The soldier whom next I encountered is really typical of the
Gemutlichheit of the men who, on the 20th of August, were
encamped along the Meuse River. I was moving along fast now
under the cover of a hedge which paralleled the road when a voice
called out "Halt!" In a step or two I came to a stop. A large fellow
climbed over the hedge, and, coming on the road, fell, or rather
stumbled over himself, into the ditch. I was afraid he was drunk,
and that this tumble would add vexation to his spirits; but he was
only tired and over-weighted, carrying a big knapsack and a gun, a
number of articles girdled around his waist, along with too much
avoirdupois. It seems that even in this conquered territory the
Germans never relaxed their vigilance. Fully a thousand men
stood guarding the pontoon bridge, and this man, who had gone
out foraging and was returning with a bottle of milk, carried his full
fighting equipment with him, as did all the others. I gave him a
hand and pulled him to his feet, offering to help carry something,
as he was breathing heavily; but he refused my aid. As we walked
along together I gave him my last stick of chocolate, and, being
assured by my demeanor that I was a friend, he showed a real
kindly, fatherly interest in me.

"A bunch of robbers, that's what these Belgians are," he asserted
stoutly. "They charged me a mark for a quart of milk."

I put my question of the morning to him: "Is it dangerous traveling
along here so late?" His answer was anything but reassuring.
"Yes, it is very dangerous."

Then he explained that one of his comrades had been shot by a
Belgian from the bluffs above that very afternoon and that the men