This step was not necessary in the army because among army officers the bitterness and hatred of the United States were deeper and more extensive than the hatred of any other belligerent. It was hardly ever possible for the American correspondents to go to the front without being insulted. Even the American military attaches, when they went to the front, had to submit to the insults of army officers. After the sinking of the _Arabic_ the six military observers attached to the American Embassy were invited by the General Staff to go to Russia to study the military operations of Field Marshal von Mackensen. They were escorted by Baron von Maltzahn, former attache of the German Embassy in Paris. At Lodz, one of the largest cities in Poland, they were taken to headquarters. Von Maltzahn, who knew Mackensen personally, called at the Field Marshal's offices, reported that he had escorted six American army officers under orders of the General Staff, whom he desired to present to the Commander-in-Chief. Von Mackensen replied that he did not care to meet the Americans and told von Maltzahn that the best thing he could do would be to escort the observers back to Berlin. As soon as the military attaches reached Berlin and reported this to Washington they were recalled. * * * * * * * * BLOOD-TRAFFICKERS Cowards, who kill three thousand miles away, See the long lines of shrouded forms increase! Yours is this work, disguise it as you may; But for your greed the world were now at peace. Month after month your countless chimneys roar,-- Slaughter your object, and your motive gain; Look at your money,--it is wet with gore Nothing can cleanse it from the loathsome stain. You, who prolong this hideous hell on earth, Making a by-word of your native land, Stripped of your wealth, how paltry is your worth! See how men shrink from contact with your hand! There is pollution in your blood-smeared gold, There is corruption in your pact with Death, There is dishonor in the lie, oft-told, Of your "Humanity"! 'Tis empty breath. What shall it profit you to heap on high, Makers of orphans! a few millions more, When you must face them--those you caused to die, And God demands of you to pay your score? He is not mocked; His vengeance doth not sleep; His cup of wrath He lets you slowly fill; What you have sown, that also shall you reap; God's law is adamant,--"Thou shalt not kill"! Think not to plead:--"I did not act alone," "Custom allows it," and "My dead were few"; Each hath his quota; yonder are your own! See how their fleshless fingers point at you, at you! You, to whose vaults this wholesale murder yields Mere needless increments of ghoulish gain, Count up your corpses on these blood-soaked fields! Hear . . . till your death . . . your victims' moans of pain!