Arthur Guy Empey, Author, Makes Tremendous Appeal For Contributions to Tobacco Fund By ARTHUR GUY EMPEY (Written For "Our Hoys In France Tobueco Fund.") EDITOR'S NOTE.—Arthur Guy Empey, author of "Over the Top" and "Tales From a Dugout," Is an American who has been In the thick of the great war. He formerly was machine gunner and bcunber with H. M. Imperial army, British expeditionary force in France. He knows what war is. He has written this article for "Our Boys In France Tobacco Fund." He speaks for the men in the trenches, for our American sol diers who soon will be in there dying. Mr. Empey not only is .tiding the fund by writing for it, but also in all his lectures throughout the country he is, as he says, "putting it right before the public and making them realize that that loose dollar bill in their jeans ihould and must, go Into the Fund which is supplying Smokes for Sammy." Send your contributions to this newspaper. Our boys. Uncle Sam's boys, are fighting in France. Think it over. They are not in camp for ten days; they are not on the Mexican border; they are not drilling In armories. They are fighting in the trenches. Many of them will never again see their homes, this beautiful God's countrv of theirs and ours. They will die and be burled thousands of miles away, with a little wooden cross at the head of a mound of dirt to mark their fall. In time the elements vill destroy this cross, and perhaps a bursting shell will level that hill of dirt. They are dead. Are they forgotten in death? You know they died for their be loved Stars and Stripes, sacrificed nil for their flag and us—yes, gave their lives for us, we who are here at home eating our three squares a day, sleep ing in our comfortable beds, and, al though we are doing, or are trying to do, our bit, still we are not wet, cold and muddy: we are not bleeding; we are comfortable physically, though our hearts are wrenched. These boys of ours are uncomfortable physically, and thero is also a tugging at THEIR heartstrings. They are longing for mother, father, brother, sister, wife, sweetheart and perhaps their little ones. The cry rings throughout the land — Americans, do your bit! Send our boys ammunition, food, ?uns, bayonets and the rfbeessaries to win this war for us. Quite right, send them, but what tbout SMOKES? We all know a soldier's work is to rlestroy and kill so that we may live. This work to him is repulsive. He s not a murderer, he does not revel in bloodshed. He is HUMAN. He rioesn't want to work all the time. He wants play, recreation and com fort the same as we do. HE WANTS A SMOKE. IS DY ING FOR ONE. HIS OVERSTRAIN ED NERVES NEED ONE. These are facts, not theory. I KNOW. I have been in the trenches iltd craved the comfort of a good, de icious smoke —and didn't get it. Perhaps you will say, "My boy is aver there and he doesn't smoke." Don't fool yourself. After he has 'sat it out" on the fire step of a 'ront lino trench for a few days he will smoke. HE CAN'T HELP IT. ill Pullman |T was constructed entirely of safety, comfort and con of wood, lighted by oil venience on 137 railroads, em lamps, and was heated by box bracing 223,489 miles of track, stoves which burned cord wood. Staunchly constructed, elec- It rested on blocks of India t !j call J lighted, sanitary ven-j rubber instead of springs, plat- tilated and steam heated, they j forms were open and four include every feature for the wheel trucks were used with personal convenience and lux iron wheels. ury of the passenger. Today 7,400 Pullman cars, I n addition, the cars of the' built m the shops of the Pull- p u ll man Company afford a man Company, are operated uniform and continuous ser . by its own trained employes. vice unequa ll ed by that of Twenty-seven million pas- any like organization in the sengers are afforded assurance world.' THE PULLMAN COMPANY] Chicago THURSDAY EVENING, The public to be convinced must have facts. Well, here are some facts, actual happenings in the trenches of France and in hospitals. These incidents will show the crying need of the soldiers for smokes. Are we going to send them some or are we going to let them keep on longing? Examples 1 A wounded Tommy Atkins Is ly !ing on the ground, the blood running I from a hole in his leg made by a bit [of shrapnel, lie is yelling for stretch er bearers. Here they come at the double. They stop beside him, place the stretcher on the ground, open It up, and one of them unbuttons a lit tle pouch he is carrying, sticks in his hand and pulls out —no; not a band age, but a smoke. He hands it to the wounded Tommy, who is grinning. The grin makes cracks in the dried mud on his face. Then the follow ing conversation ensues: Stretcher bearer: "Want a smoke? Where are you hit?" Tommy: "Yes. In the leg." The stretcher bearer lights the smoke, binds up Tommy's wound and, placing him on the stretcher, the two Red Cross men start with him on their way to the nearest ad vanced dressing station. Wending their way through the muddy and narrow communication trench, the leading Stretcher bearer stumbles over a trench grid. Down ho goes, and Tommy is nearly dumped into the mud. He lets out a yell. The offending stretcher bearer, red faced and ashamed of his careless ness, in a nervous voice inquires. "Did I 'urt your wound, mate? I'm sorry." Tommy answers, "'Ell; no!" The stretcher bearer, indignantly, "Well wots all the bloody row about?" Tommy, meekly: "I dropped me smoke, mate. Tip us another." The stretcher bearers search their pouches and pockets, but find none. The stretcher, with its bleeding burden, resumes its winding course through the trench, its wake blue with curses and sarcastic remarks from Tommy directed at the stretch er bearers. If there had been another smoke Tommy would have been contented and happy, but as It was he was mis erable and complaining, making it unpleasant for every one who han dled him in -his long trip to Blighty. But such is the creed of the trenches—keep our boys warm, their bellies full, give them plenty of smokes, and they will plant the flag in Berlin. Just take any one of the above three away, especially the "smokes," and, although the flag will eventually land where it belongs, It will take much longer. SEND THEM SMOKES. i Another Example 11. We had gone "over the top" In a charge early that morning. It was tough sledding. We were "clicking" casualties so fast that an adding machine was needed to keep count of them. There were ten of us—a machine gun, a sergeant, six Vlcker's machine gunners and two company men de tailed from the battalion for the purpose of "bringing up 'ammo' " (ammunition). Our part in this little affair of "straightening the line" consisted in the operation of a machine gun to help break up the counterattack which the Germans would launch against our captured position. When the counterattack started it was hot work. Belt after belt was fed through the gun. The water in the barrel casing was boiling. Shell? were commencing to drop around lour crater, too close for comfort. The German artillery had "taped" us, and we knew it would only be a short time before a shell with our names and numbers on it would come screeching over, but wo had to hold our position. Our ammunition was getting low. The sergeant detailed two men to go back for "ammo," a risky job under that intense Are. The men were about to start when one of the ma chine gunners shouted into the ear of the sergeant. "Don't send Collins; he's got the only pipe in this bally crowd. Sup posin' he gets a hit?" The sergeant, with a look of morti fication on his smutty face, replied: "Blime me, so he has. I'm a silly ass to forget it. Wallace, you go after 'ammo,' and, Collins, you get on the gun." Wallace started grousing, but went. He got hit in the leg. If he had had a pipe he wouldn't have been sent. Collins stayed with us. He wasn't wounded. During a lull in the firing we each took turns at the pipe. We had our smoke. Did wo win? Well, I think we did. I can't rightly remember, but. anyway Fritz packed up his artillery and we were safe, but, do you know, we certainly enjoyed that smoke, SEND THEM SMOKES. Another One 111 I had been slightly wounded In an attack on the German lines and had been sent to the base hospital at Rouen. The bed next to mine was empty. The sheets were turned down, the pillow was missing and a rubber sheet was stretched across the center of the bed, the ends of which were neatly tucked under the mattress. It was my first tim'e in a hospital, but even to me, a recruit, it seemed that that bed was specially prepared, was waiting for some special case. I was right. It was. In the bed on my left was a Jock, a Scottie from the Fifteenth royal HXRRTSBURG TETJEGR2.PIT Scots, or "ladles from hell," as this particular Highland regiment was lovingly called by Fritz, our neigh bor across No Man's Land. This Jock had lost his left foot from a shell burst. I asked him why the bed was made up in such a peculiar manner. He told me that the oc cupant, a Canadian, was up in the "pictures" (operating theater) hav ing both hands amputated at the wrists and also that the Canadian was blind, caused by the explosion of a bomb while raiding the German trenches. In about half an hour four white clotheirt orderlies came down the ward carrying a stretcher. In the wake of the stretcher came a Red Cross nurse. They halted before the unoccupied bed on my right. Then I marveled at the efficient and gen tle way In which the wounded mjin was transferred from the stretcher to the bed. The "undertaker's squad leit, but the Red Cross nurse sat beside her patient, every 'how and then shooing a fly away from the bandaged head or using a piece of gauze bandage to wipe away the white froth which constantly oozed from the half open lips of the ban daged form. In a short time the ether began . £, out " and the frothy lips twitch ed. Then a sigh, and the man began tlmJl not Save the King" or The Maple Leaf Forever," but "Never Introduce a Bloke to Your Lady Friend." 1 retty soon this tune changed to a shout of "Ammo (ammunition)! Ammo! Ammo forward!" You could hear him all over tho ward. The nurse started to sing a crooning lit tle lullaby. The shouting ceased. I- urther twitching and twisting, and tho ether was expelled into an ever ready little receptable held in the hands of the nurse. In a few min utes rays of consciousness penetrat ed to the brain of the wounded man and he started to mutter: "Turn on the lights; it's dark, it's dark. I can't see. It's dark, dark. Take that damned pillow off my head. It's dark, dark, I tell you. What's the matter with my mitts? They're tied; cobblestones on them, where as I, Smokey? This dug out's dark. Switch on the glim." The nurse was talking to him in a low voice and crooning her lullaby. My God, how that girl could sing! It was not long before the blind ed soldier fell asleep. He slept for three hours, the nurse beside him. Not for a second did she leave her post. I Inwardly wished that the patient would sleep for hours longer. The presence of that nurse made me feel happy and contented all over. The form on the bed stirred, and then In a plaintive voice: "Where am I? Where am I? Turn on the lights! Turn or) the lights!" The sun was streaming through the window. The nurse was crying. So was I. The Jock on my left was softly curs ing to himself. The angel of mercy leaned over her patient and in a low voice whisp ered to him: "Never mind, dearie; you are in the hospital and will soon be in Blighty for a nice long rest." The Canadian's mouth twitched. I thought he was going to cry. It was a pretty mouth, but the lips were blanched to a bluish white. He asked the nurso, "What time is it?" She answered: "Three o'clock, dearie. Try to go to sleep. You'll feel better soon." The Canadian asked in a piteous voice. "Why is it so dark?" Then he shouted in a terfor stricken voice: "I know! I know! They've put my lights out. Good God, I'm blind! I'm blind! My eyes are gone—gone— gone"— And his voice died out in a long sob. Three doctors came through and held a low voiced consultation. Two of them left; one stayed. The Jock whispered to me: "Poor bloke! He's going west. I know the rigns." The dying man began to mutter. The nurse bent over him. She had a writing pad and a pencil In her'hand. She whispered to him: "Dearie, the mail is going out. Do you want me to write a note home to the folks— p cho-t. no t e telling them that you are all tight and wi" <"> wn. I.em in a couple of months?" The patient answered. "Home? Folks? I've never had ! any since I was a kid. Home! God, I wish I had one!" The writing pad in the nurse's 1 hand was wet. The bandage on my shoulder was wet. Perhaps the blood was soaking through. But blood is red. The voice of the wounded man again: "I want —want—l want a"— The nurse: "What do you want, boy? What can I get for you—a nice cool drink?" The answer came back: "A drink? Hell, no; I want a smoke! Where's my makings? I want a fag—a smoke—a smoke!" She looked at the doctor. He nodded. She left the patient and came over to me. I felt as if I were In the presence of God. She whisper ed to me: "Have you a clgaret, my dear, for that poor boy? We are all out —have not received any for ten days. If the people at home only realized what a godsend tobacco is for these poor wounded lads they would send them out. They are as important as shells." I told her to look in my kit bag. She looked through It and found one. all out of shape—a Goldflake. I think It was the only smoke left In that ward of sixty-nine patients. With Joy In her eyes she went back to her patient, gently put the clgaret between his lips and lighted It A contented sigh, two or three weak puffs and the lighted clgaret fell out of his mouth on to the s" eet. He was asleep. It was getting late. I fell asleep. When I woke up It was morning. The bod on my right was emptv. Tho nurses in the ward hud red eyes. They had been crying. I turned an inquiring gaze to the Jock on my left. He solemnly nod ded and his mouth twitched. I thought he was going to cry, but suddenly he looked at me, tears in his eyes, and said, "Aw, go to hell!" and turned over on his side. Do the men in the trenches want smokes? Do they want their mothers? Do they want their wives and sweethearts? Do they want the field and flowers at home? Do they want SMOKES? God do they want them? They need them! They cry for them! They must have them! Americans, if you could only nee with your own eyes, realize tho cry ing need for smokes in France, you would starve in order that they could have them. Do your bit —send contributions to the "Smoke Fund" and win the gratitude and thanks of the boys who are fighting your flght—our fight- Uncle Sam's flght—the civilized world's flght. Let your slogan bet "Smokes for £%mmy," And turn the words into actions. DO IT NOW, We. are waiting for your contribution, How would you have liked to have been the ono who furnished that smoke for the dying man? You can be for another. Will you? The answer is you are an American. That means yes. Beauty As An Asset HOW MUCH DOES IT REALLY COUNT? Not a Great Deal, Unless You Have Charm and Brains to Make it Worth While By Beatrice Fairfax "What chance have any of us with Mildred Hanson in the crowd?" asked Helen bitterly. "What chance have you? Justi what do you mean by that, Helen " "Well, how can we hope to get any attention or really to matter to the boys when there's such a gorgeous girl around as Mildred? You know she's perfectly wonderful looking— and Ralph fairly adoresbeauty." "Maybe dear, Ralph will stilt manage to prefer your looks to Mil dred's In spite of her beauty," I> suggested. "Oh, he couldn't! I tell you she's j the prettiest thing you ever saw." | "Helen, are you foolish enough j to think that beauty is everything? I If some one Introduces you to the! handsomest man in the whole United States of America, would you promptly lose all interest in Ralph?" / Helen laughed. "That's absurd." "Is it absurb? 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