I was a member of the American Red Cross Association, but I knew that the great work of the American Red Cross was in sending supplies.  The comparatively few nurses they had sent to the western field of war were not at the front or near it.  The British, French, Belgian and Dutch nursing associations were in charge of the field hospitals, so far as I could discover.

To see these hospitals, to judge and report conditions, then, was a part of my errand.  Only a part, of course; for I had another purpose.  I knew nothing of strategy or tactics, of military movements and their significance.  I was not interested in them particularly.  But I meant to get, if it was possible, a picture of this new warfare that would show it for the horror that it is; a picture that would give pause to that certain percentage of the American people that is always so eager to force a conservative government into conflict with other nations.

There were other things to learn.  What was France doing?  The great sister republic had put a magnificent army into the field.  Between France and the United States were many bonds, much reciprocal good feeling.  The Statue of Liberty, as I went down the bay, bespoke the kindly feeling between the two republics.  I remembered Lafayette.  Battle-scarred France, where liberty has fought so hard for life—­what was France doing?  Not saying much, certainly.  Fighting, surely, as the French have always fought.  For certainly England, with her gallant but at that time meagre army, was not fighting alone the great war.

But there were three nations fighting the allied cause in the west.  What had become of the heroic Belgian Army?  Was it resting on its laurels?  Having done its part, was it holding an honorary position in the great line-up?  Was it a fragment or an army, an entity or a memory?

The newspapers were full of details that meant nothing:  names of strange villages, movements backward and forward as the long battle line bent and straightened again.  But what was really happening beyond the barriers that guarded the front so jealously?  How did the men live under these new and strange conditions?  What did they think?  Or fear?  Or hope?

Great lorries and transports went out from the French coast towns and disappeared beyond the horizon; motor ambulances and hospital trains came in with the grim harvest.  Men came and, like those who had gone before, they too went out and did not come back.  “Somewhere in France,” the papers said.  Such letters as they wrote came from “somewhere in France.”  What was happening then, over there, beyond the horizon, “somewhere in France”?

And now that I have been beyond the dead line many of these questions have answered themselves.  France is saying nothing, and fighting magnificently, Belgium, with two-thirds of her army gone, has still fifty thousand men, and is preparing two hundred thousand more.

Instead of merely an honorary position, she is holding tenaciously, against repeated onslaughts and under horrible conditions, the flooded district between Nieuport and Dixmude.  England, although holding only thirty-two miles of front, beginning immediately south of Ypres, is holding that line against some of the most furious fighting of the war, and is developing, at the same time, an enormous fighting machine for the spring movement.[A]