Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 95, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 April 1915 — WANTS A HELMET; GETS IT FOR HER [ARTICLE]

WANTS A HELMET; GETS IT FOR HER

Belgian’s Love Story Shows Old Feminine Spur to Carnage Surviving. TROPHY FROM SLAIN FOE Belgian Chauffeur Had No Deal re for Trenches, Willing to Serve Country Elsewhere, Till Louise Marie Spoke. By EDGAR A. MOWRER. (Correspondent Chicago Daily Newa.) Paris. —“bore can only say what it wants by the language of life, action, song, sacrifice, raviahmenL death and the great panorama of creation.” —Edward Carpenter. Love of women is playing its part in thia war, just as it has always done. “Take me to Dunkerque," I said, brandishing my pass. The Belgian chauffeur did not look at IL “What are you going to do there? It does not make any difference to me so long as you have'a pass. And if you haven't the sentinels on the road between here and there’ll have you out quick enough. I’ve got to get some oil for my lamp. It’s getting dark. Come back in ten minutes and we start." Had Fled From Antwerp. A quarter of an hour later I was sitting beside the chauffeur on the front seat of the taxicab with my baggage inside, while the two cylinder motor ehugged along the international highway from Fumes. Belgium, to Dunkerque, in France. “Where are you from?” I asked after a while. The evening mists were Mowing in from the North sea, muffling the deserted fields in layer after layer. “Antwerp.” "What is your trade?” “Driving a car. That is, I used tp be a taxi driver, but now I’m in the ponce, or was before the war. That’s how I can get such good speed out of thia old two-lunger. Of course I had a better car than this at the beginning, but it got left when the ‘bodies’ came into Antwerp. I escaped in this one.” Red, Cross Painted on Car. “You’re in the sanitary services, I suppose,” I hazarded, referring to the red cross largely painted on the glass front I "Yes and no. You see, we haven’t enough cars. Sometimes I transport wounded and sometimes I bring hack nails; just anything. You’d better get out your pass. There’s the frontier and the first control just ahead, And say. I don’t know the password—only up till noon today. I forgot to ask for it at Furnes. But don’t worry, I won’t have any trouble.” Faster motor cars than ours, great limousines and roadsters full of French and Belgian officers raced by in the dark with few lights showing. We were forced to stop some distance from the military post at the French frontier and wait our turn to go through the narrow “S” formed by barricades erected in the road. Buriy Sergeant Quiets Down. “Passes, your passes, please,” cried a burly sergeant of French territorials, shining a light in our faces. He examined mine and handed it back. _L "Where is yours?” he demanded of the former taxi driver. “I haven’t any,” replied my companion, “but don’t look at me like that! It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it, territorials like you who've never looked a rifle barrel in the eye having the right to stop men like me who haven't missed a fight for three months ? Can't you see my friend here is on a special mission and mustn’t be delayed?” The sergeant was wavering. “Why haven’t you the password?" he asked finally. "Now, that’s a fine question,” spluttered the Belgian, sitting up straight. "I only left Dunkerque this morning. I had the password then, all right—up till noon—‘Carlo’ for the French and ‘Gaston* for the Belgians. But when I got to Furnes, where I expected to stay a little while, here I found I had to take this gentleman back to Dunkerque. Fine chance I had to get a password.” “You can go on,” grunted the sergeant at last, and with much grinding of clutches and brakes we moved slowly beyond the flare of the sentinel's lantern. Colonel Shows His Authority. The scene was repeated at three other controls. It is unforgettable—the lanterns, the reflections In the canal which borders the road, the faces, the darkness, the excessively cold wind blowing in the mists from the sea. At the third control we were about to enter the “S” when there was a clatter of hoofs add flying stones and a voice sliced the darkness: • “Get back there, I tell you, and wait your turn.” In an instant a grizzled French infantry colonel was upon us. His horse suddenly kicked, champed and pawed the earth. “Get back, I say,” the officer cried. “Not a carriage will pass until my men come through.” “We saw no men, but there was no use trying to argue with the colonel, who would have taken the tongue out of us if we had dared to protest. In three minutes We were the head ot a > quarter of a mile of waiting autos. Borne of the first arrivals tried to push . t by, but the old colonel, who had reined

tn hia horse and sat Immobile beside the barricade, greeted the audacious ones with such a fury of oaths that the boldest were cowed and obediently fell in behind us. But where were his men? A minute parsed; perhaps two. Then we heard a'tramping sound, dulled by distance. It grew louder. The first company wound past the barricade and entered the area of our headlight*Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp. A regiment on the march stretches out ipto a phenomenally long organism. It was 25 minutes before the last of the four pieces of artillery, which brought up the rear of the 3,500 men, had gone beyond us. Dunkerque and Louise Marie. Despite jockeying op the part of the drivers of faster cars behind us, my chauffeur kept his place in the line and we were The first through the control. As we neared Dunkerque, although he bad said little up to this time, he knocked the ashes from bis pipe. "I'm glad to be going back to Dunkerque," he said. “It’s a fine town. They know how a fellow feels when he has been forced out of his own country. Here in France the women and all are so good to you they make you forget how far It is from home, with their wine and candy and fruit they give you. “A fellow wouldn’t be much without women, anyway. When we get there I'm going to hunt up Louise Marie and take her to dinner. You haven’t an extra silver piece or two, have you? Thanks. Well, 1 suppose you’ve been in love. But It’s mighty funny what a

difference it makes. Here I wm up to a week ago without any desire at all to go Into the trenches. 1 didn’t envy the infantry; seemed to me foolish to go and get killed when you could serve your country just as well doing something else. “Then, one night, down in Dunkerque here, I met Louise Marie. We liked each other from the start. Say, I felt more like a man that evening than I have since the dirty German crew entered Antwerp. After we’d had dinner I asked her what I could do for her to show I had feelings, too. The little beauty (she isn’t really beautiful) said she was crazy for a Prusco’s helmet. Wasn’t Afraid at All. “ ’Louise Marie,’ said L ’l’ll get you one.’ “And I did. I got a chum In the Seventh infantry to change places with me, he in my car and I In the trenches all filled with mud and water, with the ‘boches’ about three hundred yards away. And I was lucky. “That night the Germans attacked. For a time it was hot, but finally they began to retreat. I saw my chance. ’Charge ’em, boys.’ I yelled, and jumped out of the trench and ran forward in the dark, feeling my way until I came to where some German dead were lying. “For a minute I thought I was doing a little one man act, but pretty soon here came our fellows. It was beautiful. Somebody told me our soldiers took a lot of prisoners. Anyhow, Louise Marie has her helmet. The most amazing thing is, I wasn’t afraid at all.”