Nellie Bly

Evansville Journal/December 6, 1914

Nellie Bly, famous the world over as a newspaper writer and globe-trotter, is at the front. In this, the first of a series of articles to arrive in this country. This famous woman gives some details of what war really looks like through a woman’s eyes. This article by Miss Bly was written in the beleaguered city of Przemysl.

PRZEMYSL, Oct. 30— I went on the firing line yesterday. It was Thursday, October 29, 1914. I was called at 5 o’clock. I made my unsatisfactory toilet in the dark. My electric light had gone to sleep and the daylight was not yet on duty.

At 6 I walked down four long flights of stairs—dirty stairs—pushing through a crowd of soldiers who were raising a frightful and unsanitary dust by brushing and polishing officers’ unforms and boots.

Everybody arrived, singly and in groups. Some had cameras, others sketch books, and each had a linen bag slung over his shoulders in which was deposited his day’s food. Each one wore a soldier’s cap, and the majority soldiers’ jackets for raincoats. I felt snug in my cap and fur-lined coat.

Through the narrow, muddy, cobbled streets we crawled, one after the other, six in all, weaving in and out among long wagon trains going filled our way, and endless lines of wagons coming toward us, bearing wounded soldiers mainly, though every once in awhile a wagon filled with knapsacks told its mute story of wet, water-filled, hasty graves.

We could see cavalry riding in haste in different directions, artillery starting suddenly and disappearing another way, troops in gray and in dark blue making a square line like a freight train on the horizon.

With all this movement I could hear no sound except the sound of constant and heavy cannonading. It was like a moving picture with the cannon effect behind the curtain.

And with this rapidly changing panorama in the foreground, lining our roads on either side, were camps resembling scenes from our West of early days, thousands of canvas covered wagons standing in lines, their teams either unhitched and staked in groups of six, or unbridled and eating hay from the ground at their feet. Each wagon was filled with supplies.

Sanitary conditions did not exist. Horses, wagons, tents were jammed together. The tents seemed to be three feet high and four in circumference. Men crawled in on their stomachs. Even so, tents were scarce.

I could scarcely look at the scene, as my eyes were fastened to the ground in an effort to avoid the human filth which any commander—if one is in a camp—could have made unnecessary.

General Conrad von Hotzendorff said: “Write the truth.”

I am. I write it for the sake of humanity The first and most Important thing for Austria Is an able, efficient sanitary commander and corps with power.

A matter of four weeks ago the village of Hermanowill occupied the bank on the other side of the small stream, which separates it from the camp. A few chimneys still stand. Piles of brick, plaster and logs show where homes once stood. Gardens trampled out, yet green, with touches of blooming poppies and ginger, have not perished under the feet of the thousands of Russians, who, after capturing this place, slowly retreated three weeks ago with enormous losses. On the branches of felled trees soldiers hung their clothes which they washed in the stream, and their unwashed coats and blankets.

Field kitchens were busy. They are like a square steel tank, riveted and set on four wheels. Underneath is a place for wood, the small door located between the hind wheels. On top are the holes in which are fitted three enormous pots shaped like a range boiler. Each pot has a heavy steel cover which locks when turned. At the back hang two heavy steel dippers, stamped with the coat of arms of Austria.

Each field kitchen cooks for 250 men at one time. Once every five days each man gets three and one-half kilos of bread and 200 grams of biscuit. In the morning he gets coffee or tea. In the middle of the day he gets meat stewed, vegetables and sometimes rice.

“What does he have for supper?” I asked Col. John.

“Oh, for supper he doesn’t get much,” he replied.

Everywhere I saw horses driven in countless hundreds. Not often, considering the great number, but often I saw horses walking on three legs, one apparently being broken. No disablement seems to bring the merciful bullet. They must await death. Dead horses and horses unable to lift more than their heads were ordinary sights.

In times like this one does not lose one’s pity, but one realizes one’s helplessness. Perhaps that is the most terrible part of war.

We crossed the railroad at the small station of Hermanowice. Lying on the ground and standing everywhere are wounded soldiers awaiting freight trains to carry them to some place where care can be given them. Their faces are pallid, like washed clay along a river bank. Head, arms or feet are bandaged. We do not see those having other injuries.

The cannons sound ceaselessly. I can hear the strange whizzing sound of granard and shrapnel flying through the air. On the east, against a mountain, is a line of tents. Before it I see the Red Cross flag. The colors have run so that the white is stained as if dipped in blood. A little to the right a huge balloon ascends, stands swaying high against the heavens and then descends. This it repeats at frequent intervals.

A sudden turn in the road made me forget my eagerness to reach the hoarse cannons.

Before me was a small valley divided by a good-sized river spanned by two new, strong bridges, and in newly cut, well -graded roads, with high banks on either side which were being rapidly fortified with barbed wire and embankments. Alongside the banks spaces had been dug out and covered with thatched roofs and lined with straw. In them were countless numbers of saddled horses.

“This Is a corps,” said Colonel John to me. “It is composed of 45,000 men. From this we walk to the firing line.”

“How far?” I asked.

“Just a little way.”

“How far away is the Russian firing line?” I asked.

“It Is two miles,” he said.

Now for my baptism of fire!