THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



499 



The average man gives his first thought 

 to his immediate locality, but in this age 

 the scope of his understanding must ex- 

 tend over his State, then encompass the 

 entire country, and finally he must realize 

 that the United States is now a partici- 

 pant in the international arena, playing 

 a commanding part. Such a role is pos- 

 sible only when a large majority of the 



people can sense our changed status in 

 regard to the destiny which awaits the 

 greatest republic of all — a republic in 

 which all citizens recognize that no longer 

 can the individual live for himself alone, 

 and that the only policy to pursue is one 

 of practical altruism, whether it has to 

 do with individuals, municipalities, States, 

 or nations. 



IN FRENCH LORRAINE 



That Part of France Where the First American 

 Soldiers Have Fallen 



By Harriet Chalmers Adams 



THIS is the story of my journey to 

 Nancy, Luneville, and Gerbeviller, 

 in Lorraine— that part of France 

 where the first American soldiers have 

 fallen. 



I entered the French military zone as 

 a war correspondent, equipped with a 

 magical little yellow book which carried 

 my photograph and the facts about my 

 nationality, place of birth, magazine af- 

 filiation, and residence at home and in 

 Paris. It had ushered me safely past in- 

 numerable gendarmes and sentinels on 

 the way to Compiegne and Rheims, even 

 to front-line trenches in Champagne ; now 

 it brought me to Nancy, in northeastern 

 France, the most beautiful town in the 

 Republic, capital of historic Lorraine. 



On this particular trip the passport 

 permitted a traveling companion, so an 

 American girl engaged in Paris war work 

 went with me. This was her first glimpse 

 of that mysterious precinct known to few 

 civilians beyond its guard-girded bor- 

 ders — "The Military Zone." 



This zone, extending 500 miles, from 

 Flanders to Switzerland, stretches south 

 nearly to Paris, taking in the towns we 

 passed en route to Nancy — Meaux, Cha- 

 teau Thierry, Epernay, Chalons, Revigny, 

 Bar-le-Duc — all gateways to the front. 

 This is the road the Americans have fol- 

 lowed on their way to the trenches. 



It was a momentous ride by rail to 

 Nancy. In the gray mist of early morn- 

 ing the great Paris Gare de l'Est was 

 thronged. There were trench-worn men, 

 coated with mud, just back from the 

 front, relaxed and hungry, their arms 

 around wives and sweethearts. There 

 were grave-eyed men, in clean, faded uni- 

 forms, starting out again after their six 

 days' leave. I can never forget the faces 

 of the women with them. No tears, but 

 they looked as Joan of Arc might have 

 looked ten minutes before she was burned 

 at the stake. 



TRAVELING COMPANIONS ON THE TRIP TO 

 THE FRONT 



One soldier led a snappy fox-terrier to 

 wage war on the rats in the dugouts. 

 Another was festooned with loaves of 

 bread. Standing in line with us, awaiting 

 inspection of passports, was a young 

 American ambulance driver on his way 

 to the front. His uniform stood out 

 against the mass of horizon blue — van- 

 guard of our khaki-clad hundreds of 

 thousands who will march the bloody 

 road. 



We two were the only women on the 

 train. The soldiers dropped oft at every 

 station. We passed the River Marne, 

 tree-bordered, grasses swaying in its tide, 

 and skirted the famous battlefield. From 



