feet on the table smoking a cigar and pretending to be unconcerned
although he knew all the time in his heart that he was doomed. I find
little to suggest such a picture. The thing that at once impresses the
stranger, along with the apparent reserve strength, is the moral
earnestness behind that strength, the passionate conviction that they
are fighting a defensive fight, that they are right. I shall not
attempt to explain this here, but merely record it as a fact. Possibly
all people in all great wars believe they are right--and that is why
there are great wars.

Crossing the frontier from Rotterdam, I stopped for a day or two at
Cologne. The proprietor of the hotel, a typical, big, hearty German of
the commercial class, such as you might expect to find running a brewery
at home or a bank or coffee plantation in South America, came out of his
office when he heard English spoken. There are no "loose Englishmen" in
Germany nowadays.

"I suppose you are surprised to see the Dom, yes?" he laughed, pointing
toward the cathedral towers in whose shadow we stood. And then--"What
do you think about the war?" I asked him what he thought.

"Well," he said, and with the air of brushing aside what was taken for
granted before considering more doubtful issues, "of course we win!"

He showed me a photograph of his son, just made an officer. "In a few
weeks," he said, "maybe I volunteer myself." He was fifty-five years
old, but thoroughly fit. He doubled up a big right arm and laughingly
gripped it. "Like iron!" he boomed. "And there are five million men
like me. Not men--soldiers!"