A Traveller in War-Time | Page 2

the gravest crisis in its history, under the necessity of
sustaining and financing many allies and of protecting an Empire.
Since my return to America a serious reverse has occurred.
After the Russian peace, the Germans attempted to overwhelm the
British by hurling against them vastly superior numbers of highly
trained men. It is for the military critic of the future to analyse any
tactical errors that may have been made at the second battle of the
Somme. Apparently there was an absence of preparation, of specific
orders from high sources in the event of having to cede ground. This
much can be said, that the morale of the British Army remains
unimpaired; that the presence of mind and ability of the great majority
of the officers who, flung on their own resources, conducted the retreat,
cannot be questioned; while the accomplishment of General Carey, in

stopping the gap with an improvised force of non-combatants, will go
down in history. In an attempt to bring home to myself, as well as to
my readers, a realization of what American participation in this war
means or should mean.

A TRAVELLER IN WAR-TIME

CHAPTER I
Toward the end of the summer of 1917 it was very hot in New York,
and hotter still aboard the transatlantic liner thrust between the piers.
One glance at our cabins, at the crowded decks and diningroom, at the
little writing-room above, where the ink had congealed in the ink-wells,
sufficed to bring home to us that the days of luxurious sea travel, of a la
carte restaurants, and Louis Seize bedrooms were gone--at least for a
period. The prospect of a voyage of nearly two weeks was not enticing.
The ship, to be sure, was far from being the best of those still running
on a line which had gained a magic reputation of immunity from
submarines; three years ago she carried only second and third class
passengers! But most of us were in a hurry to get to the countries where
war had already become a grim and terrible reality. In one way or
another we had all enlisted.
By "we" I mean the American passengers. The first welcome discovery
among the crowd wandering aimlessly and somewhat disconsolately
about the decks was the cheerful face of a friend whom at first I did not
recognize because of his amazing disguise in uniform. Hitherto he had
been associated in my mind with dinner parties and clubs.
That life was past. He had laid up his yacht and joined the Red Cross
and, henceforth, for an indeterminable period, he was to abide amidst
the discomforts and dangers of the Western Front, with five days' leave
every three months. The members of a group similarly attired whom I
found gathered by the after-rail were likewise cheerful. Two
well-known specialists from the Massachusetts General Hospital made
significant the hegira now taking place that threatens to leave our
country, like Britain, almost doctorless. When I reached France it

seemed to me that I met all the celebrated medical men I ever heard of.
A third in the group was a business man from the Middle West who
had wound up his affairs and left a startled family in charge of a trust
company. Though his physical activities had hitherto consisted of an
occasional mild game of golf, he wore his khaki like an old campaigner;
and he seemed undaunted by the prospect--still somewhat remotely
ahead of him--of a winter journey across the Albanian Mountains from
the Aegean to the Adriatic.
After a restless night, we sailed away in the hot dawn of a Wednesday.
The shores of America faded behind us, and as the days went by, we
had the odd sense of threading uncharted seas; we found it more and
more difficult to believe that this empty, lonesome ocean was the
Atlantic in the twentieth century. Once we saw a four-master; once a
shy, silent steamer avoided us, westward bound; and once in mid-ocean,
tossed on a sea sun-silvered under a rack of clouds, we overtook a
gallant little schooner out of New Bedford or Gloucester--a forthfarer,
too.
Meanwhile, amongst the Americans, the socializing process had begun.
Many elements which in a former stratified existence would never have
been brought into contact were fusing by the pressure of a purpose, of a
great adventure common to us all. On the upper deck, high above the
waves, was a little 'fumoir' which, by some odd trick of association,
reminded me of the villa formerly occupied by the Kaiser in Corfu--
perhaps because of the faience plaques set in the walls--although I
cannot now recall whether the villa has faience plaques or not. The
room was, of course, on the order of a French provincial cafe, and as
such delighted the