almost alone in his glory, and so far as the
distribution of such privileges is concerned, the English have been
more cautious than any of the belligerents.

The French military authorities were more open minded, yet, while a
few favored sons or the head of some press association whose
position in Paris was almost as secure as that of an accredited
diplomat, were quietly taken up to the trenches from the first,
several months had elapsed before a group of correspondents went to
the front. The desirability of publicity was better understood
later, many neutral correspondents visited the trenches, and a few
specially favored individuals spent some time at or near the front,
but, even here, permission was obtained as a result of individual
effort rather than as a part of a general scheme for handling, more
or less impersonally, all applicants in good standing.

In Germany, correspondents were rather freely taken to the various
fronts from the first. One reason for this, was, perhaps, that the
Germans, with their thorough organization of everything, including
censorship and secret service, may have known better just how far
they could go. They were not afraid of what might get through the
wall, because the wall was tight, and they knew just what could get
out and what couldn't. At any rate, many reporters, both native born
and foreign, were getting glimpses of the various fronts while the
English group were still eating their heads off in London. Once
there, however, they saw less, as a rule, than the English
correspondents finally did, for their trips were generally mere
visits--a sort of Cook's tour in war time.

A quotation from an article of mine in "Collier's" written after a
trip through Belgium and down to the first-line German trenches at
Givenchy will suggest the nature of these excursions:

"You go out a sort of zoo--our party included four or five
Americans, a Greek, an Italian (Italy had not yet gone into the
war), a diminutive Spaniard and a tall, preoccupied Swede--under the
direction of some hapless officer of the General Staff. For a week,
perhaps, you go hurtling through a closely articulated program,
almost as helpless as a package in a pneumatic tube--night
expresses, racing military motors, snapshots at this and that, down
a bewildering vista of long gray capes, heel clickings, stiff bows
from the waist, and punctilious military salutes. You are under fire
one minute, the next shooting through some