Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 28, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 February 1915 — FOES FORGET HATE [ARTICLE]

FOES FORGET HATE

Life in Trenches Makes Friends of Opposing Armies. French and Germans Formulate Rules, and Between the Hours of Killing Exchange Cigars and Bottles of Wine. By WILLIAM PHILIP SIMMS. (United Press Staff Correspondent.) With the French Army at the Front —At places here in the Argonne the French and German trenches are so close together that in the weeks the two armies have been thus face to face the soldiers are, after a fashion, personally acquainted with each other. Here the fighting has become systematized and follows a routine. At certain sections of the tranches the French and Germans have reached an agreement that before a certain hour in the morning there is to be no killing; in the opposing trenches the men are to be allowed to wash up and make their toilet for the day. After the gong taps, figuratively speaking, any head showing above the level of the ground gets promptly taken off. Rock battles often take place between the opposing sides. The men grow tired of having nothing to shoot at for flours at a time and in order to amuse themselves they bombard each other without the thrower exposing his person to the bullets of the enemy. At times the enemies, however, become almost friendly. “Say, over there!” a German shouted from his trerich. “Have you guys got anything to smoke?” * “Sure!” the chorus came back from, the French. “Have you?" “Not a crumb!” “Too bad. You ought to write to the kaiser.” “Gimme the makin’s." "Come and get ’em.” A giant of a young fellow stuck his head and shoulders above the ground, placed his hands on the edge of the trench and vaulted out on the side toward the French. A month-old flaxen beard stood out about a very round face. Mud covered his formerly gray-ish-bluish-greenish uniform. A little round, visorless fatigue cap made him look like a young Santa Claus. Stooping, he ran swiftly across the highway which separated the trenches at this point, and, falling flat on his stomach, peered down into the enemy’s trench. “Where’s them cigars?" he demanded. “Here they are,” a Frenchman replied. “You deserve them. Six, and they’re worth a louis apiece.” “Merci!" said the German, as he scurried back to his burrow.