Part 36

Georges Clemenceau, Premier of France, is another who stands for justice and liberty. He has upheld these virtues with such fierce determination that he has come to be known in France as the "Old Tiger."

His father in the days of Napoleon III was a leader of the revolution and aided in the attempts to establish a republic in place of the kingdom. He was thrown into prison, but his son, Georges Clemenceau, became an even greater worker in the cause of freedom. As a young man he, too, was cast into prison because in the midst of an imperial celebration, he shouted on the streets of Paris "Vive la Republique." After he was released, he realized that he would be treated practically as an exile, and so he came to America. Here for a few years he was instructor in French in a school for girls. After marrying one of his students, he returned with her to France.

Through his writings and speeches, he became widely known in Paris for his democratic ideas upon all public questions. At one time a young military officer, Captain Dreyfus, was about to be condemned for high treason. Clemenceau believed him innocent, and proved that the trial was unjust. By his newspaper editorials, he so aroused the people of Paris--those of society as well as the working classes and university students--that a new trial was finally secured for the prisoner. The whole nation was interested in the Dreyfus case, and the youth of France especially hailed Clemenceau as a leader of justice.

He was first made premier in 1906, at the age of sixty-six. He served for three years and then again retired to private life. Often his voice alone was raised in objection to laws or regulations which to him seemed unfair. Even when no one shared his ideas, however, he forced the government and the people to listen to him, such a keen and stirring debater was he. For years he continued, as an editor of a newspaper, to struggle for justice for the common people. So unpopular was the "Old Tiger" with his cries of freedom for all, that he had to "tear and claw and bite" his way into society and to power in the government.

When the World War came, his daily paper, the Free Man, told the dangers and weaknesses of the government war measures. Like Lloyd George in England, he dared to propose new and gigantic means for winning the victory. He wrote much to keep high the courage of the French soldiers and the people, defending the just and righteous cause of their country. It is said that in the first three years of the war, he wrote over a thousand such editorials.

Then came the great crisis, when the Huns were planning a final drive that should win them the victory. Some one must be chosen who should be able to prepare the armies to strike hard at the enemy. Clemenceau was the man chosen. On October 17, 1917, he was once more made Premier of France, though he was now seventy-eight years old. But his eyes flashed keener, and his mind was more clever and daring than ever in his youth. The man who even in the titles of his newspapers,--Labor, Justice, Dawn, the Free Man,--had for years been shouting for liberty, now had a share in the command of the forces of the Allies which were to win the fierce struggle for democracy.

In the spring of 1918, when the French feared that they must lose the war, it was Clemenceau who cheered them and urged them on and on in their efforts to win, until at length he gave them the most cheering message of all, "Hold the line, for America comes!"

Overcoming all obstacles, he led the nation to victory. Down into the trenches he went, risking his life in the very front lines, that he might go among his soldiers to cheer them, and to let them know that he did not send his men where he would not go himself.

His behavior toward his would-be assassin, on February 19, 1919, was in itself a striking example of his daring, fighting spirit. As he rode home in his car from the Peace Conference, a man aimed and fired at him. Instantly Premier Clemenceau pushed open the door of his car, and, while the man continued firing, sprang upon him and grappled with him until the police reached the spot and seized the offender. Five bullets had been shot, only one of which lodged itself in the "Old Tiger's" shoulder, and did no great harm.

Even those who opposed Clemenceau's political policies, strongly denounced the attempt upon his life, which had been made by a supposed Russian socialist. Thus this keen, jovial, loyal defender of liberty has come into the love of all his people.

An unnamed poilu sent Premier Clemenceau his Croix de Guerre, with the following letter:--

"You have not been given the Croix de Guerre. Here is mine, bearing only two stars. You merit two palms."

Clemenceau is reported to have wept when he read the letter.

It gave him untold pleasure to serve as the nation's host during the visit of President Wilson--with whom, as representative of the great republic of the United States, he should further help to establish freedom throughout the world.

THE LOST BATTALION

On December 24, 1918, Lieutenant Colonel Charles W. Whittlesey of Pittsfield, Massachusetts, was presented in the presence of 20,000 people on Boston Common by Major General Edwards with the congressional Medal of Honor, the highest tribute of valor the United States awards.

General Edwards presented the medal with these words: "Your heroic act thrilled the entire American Expeditionary Force. It was a piece of stout-hearted work that reflected credit upon the part of yourself and of the men who were serving under you. It sustained the best traditions of American arms and valor. It is a great pleasure to have the presentation assigned to me; I regard it as a sacred duty."

Lieutenant Colonel Whittlesey smiled, and straightening up to his full stature of six feet and four inches, simply said, "I thank you, General."

The medal was given to reward his courage and determination when with his "lost battalion" he was surrounded by the Germans in the Argonne forest.

On the fourth day of suffering in the cold and rain without food or blankets, when their ammunition was almost gone, an American who had been taken prisoner by the Germans was sent to Major Whittlesey--his promotion to Lieutenant Colonel came later--with a written message saying, "Americans, you are surrounded on all sides. Surrender in the name of humanity. You will be well treated."

Major Whittlesey's exclamation when he had read the message was very brief and very forceful. It made the Germans understand without further parley that the Americans would never surrender. Major Whittlesey's men cheered his reply. Not one of them, cold, hungry, and almost exhausted, thought for a moment of surrendering.

Several days before on the morning of September 26, they had entered the Argonne forest, as a part of the line of American attack. At five-thirty in the morning, they had gone "over the top" in a very heavy fog and behind their creeping barrage toward the German trenches. They had to force their passage through trees, shrubs, vines, and undergrowth grown all together so that it was almost impossible to advance and yet keep in touch with one another as they were ordered to do.

They reached the first German trenches which were named the Ludwig. The Huns named their trenches so as to identify them readily in orders and upon the maps. These trenches were empty and they went on to a row of fancy concrete and iron dugouts, called by the Germans Karlsruhe, where they made their headquarters for the night.

The next day they met stubborn resistance from artillery and nests of machine guns, but they were able to make progress. In the first mile they passed over twelve abandoned trench systems.

As they went forward they left men behind at regular intervals to keep them in touch with the regimental headquarters. Along this line of men, stationed near enough together to communicate easily with each other, orders, ammunition, and rations could be passed.

The Germans knew their plan and as the battalion in the next days gradually got ahead of the main American line and out of touch with it on the flanks, the Huns pushed through, killed part of the men on the line of communication, and surrounded it, placing machine-gun nests in the rear.

When Major Whittlesey discovered their predicament, he directed his adjutant, Lieutenant Arthur McKeogh, with two men to make an attempt to get back to regimental headquarters and inform the colonel of the situation. Lieutenant McKeogh has told the story of his success. It is intensely exciting and makes one shiver at the horror of men, who have no personal enmity but might be friends, killing one another, and also makes one thrill with pride and admiration for the courage that dares even to death--not the quick death of the glorious charge, but the slow death of thirst, exhaustion, and fatigue. It shows us the worst and the best of war, and that the worst is too great a price to pay for the best. Lieutenant McKeogh writes in an article in Collier's:--

I took Munson and Herschowitz, and on hands and knees, with drawn revolvers, we began a detour of the nests. I was keeping my direction by compass every foot of the way. We had been going a scant ten minutes when shots from a light Maxim and rifles broke out in front. I thought we had been spotted, but after a wait, when we started again, we crawled within a few feet of the real target, now lifeless; he was in khaki and apparently he had strayed from his outfit. During our wait we saw a boche passing through the trees. From the crackling of the brush there seemed to be others. With my lips I made the words "Don't fire" to my runners, and then covered him, in case he saw us. He went by. Realizing that we might have something of a time of it getting through, I motioned the runners to my side, read the messages to them in whispers and had them repeat. Then scooping out a little hole in the sodden leaves under my chin, I buried the messages, with several others from my map case, in fine pieces. Next I impressed upon them that our mission was not to fight unless forced to it, but to get back to the regiment, all of us, if possible; one, certainly. Consequently we would separate when it became necessary.