EVERY MAN HIS OWN REFUGEE

Showing that Anybody—During War Times— Can be Something of a Hero

Frederick Lewis Allen

THE refugee from Europe now holds the centre of the stage. He is, on every side, the object of the most servile admiration. I have discovered this fact since I originated the fiction that I had myself been at the front.

I hardly know what set me off on my imaginary travels. I suppose it was chiefly despair at the paralysis of all original conversation since the Germans Began battering down French forts and the Hearst papers began issuing their daily battles. Whenever two friends met, it was necessary for them to exchange a few remarks and, somehow, these remarks always lacked variety. For a day or two, at the beginning of the war, I found myself remarking to acquaintances that I couldn't believe the reports were true; they seemed more like dreams, they were so horrible; the next day I ventured the opinion that the Kaiser was crazy; shortly afterwards I had the acuteness to add that of course one must distinguish between the German people (who are splendid fellows, every man of them) and their ruler. After that, I spread the information that I was glad to be in the good old U. S. A., that I pitied my various friends in Europe but supposed they were in no real danger, that I thought the Germans were bound to be beaten since there were so many nations against them, but that of course nobody could tell what was going on because the censorship was so strict. Here I stuck for awhile, and for a few days there was nothing to say but "Hullo. Have you heard the latest? The Germans are still pressing westward," or "Hullo! Did you know that the Russians are still pressing southward? " After a while even this palled.

And then, at about this time I had an inspiration! I suddenly realized that personal reminiscences would be well received.

ONE night, as I was riding uptown in a crowded subway train, I fell against Smith. We hadn't seen each other for a full year.

Smith carried two newspapers, of which one proclaimed a German victory in five-inch headlines, while the other announced a triumph for France in six-inch headlines. A map of France projected from his side-pocket, and under his elbow was wedged a rolled-up copy of the Illustrated London News, which I knew contained diagrams representing the comparative military forces of the warring nations, as shown by a row of soldiers sloping steeply, from a huge Russian down to a minute Montenegrin. Smith was fairly bursting with warnews.

"Well," he cried. "What do you think of this latest battle?"

I ventured some inconclusive remark.

"I suppose the censorship prevents us from having any accurate idea about what's going on out there," he continued, cleverly.

Here is where I realized my opportunity. "Of course," I replied. "In fact, the newspaper reports distort every thing that I saw in France during the first month of the war."

The effect was tremendous. Two dejected brokers swung on their straps to gaze at me. The shopgirls, who were wedged in the seats in front of me, honored me with a long stare— to see what a refugee really looked like—and then concealed their disappointment in a faraway expression which meant that they were all listening intently.

"WHAT! WERE YOU THERE?" Smith fairly shouted. "Tell me about it." His expression was that of a gold-miner face to face with a nugget.

Rapidly marshalling in my mind a few scattered impressions which I had gathered from the newspaper refugee-stories, I cleared my throat impressively and began:

"My first intimation of any serious trouble was in Paris. One morning I was sitting in my room hunting in my phrase-book for the French equivalent of 'please get me some soap; In our country the hotels provide it,' when I Overheard some Frenchmen talking in loud voices outside my window. I had frequently heard men talking in the street before, and had attached no special significance to the fact; now, however, something in their tones alarmed me.

"Immediately I rang for a servant, and looked up the word 'war' in my phrase-book. The servant appeared in full military unform, his face suffused with patriotism. At once my quick eye took in the man's unusual costume.

"'Est-ce que c'est la guerre?' I asked.

"'Yes,' replied the good fellow in faultless English. But before I go any further I should like to say that I cannot speak too highly of the courtesy and consideration of the French.

"I immediately rushed to the proprietor of the hotel, surprising him in the act of kissing a map of Alsace which, for thirty years, he had carried in his upper left-hand waistcoat pocket. His face was drawn. His wife sat beside him. Her face was also drawn. It was also painted.

"'When,' I cried, 'does the next train leave France? '

"The proprietor consulted his watch. 'In eleven minutes,' he replied with natural emotion.

The effect on the straphangers of this part of my narrative was tremendous. A small boy ten feet down the car nudged the fat man beside him. "Did you get that, pop?" he said huskily. "Eleven minutes!" Amazement was written on the faces of the shopgirls. I got my breath and proceeded.

"THERE was not an instant to lose. I hurried to my room, and, tossing into a suitcase a few of the merest necessities of life—a toothbrush, a Baedeker, a phrasebook, a sponge-bag—I ran downstairs. The hotel, so tranquil a moment before, was in confusion. The porters had all gone to the war. The clerks were all out in the square hanging wreaths of flowers on an Alsatian statue. Everywhere one could see guests rushing about, carrying handbags, and even suitcases, unaided. It made one realize what war means. I witnessed one rather touching incident. As I left the hotel, an American brushed past me. 'I'm going home,' he said. 'The bar's closed.' Deeply affected by the man's patriotism, I called a taxi, barricaded myself inside of it, and started for the station.

"In the streets of Paris, all was bustle and confusion. Regiments of soldiers marched to and fro at full speed, kissing women and waving flags. The air was full of cries of 'Vive la France!' The main streets were piled with trunks, discarded by taxi-drivers who had been overcome with patriotism while driving their clients to the station and had left for the front.

"Prominent Americans sat in the Place de la Concorde surrounded by heaps of baggage. Some of them were offering to purchase a taxi and proceed in it under the protection of the American flag. Others were engaged in writing to President Wilson, asking him please to stop the war at once, or, failing that, to provide a special train. The French were wonderfully composed. I am loud in praise of the French! In fact, I cannot speak too highly of them.

"At the station the confusion was indescribable. All the trains were full of soldiers; refugees were lucky to get seats at all. I secured an excellent position on the floor, and the train started. I had had nothing to eat or sleep for forty-eight hours—"

"Nothing to what?" interrupted Smith curiously.

"Nothing to sleep or drink for forty-eight hours," I corrected myself. "All about me people were complaining about the privations they had suffered,—the lack of taxicabs, the really indifferent food. None, however, could speak too highly of the French—"

"Yes, yes," said Smith impatiently. " Never mind that. Later on—what happened? How did you get home?"

"IT was only through the merest good luck that I got home at all," I continued. "In London I found a vast crowd collected outside the Cunard office, clamoring for tickets. I broke into it and stole a ticket.

" As for the journey home, it was uneventful. There was nothing to do but write letters of advice to President Wilson and watch the German, Russian, French and English cruisers hot in pursuit of us. We also watched the floating mines go by. We proceeded at full speed, with all lights blanketed and the cornet removed from the orchestra as an added precaution against capture. The captain remained on the bridge for five days and nights, and I feel that I am only speaking for the rest of the passengers when I say that I cannot speak too highly of his—"

"Grand Central! " cried the guard. A wave of humanity swept toward the doors, carrying me with it, and in another instant I was outside the train. My last glimpse of my audience showed me Smith almost, transfixed with wonder, the shopgirls wide-eyed with admiration, the small boy gasping with excitement. I was the lion of the moment. It is a wonderful sensation to be a war hero.

Since then I have amplified my experiences to include a trying hour in Brussels, a forced retreat from Berlin and alarming arrest as a French spy in Alsace, and glimpses of various cavalry skirmishes on the banks of the Rhine, Rhone, Seine, Saone, Meuse, and Moselle. Let me advise my readers to try it, without delay. I recommend this system to all. If, at any time, you find that the conversation needs stimulation, or if you feel that you are not being treated with sufficient deference, consideration or respect, all that is necessary is to turn to the neighbor on your right and begin, "That reminds me of a little incident that happened while I was at Namur during the siege. ..."

The audience is yours.