger of starving, as the events since have proved. Her excuses were, as they have been in every case where she has played the part of the brute, worse than no excuses and always based on falsehoods.

"The steamer carried ammunition for England," they said. But it was bought and carried in accordance with international law. Germany had the same right to buy and carry from a neutral country. "It was a British ship," they said. But it was a passenger ship and carried nearly two thousand people, many of them Americans, who, according to all international agreements, were guaranteed safe passage even in time of war.

All nations recognize the obligation of an enemy to visit and search the vessel they think should be sunk, to make sure it carries contraband of war, and if so, to give the people an opportunity to get safely into the lifeboats. Not only did the Germans not do this, but they did not even signal the ship that it was about to be sunk. The newspaper warning put out by Bernstorff was no excuse for committing an unlawful, inhuman act.

From all points of view, the Germans, in sinking the Lusitania, committed a horrible crime, not only against international law, but against humanity and civilization. In all war, armed forces meet armed forces; never do armed forces strangle and butcher the innocent and unprotected. There is such a thing as legitimate warfare, except among barbarians.

Here again was shown the German attitude in the "scrap of paper." Evidently trusting to the great distance of the United States and her well-known unpreparedness, Germany thought that a friendly relation with this country was a matter of entire indifference to her; or, if she hoped to draw America into the war, she little dreamed to what end those hopes would come!

Around the world one verdict was pronounced against Germany. This verdict was well worded in a Russian paper, the Courier:

The American government, upon the occurrence of the calamity, showed great forbearance, believing that "a man of proved temper and tried courage is not always bound to return a madman's blow." A strong protest was sent to the Imperial German Government, which caused Germany to abandon for a time her submarine attacks upon neutral vessels. It was the renewal of these attacks that finally led to the declaration of war by the United States of America upon Germany and her allies, and it was the Lusitania outrage more than any other one event that roused the fighting spirit of America.

THE CHARGE OF THE BLACK WATCH AND THE SCOTS GREYSToC

Sometimes a retreat is in reality a great victory. It has been said that it requires a greater general to direct successfully a great retreat than it does to direct a great attack.

Some marvelous retreats have occurred in the World War, the greatest coming at its very beginning, when the English and French fell back to save Paris and to defeat the Germans at the Marne. This retreat was really a series of battles, day after day, with terrible losses on both sides.

An English private in the Black Watch, named Walter Morton, only nineteen years of age, described for the Scotsmen one of these battles in which his regiment and the Scots Greys made a magnificent charge. His story was as follows:

THE BATTLES OF THE MARNEToC

At Marathon (490 B.C.) and at Salamis (480 B.C.) the Greeks defeated the Persians and saved Europe for western civilization. Had the Persians won, the history of Europe and of the world would be the story of the civilization of the East instead of that of the West.

At Tours (732 A.D.) Charles Martel defeated the forces of the Mohammedans, who had already conquered Spain, and saved Europe for Christianity.

At the Marne (1914 and 1918) the French, the English, and (in the second battle) the Americans, defeated the modern Huns and saved Europe for democracy and from the rule of merciless brute force. The First Battle of the Marne has been called the sixteenth decisive battle of the world.

Before the First Battle of the Marne, September 5 to 10, 1914, the German military machine had been winning, as never an army had won before in the entire recorded history of the world. Its path had been one of treachery, of atrocities, of savagery, but one of tremendous and unparalleled victory. The Germans at home called it "the great times."

Brave little Belgium had been able to hold back the German hordes but for a short time at Liége and Namur, but, as future events proved, long enough to make possible the decisive battles at the Marne. The Germans had taken Brussels and Antwerp, had destroyed Louvain, had filled themselves with outrage and murder, had drunk of blood and wine and success until they were thoroughly intoxicated with the belief so common to drunken brutes that no men in the world can stand against them. The little Belgian army, "the contemptible little English army" (as the Kaiser called it), and the magnificent French army had been retreating day by day almost as fast as the Germans could advance. Soon Paris and then all of France would be in German hands—and what a glorious time they would have in the gayest and most beautiful capital of the world. Although bodies of German cavalry raided the coast, the German leaders, elated and intoxicated with thoughts of rich plunder and dissipation, did not turn aside in force to follow the Belgian army and to take the Channel ports of Dunkirk, Calais, and Boulogne, but pushed on toward Paris. The French government, expecting a siege of the city, moved to Bordeaux.

The main forces of the Germans had turned south from the coast towards Paris with General von Kluck's army of about 200,000 men at the right or west of the German line of advance. General von Kluck was attempting to outflank the English army, that is, to throw part of his forces around the extreme western end of the English army, which had to keep retiring rapidly to avoid being encircled. The French army was obliged to fall back to keep in touch with the British.

The English retired nearly one hundred miles without losing their cheerfulness or their confidence. It was this turning movement on the left that forced all the allies to retire. An English writer who was with the army said that though the Germans constantly attacked with reckless courage, yet the British and French retired slowly with their faces to the foe, and showing the greatest heroism. The numbers of the Germans were greater than those of the Allies, and the Germans gave them no rest. Night and day they hammered away, coming on like great waves. The gaps the English made were filled instantly. The German guns played upon the Allies constantly. Their cavalry swept down upon them recklessly. If the English had great losses, the Germans had greater. The English fought with cool bravery. They never wavered an instant. But the pressure upon them could not be resisted. Column after column, squadron after squadron, mass after mass, the enemy came on like a battering ram, crushing everything in its way. They swarmed on all sides, even though shattered by shot and shell. Nothing but the steadfast courage, the sheer pluck, the spirit, the soul of the English soldiers saved the army from complete destruction.

"The enemy hung on to us like grim death," said a wounded soldier. "They wanted us to retreat in a direction that would best suit their plans. But we were not taking marching orders from them. We went our own way at our own pace. We were retiring, not retreating."

Then on the fifth of September came General Joffre's appeal to the defenders of civilization, and particularly to the French soldiers: "The hour has come to hold our positions at any cost and to fight rather than to retreat.... No longer must we look at the enemy over our shoulders, for the time has come to put forth all our efforts in attacking and defeating him."

A French writer has said of the retreat, which by order of General Joffre had now come to an end, "Their bodies retreated, but never their souls;" and he might have added of the German advance, "It was an advance of bodies, not of souls." It was material might in men and guns forcing back an army weaker in everything except soul and spirit. The World War has shown over and over again, not only at the Marne but at a hundred other places and in a hundred other ways, that soul and spirit are the real conquerors and that God is not always, as Napoleon said, on the side of the larger battalions.

The Germans had come on flushed with success and egotism, destroying French property, looting, and dissipating. Their spirit was the spirit they found in the French wine cellars, and as for soul, as civilized people understand the word, they had none. They were an army of tired, conquering brutes. Their morale was low because of their great success and all that had accompanied it of feasts and slaughter. The morale of the French was never higher. Every day and every hour they had been compelled to retreat, giving up, giving up all that they loved even better than life itself to these brutes, until the brain of the French army said on the evening of September 5, 1914, "You have gone so far in order that you may now stand successfully." And in the morning at dawn, it was not only the bodies of the French soldiers that hurled themselves against the invaders, but the souls of French men, the soul of France; and all along the line from Verdun to Meaux, under the gallant leadership of Manoury, Foch, Sarrail, Castelnau, and others, the French armies held. If they had not held—not only held but attacked—all of future history would be different.

General Foch, commander in chief at the Second Battle of the Marne, inspired his troops in this first battle to supernatural bravery. He knew they must not yield, so with his right broken, his left shattered, he attacked with his center. It was that or retreat. His message to the commander-in-chief, General Joffre, will never be forgotten.

"My left has been forced back, my right is routed. I shall attack with the center."

The Germans could not put their souls into the battles as the French soldiers did, and besides, the Germans were weakened by feasting and dissipation. With the Huns it was the right of might; with the Allies it was the might of right, and in the end the second always defeats the first.

Some one has well said:

"It is the law of good to protect and to build up. It is the law of evil to destroy. It is in the very nature of good to lead men aright. It is in the very nature of evil to lead men astray. Goodness makes for wisdom. Badness is continually exercising poor judgment.

"Germany and Austria have made colossal mistakes in this war because of their colossal violation of truth and justice. In brutally wronging Serbia, they lost the friendship and support of Italy. In perpetrating the monstrous crime against Belgium, they brought against them the whole might of the British Empire. In breaking international law with their reckless submarine warfare, they caused the United States to enter the war on the side of the Allies."

It is said that the army of the German Crown Prince retreated before the impetuous attack of the French and, because of this retreat, all the other German armies were obliged to do likewise. It is more probable, however, that the general retreat was due to General Joffre's strategy. The Germans under General von Kluck were within about twenty miles of Paris, near Meaux on the Marne, when suddenly they were struck in the flank and rear by about twenty thousand fresh troops brought out unexpectedly from Paris in motor trucks, taxis, limousines, and all kinds of pleasure cars. Now the Germans, who had caused the retreat of the French and British armies upon Paris by continually outflanking the British, were in their turn outflanked and compelled to retreat, and Paris was saved.

An English writer has said that although the Germans were outflanked only in the west, yet the blow passed from one end of the German line to the other, from Meaux to Verdun, just as the blow from the buffer of the engine, when it is coupled to the train, passes from one truck to another to the very end of the train.

The Germans in the next few days retreated from the Marne to the Aisne, where they entrenched. Paris and France and Europe and the only world worth living in were saved. The French government moved back to Paris.

Hall Caine in "Three Hundred and Sixty-five Days" says: "The soul of France did not fail her. It heard the second approach of that monstrous Prussian horde, which, like a broad, irresistible tide, sweeping across one half of Europe, came down, down, down from Mons until the thunder of its guns could again be heard on the boulevards. And then came the great miracle! Just as the sea itself can rise no higher when it has reached the top of the flood, so the mighty army of Germany had to stop its advance thirty kilometres north of Paris; and when it stirred again, it had to go back. And back and back it went before the armies of France, Britain, and Belgium, until it reached a point at which it could dig itself into the earth and hide in a long, serpentine trench stretching from the Alps to the sea.

"Only then did the spirit of France draw breath for a moment, and the next flash as of lightning showed her offering thanks and making supplications before the white statue of Jeanne d'Arc in the apse of the great cathedral of Notre Dame, sacred to innumerable memories. On the Feast of St. Michael, ten thousand of the women of Paris were kneeling under the dark vault, and on the broad space in the front of the majestic façade, praying for victory. It was a great and grandiose scene, recalling the days when faith was strong and purer. Old and young, rich and poor, every woman with some soul that was dear to her in that inferno at the front—the Motherhood of France was there to ask God for the triumph of the right.

"And in the spirit of that prayer the soul of France still lives."

Nearly four years later the Germans, with greatly increased forces in France, due to the collapse of Russia, were again upon the Marne and only about forty miles from Paris. French and English and Americans were opposing them upon a line shaped like a great letter U, extending south with Rheims at the top on the east, and Soissons at the top on the west. The Marne River was at the curve at the bottom, and there most of the Americans were stationed.

On July 15, 1918, the Germans began the offensive which was to result, as they hoped, in the capture of Paris. They attacked on the Marne and between the Marne and Rheims. At the end of the fourth day, they had advanced about six miles, crossing the Marne and pushing back the American troops. The Americans fought bravely and soon regained the ground they had lost, although the French generals suggested that they should not attempt to retake it. The American commander, however, sent word to the French general, who was his superior officer, saying that he did not feel able to follow the suggestion, for the American flag had been compelled to retire. None of his soldiers, he said, would understand this being allowed as long as they were able to attack. "We are going to counter-attack," he added. They did so, and regained all the ground lost.

It is clear now that the French generals knew the counter-attack was unnecessary, and knew why. West of the line from Soissons to the Marne is a great forest, and back of this General Foch, commander in chief of all the allied armies, had been for several days gathering guns, ammunition, tanks, and troops ready to strike the flank of the Germans, when they should attack between Rheims and the Marne and attempt to cross the Marne, as he knew they would in their desire to take Paris. A terrible tempest passed over the region just before the Allied attack, preventing the Germans from observing the advancing tanks and troops. An English writer has said, "The storm which had covered the noise of the final preparation of a number of tanks which led the assault, was over. Not a sound was heard in the forest, though it was teeming with men and horses. Then suddenly the appointed moment came when day broke. There was a roar from all the guns, the whole front broke into activity as men and tanks dashed forward. I suppose there has been nothing more dramatic in the whole war than this scene on which the general looked down from the top of a high perch in the forest on that quiet July morning!"

The Allies struck so unexpectedly that they captured hundreds of guns and thousands of prisoners, and obliged the Germans to fall back across the Marne, losing all the territory they had gained and much more. The danger to Paris was again turned aside by the military genius of General Foch and the bravery of the troops under his command.

It was the first great battle in which the Americans took part. They showed themselves equal to the best of the Allies, and better than the Germans. A London paper called the American counter-attack one of the historical incidents of the whole war. All Europe, except Hunland, rang with praises of the American troops.