SALONIKA, December, 1915.

The chauffeur of an army automobile must make his way against cavalry, artillery, motor-trucks, motor-cycles, men marching, and ambulances filled with wounded, over a road torn by thousand-ton lorries and excavated by washouts and Jack Johnsons.  It is therefore necessary for him to drive with care.  So he drives at sixty miles an hour, and tries to scrape the mud from every wheel he meets.

In these days of his downfall the greatest danger to the life of the war correspondent is that he must move about in automobiles driven by military chauffeurs.  The one who drove me from the extreme left of the English front up to hill 516, which was the highest point of the French front, told me that in peace times he drove a car to amuse himself.  His idea of amusing himself was to sweep around a corner on one wheel, exclaim with horror, and throw on all the brakes with the nose of the car projecting over a precipice a thousand yards deep.  He knew perfectly well the precipice was there, but he leaped at it exactly as though it were the finish line of the Vanderbilt cup race.  If his idea of amusing himself was to make me sick with terror he must have spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon.

The approaches to hill 516, the base of the hill on the side hidden from the Bulgarians, and the trenches dug into it were crowded with the French.  At that point of the line they greatly outnumbered the English.  But it was not the elbow touch of numbers that explained their cheerfulness; it was because they knew it was expected of them.  The famous scholar who wrote in our school geographies, “The French are a gay people, fond of dancing and light wines,” established a tradition.  And on hill 516, although it was to keep from freezing that they danced, and though the light wines were melted snow, they still kept up that tradition and were “gay.”

They laughed at us in welcome, crawling out of their igloos on all fours like bears out of a cave; they laughed when we photographed them crowding to get in front of the camera, when we scattered among them copies of L’Opinion, when up the snow-clad hillside we skidded and slipped and fell.  And if we peered into the gloom of the shelters, where they crouched on the frozen ground with snow dripping from above, with shoulders pressed against walls of icy mud, they waved spoons at us and invited us to share their soup.  Even the dark-skinned, sombre-eyed men of the desert, the tall Moors and Algerians, showed their white teeth and laughed when a “seventy-five” exploded from an unsuspicious bush, and we jumped.  It was like a camp of Boy Scouts, picnicking for one day, and sure the same night of a warm supper and bed.  But the best these poilus might hope for was months of ice, snow, and mud, of discomfort, colds, long marches carrying heavy burdens, the pain of frost-bite, and, worst of all, homesickness.  They were sure of nothing:  not even of the next minute.  For hill 516 was dotted with oblong rows of stones with, at one end, a cross of green twigs and a soldier’s cap.

The hill was the highest point of a ridge that looked down into the valleys of the Vardar and of Bodjinia.  Toward the Bulgarians we could see the one village of Kosturino, almost indistinguishable against the snow, and for fifty miles, even with glasses, no other sign of life.  Nothing but hills, rocks, bushes, and snow.  When the “seventy-fives” spoke with their smart, sharp crack that always seems to say, “Take that!” and to add, with aristocratic insolence, “and be damned to you!” one could not guess what they were firing at.  In Champagne, where the Germans were as near as from a hundred to forty yards; in Artois, where they were a mile distant, but where their trench was as clearly in sight as the butts of a rifle-range, you could understand.  You knew that “that dark line over there” was the enemy.

A year before at Soissons you had seen the smoke of the German guns in a line fifteen miles long.  In other little wars you had watched the shells destroy a blockhouse, a village, or burst upon a column of men.  But from hill 516 you could see no enemy; only mountains draped in snow, silent, empty, inscrutable.  It seemed ridiculous to be attacking fifty miles of landscape with tiny pills of steel.  But although we could not see the Bulgars, they could see the flashes on hill 516, and from somewhere out of the inscrutable mountains shells burst and fell.  They fell very close, within forty feet of us, and, like children being sent to bed just at dessert time, our hosts hurried us out of the trenches and drove us away.

While on “516” we had been in Bulgaria; now we returned to Serbia, and were halted at the village of Valandova.  There had been a ceremony that afternoon.  A general, whose name we may not mention, had received the médaille militaire.  One of the French correspondents asked him in recognition of which of his victories it had been bestowed.  The general possessed a snappy temper.

“The medal was given me,” he said, “because I was the only general without it, and I was becoming conspicuous.”

It had long been dark when we reached Strumnitza station, where we were to spend the night in a hospital tent.  The tent was as big as a barn, with a stove, a cot for each, and fresh linen sheets.  All these good things belong to the men we had left on hill 516 awake in the mud and snow.  I felt like a burglar, who, while the owner is away, sleeps in his bed.  There was another tent with a passageway filled with medical supplies connecting it with ours.  It was in darkness, and we thought it empty until some one exploring found it crowded with wounded and men with frozen legs and hands.  For half an hour they had been watching us through the passageway, making no sign, certainly making no complaint.  John Bass collected all our newspapers, candles, and boxes of cigarettes, which the hospital stewards distributed, and when we returned from dinner our neighbors were still wide awake and holding a smoking concert.  But when in the morning the bugles woke us we found that during the night the wounded had been spirited away, and by rail transferred to the hospital ships.  We should have known then that the army was in retreat.  But it was all so orderly, so leisurely, that it seemed like merely a shifting from one point of the front to another.

We dined with the officers and they certainly gave no suggestion of men contemplating retreat, for the mess-hall in which dinner was served had been completed only that afternoon.  It was of rough stones and cement, and the interior walls were covered with whitewash.  The cement was not yet dry, nor, as John McCutcheon later discovered when he drew caricatures on it, neither was the whitewash.  There were twenty men around the dinner-table, seated on ammunition-boxes and Standard Oil cans, and so close together you could use only one hand.  So, you gave up trying to cut your food, and used the free hand solely in drinking toasts to the army, to France, and the Allies.  Then, to each Ally individually.  You were glad there were so many Allies.  For it was not Greek, but French wine, of the kind that comes from Rheims.  And the army was retreating.  What the French army offers its guests to drink when it is advancing is difficult to imagine.

 Headquarters of the French commander in Gravec, Serbia.]

We were waited upon by an enormous negro from Senegal with a fez as tall as a giant firecracker.  Waiting single-handed on twenty men is a serious matter.  And because the officers laughed when he served the soup in a tin basin used for washing dishes his feelings were hurt.  It was explained that “Chocolat” in his own country was a prince, and that unless treated with tact he might get the idea that waiting on a table is not a royal prerogative.  One of the officers was a genius at writing impromptu verses.  During one course he would write them, and while Chocolat was collecting the plates would sing them.  Then by the light of a candle on the back of a scrap of paper he would write another and sing that.  He was rivalled in entertaining us by the officers who told anecdotes of war fronts from the Marne to Smyrna, who proposed toasts, and made speeches in response, especially by the officer who that day had received the Croix de Guerre and a wound.

I sat next to a young man who had been talking learnedly of dumdum bullets and Parisian restaurants.  They asked him to recite, and to my horror he rose.  Until that moment he had been a serious young officer, talking boulevard French.  In an instant he was transformed.  He was a clown.  To look at him was to laugh.  He was an old roue, senile, pitiable, a bourgeois, an apache, a lover, and his voice was so beautiful that each sentence sang.  He used words so difficult that to avoid them even Frenchmen will cross the street.  He mastered them, played with them, caressed them, sipped of them as a connoisseur sips Madeira:  he tossed them into the air like radiant bubbles, or flung them at us with the rattle of a mitrailleuse.  When in triumph he sat down, I asked him, when not in uniform, who the devil he happened to be.

Again he was the bored young man.  In a low tone, so as not to expose my ignorance to others, he said.

“I?  I am Barrielles of the Theatre Odéon.”

We were receiving so much that to make no return seemed ungracious, and we insisted that John T. McCutcheon should decorate the wall of the new mess-room with the caricatures that make the Chicago Tribune famous.  Our hosts were delighted, but it was hardly fair to McCutcheon.  Instead of his own choice of weapons he was asked to prove his genius on wet whitewash with a stick of charred wood.  It was like asking McLaughlin to make good on a ploughed field.  But in spite of the fact that the whitewash fell off in flakes, there grew upon the wall a tall, gaunt figure with gleaming eyes and teeth.  Chocolat paid it the highest compliment.  He gave a wild howl and fled into the night.  Then in quick succession, while the Frenchmen applauded each swift stroke, appeared the faces of the song writer, the comedian, the wounded man, and the commanding officer.  It was a real triumph, but the surprises of the evening were not at an end.  McCutcheon had but just resumed his seat when the newly finished rear wall of the mess-hall crashed into the room.  Where had been rocks and cement was a gaping void, and a view of a garden white with snow.

While we were rescuing the song writer from the debris McCutcheon regarded the fallen wall thoughtfully.

“They feared,” he said, “I was going to decorate that wall also, and they sent Chocolat outside to push it in.”

 After the retreat from Serbia.

 English Tommies intrenched in the ten-mile plain outside of Salonika. 
 “Are they down-hearted?  No!”]

The next day we walked along the bank of the Vardar River to Gravec, about five miles north of Strumnitza station.  Five miles farther was Demir-Kapu, the Gate of Iron, and between these two towns is a high and narrow pass famous for its wild and magnificent beauty.  Fifteen miles beyond that was Krivolak, the most advanced French position.  On the hills above Gravec were many guns, but in the town itself only a few infantrymen.  It was a town entirely of mud; the houses, the roads, and the people were covered with it.  Gravec is proud only of its church, on the walls of which in colors still rich are painted many devils with pitchforks driving the wicked ones into the flames.

One of the poilus put his finger on the mass of wicked ones.

“Les Boches,” he explained.

Whether the devils were the French or the English he did not say, possibly because at the moment they were more driven against than driving.

Major Merse, the commanding officer, invited us to his headquarters.  They were in a house of stone and mud, from which projected a wooden platform.  When any one appeared upon it he had the look of being about to make a speech.  The major asked us to take photographs of Gravec and send them to his wife.  He wanted her to see in what sort of a place he was condemned to exist during the winter.  He did not wish her to think of him as sitting in front of a cafe on the sidewalk, and the snap-shots would show her that Gravec has no cafes, no sidewalks and no streets.

But he was not condemned to spend the winter in Gravec.

Within the week great stores of ammunition and supplies began to pour into it from Krivolak, and the Gate of Iron became the advanced position, and Gravec suddenly found herself of importance as the French base.

To understand this withdrawal, find on the map Krivolak, and follow the railroad and River Vardar southeast to Gravec.

The cause of the retreat was the inability of the Serbians to hold Monastir and their withdrawal west, which left a gap in the former line of Serbians, French, and British.  The enemy thus was south and west of Sarrail, and his left flank was exposed.

On December 3, finding the advanced position at Krivolak threatened by four divisions, 100,000 men, General Sarrail began the withdrawal, sending south by rail without loss all ammunition and stores.  He destroyed the tunnel at Krivolak and all the bridges across the Vardar, and on his left at the Cerna River.  The fighting was heavy at Prevedo and Biserence, but the French losses were small.  He withdrew slowly, twenty miles in one week.  The British also withdrew from their first line to their second line of defense.

Demir-Kapu, meaning the Gate of Iron, is the entrance to a valley celebrated for its wild and magnificent beauty.  Starting at Demir-Kapu, it ends two kilometres north of Gravec.  It rises on either side of the Vardar River and railroad line, and in places is less than a hundred yards wide.  It is formed of sheer hills of rock, treeless and exposed.

But the fame of Gravec as the French base was short-lived.  For the Serbians at Monastir and Gevgeli, though fighting bravely, were forced toward Albania, leaving the left flank of Sarrail still more exposed.  And the Gate of Iron belied her ancient title.

With 100,000 Bulgars crowding down upon him General Sarrail wasted no lives, either French or English, but again withdrew.  He was outnumbered, some say five to one.  In any event, he was outnumbered as inevitably as three of a kind beat two pair.  A good poker player does not waste chips backing two pair.  Neither should a good general, when his chips are human lives.  As it was, in the retreat seven hundred French were killed or wounded, and of the British, who were more directly in the path of the Bulgars, one thousand.

At Gevgeli the French delayed two days to allow the Serbian troops to get away, and then themselves withdrew.  There now no longer were any Serbian soldiers in Serbia.  So both armies fell back toward Salonika on a line between Kilindir and Doiran railroad-station, and all the places we visited a week before were occupied by the enemy.  At Gravec a Bulgarian is pointing at the wicked ones who are being driven into the flames and saying:  “The Allies,” and at Strumnitza station in the mess-hall Bulgar officers are framing John McCutcheon’s sketches.

And here at Salonika from sunrise to sunset the English are disembarking reinforcements, and the French building barracks of stone and brick.  It looks as though the French were here to stay, and as though the retreating habit was broken.

The same team that, to put it politely, drew the enemy after them to the gates of Paris, have been drawing the same enemy after them to Salonika.  That they will throw him back from Salonika, as they threw him back from Paris, is assured.

General Sarrail was one of those who commanded in front of Paris, and General de Castelnau, who also commanded at the battle of the Marne, and is now chief of staff of General Joffre, has just visited him here.  General de Castelnau was sent to “go, look, see.”  He reports that the position now held by the Allies is impregnable.

The perimeter held by them is fifty miles in length and stretches from the Vardar River on the west to the Gulf of Orplanos on the east.  There are three lines of defense.  To assist the first two on the east are Lakes Beshik and Langaza, on the west the Vardar River.  Should the enemy penetrate the first lines they will be confronted ten miles from Salonika by a natural barrier of hills, and ten miles of intrenchments and barb-wire.  Should the enemy surmount these hills the Allies war-ships in the harbor can sweep him off them as a fire-hose rips the shingles off a roof.

The man who tells you he understands the situation in Salonika is of the same mental caliber as the one who understands a system for beating the game at Monte Carlo.  But there are certain rumors as to the situation in the future that can be eliminated.  First, Greece will not turn against the Allies.  Second, the Allies will not withdraw from Salonika.  They now are agreed it is better to resist an attack or stand a siege, even if they lose 200,000 men, than to withdraw from the Balkans without a fight.

The Briand government believes that had the Millerand government, which it overthrew, sent troops to aid the Serbian army in August this war would have been made shorter by six months.  It now is trying to repair the mistake of the government it ousted.  Among other reasons it has for remaining in the Balkans, is that the presence of 200,000 men at Salonika will hold Roumania from any aggressive movement on Russia.

To aid the Allies, Russia at Tannenberg made a sacrifice, and lost 200,000 men.  The present French Government now feels bound in honor to help Russia by keeping the French-British armies at Salonika.  As a visiting member of the government said to me: 

“In this war there is no western line or eastern line.  The line of the Allies is wherever a German attacks.  France went to the Balkans to help Serbia.  She went too late, which is not the fault of the present government.  But there remains the task to keep the Germans from Egypt, to menace the railroad at Adrianople, and to prevent Roumania from an attack upon the flank of Russia.  The Allies are in Salonika until this war is ended.”

In Salonika you see every evidence that this is the purpose of the Allies; that both England and France are determined to hold fast.

Reinforcements of British troops are arriving daily, and the French are importing large numbers of ready-to-set-up wooden barracks, each capable of holding 250 men.  Also along the water-front they are building storehouses of brick and stone.  That does not suggest an immediate departure.  At the French camp, which covers five square miles in the suburbs of Salonika when I visited it to-day, thousands of soldiers were actively engaged in laying stone roads, repairing bridges and erecting new ones.  There is no question but that they intend to make this the base until the advance in the spring.

A battalion of Serbians 700 strong has arrived at the French camp.  In size and physique they are splendid specimens of fighting men.  They are now road building.  Each day refugees of the Serbian army add to their number.

At four o’clock in the morning of the 14th of December, the Greek army evacuated Salonika and that strip of Greek territory stretching from it to Doiran.

From before sunrise an unbroken column of Greek regiments passed beneath the windows of our hotel.  There were artillery, cavalry, pontoons, ambulances, and thousands of ponies and donkeys, carrying fodder, supplies, and tents.  The sidewalks were invaded by long lines of infantry.  The water-front along which the column passed was blocked with spectators.

As soon as the Greeks had departed sailors from the Allied war-ships were given shore leave, and the city took on the air of a holiday.  Thus was a most embarrassing situation brought to an end and the world informed that the Allies had but just begun to fight.  It was the clearing of the prize-ring.

The clearing also of the enemy’s consulates ended another embarrassing situation.  As suggested in a previous chapter, the consulates of the Central Powers were the hot-beds and clearing-houses for spies.  The raid upon them by the French proved that this was true.  The enforced departure of the German, Austrian, Bulgarian, and Turkish consuls added to the responsibilities of our own who has now to guard their interests.  They will be efficiently served.  John E. Kehl has been long in our consular service, and is most admirably fitted to meet the present crisis.  He has been our representative at Salonika for four years, in which time his experience as consul during the Italian-Turkish War, the two Balkan wars, and the present war, have trained him to meet any situation that is likely to arrive.

What that situation may be, whether the Bulgar-Germans will attack Salonika, or the Allies will advance upon Sofia, and as an inevitable sequence draw after them the Greek army of 200,000 veterans, only the spring can tell.

If the Teutons mean to advance, having the shorter distance to go, they may launch their attack in April.  The Allies, if Sofia is their objective, will wait for the snow to leave the hills and the roads to dry.  That they would move before May is doubtful.  Meanwhile, they are accumulating many men, and much ammunition and information.  May they make good use of it.