my olfactory nerves. A surprise was in store for me; its palatability
and quality were quite the opposite of its appearance. While I
wouldn't enjoy that stew outside of captivity, and while the Brussels
men refused in any way to succumb to its charm, it was at least
very nutritious and furnished the strength to keep fighting.

But it is hard to battle against the blues, especially when all one's
comrades capitulate to them. Each man vied with the other in
radiating a blue funk, until the air was as thick as a London fog.

Picture, if you will, the scene. By a fine irony, the books on the
shelves were on international law, and by a finer irony the book in
green binding that caught my eye as it stood out from the black
array of volumes was R. Dimmont's "The Origins of Belgian
Neutrality." The Belgians who were enjoying the peculiar blessings
of that neutrality were sprawled over the floor or pacing restlessly
up and down the room, or, in utter despair, buried their heads in
their arms flung out across the table.

About three o'clock the name "Herr Peters" was called. He had
been found guilty of mumbling to his comrades that their captain
was pushing them too hard in an advance. One could believe the
charge, for, as his name was called, he was sullen and unconcerned.
"You are sentenced to imprisonment at hard labor in a fortress.
You must go at once."

He muttered in an undertone something about "being luckier in
prison in winter than out there on the cold, freezing ground," and,
flinging his knapsack upon his shoulder, lumbered off. In how
many such hearts is there this sullen revolt against the military