"I can't explain why we don't get a picture," said the free lance.
"Enough deviltry has been done. I can't see why some of the stuff
doesn't come through to us."

"Simply because the Germans are not fools," replied the movie-
man; "when they mutilate a victim, they go through with it to the
finish. They take care not to let telltales go straggling out to damn
them."

Some one proposed that the only way to get a first-class atrocity
picture was to fake it. It was a big temptation, and a fine field for
the exercise of their inventive genius. But on this issue the chorus
of dissent was most emphatic.

The nearest that I came to an atrocity was when in a car with Van
Hee, the American vice-consul at Ghent. Van Hee was a man of
laconic speech and direct action. I told him what Lethbridge, the
British consul, had told me; viz., that the citizens of Ghent must
forthwith erect a statue of Van Hee in gold to commemorate his
priceless services. "The gold idea appeals to me, all right," said
Van Hee, "but why put it in a statue!" He routed me out at five one
morning to tell me that I could go through the German lines with
Mr. Fletcher into Brussels. We left the Belgian Army cheering the
Stars and Stripes, and came to the outpost of sharpshooters.
Crouching behind a barricade, they were looking down the road.
They didn't know whether the Germans were half a mile, two miles,
or five miles down that road.

Into that uncertain No-Man's-Land we drove with only our honking
to disturb the silence, while our minds kept growing specters of