Nellie Bly

Evansville Journal/December 8, 1914

The following is a continuation of the article of Sunday from Miss Nellie Bly, famous globe trotter, who is now in the invested fortress of Przemysl, in Austria.

In Sunday’s article, the first of her series, Miss Bly told of her arrival in the Austrian city of Przemysl, under siege by the Russians. After describing the famine and disease that have already gripped the beleaguered city, she tells of obtaining permission to visit the firing line, with five other correspondents and photographers, under guard of an Austrian officer, Colonel John.

The start is made at dawn, and the little party straggles through the filthy streets and through a still filthier camp, among groups of worn-out, wounded soldiers, past wrecked homes and even entire villages, toward the Russian firing line where the hoarse booming of the cannon is calling her to her baptism of fire. Her article follows.

Przemysl, Friday, Oct. 30—My fire baptism was not immediate. It did come later and unexpectedly.

Our wagons were all in a line on the river bank. To our left were hundreds of soldiers packed in a group. I could hear a voice addressing them. I wondered if some general was making an address before going into war, as Napoleon used to do.

Loud cheers and waving of caps brought the address to a close. As the men dispersed I saw the flat cap and tan uniform of a Russian officer extraordinary noticeable among the Austrian gray.

“Is he a prisoner?” I asked Colonel John.

“Yes” he replied.

“And what were they doing?” I urged.

“They were decorating a soldier,” he answered.

“What for?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Something,” was the answer.

“I would like to see him and the Russian officer.” I suggested.

“It’s a pity. We are too late,” he answered.

That settled it. The newspaper instinct is not strong here, and as I must obey orders I can only stay where I am put.

The rest of the party was gathered around the wagons eating from their lunch bags. I had no hunger. Though this spot was cleaner than the others, what had been seen before killed all desire to eat.

As I must walk I pulled off my officer’s coats. I had on my soldiers’ gray skirt and blue sweater. I was told it was soldiers’ blue, but Colonel John evidently thought otherwise.

“Oh, Miss Bly, you can’t go in that!” he cried. “The Russians shoot everything they can see. That blue is visible.”

“Not more so than the jackets of those Hungarians,” I replied, pointing to a troop who were just mounting and galloping off.

The colonel was not convinced. I was to walk in his group and he did not intend to have his group fired upon.

I could not wear my fur coat and walk. It weighs fifty pounds at the least and reaches my ankles. I would not give up the firing line, though the colonel suggested I need not go further if I wished. I wished. The amiable artist, Mr. Hollitzer, had laid aside his big cape. It was too heavy. He could not walk in it. Mr. Hollitzer looks six feet and to weigh 550 pounds.

It was Mr. Hollitzer’s cape or stay with the wagons. I asked him gently, pleadingly— might I wear It? He bowed and smiled.

I might if I could.

Exax, the young photographer from Vienna, placed it around me. It was ten yards wide on the edge and touched the ground.

I was lost in its folds and despair. Exax suggested I fold it four times and wear it around my shoulders like a shawl. I did so. The burden was martyrdom.

So we started up the muddy road, Colonel John striding along the muddy channel cut by the flat rims of the wagon wheels. I followed, breathless and perspiring, under Mr. Hollitzer’s cape. The rims of the wheels are narrow. To step on the side was to get five inches deep in slush. To keep both feet in the narrow wheel rut was to walk like a pigeon-toed Indian. It was painful. Walking a tightrope could be more dangerous, but not more difficult.

Between the wagon rut and the cape I lost more flesh in half an hour than a Turkish bath would remove in a year.

Frequently we met officers on horseback. Then we waded through the slush to the side of the road, and after they passed indifferently waded back again.

A continuous straggling stream of sick and wounded soldiers was always coming toward us. Sometimes they saluted, more often they staggered unconsciously and forlornly on, their sunken eyes fixed pathetically on the west, blind to their surroundings, their ears deaf to the near and ceaseless thundering of cannon, their nerves dead to the awful whining of the granards as they whirled above our heads, so near, yet never visible to the eye.

A woman was among the single line westward. She wore boots, a short, balloon-shaped purple skirt, and a flower-bordered white handkerchief over her head. Her right arm was bound with a ragged shawl tight to her breast. In a fortnight she will be a mother.

She stopped us. Could we direct her to the nearest doctor?

Sick? No. A piece of shell had broken her arm two days ago and she wanted a doctor to set it. She was told to enter the first Red Cross hospital she saw, and, thanking us, she turned, trudging toward the west.

Unexpectedly behind two log houses we discovered a battery. We were commanded to stand in the road while Colonel John went in to parley with the commander. It resulted in an invitation to enter.

Behind the houses, on a space about the size of a small garden, were five cannon. They stood on the smooth open ground. Each one was loaded with shrapnel. Ammunition boxes in neat piles stood near.

In cave-like cells dug deep in the earth, roofed with corrugated steel, which was covered with bags, perhaps of sand, and they in turn covered with earth, were ammunition and evidently things necessary for a battle.