dashing from restaurants and cafes as each newspaper edition was
shouted out, and I knew that the men in the luxurious club were
figuring out to what extent they could mulct Belgium.

I pressed on in the dark and joined the Belgian army and the
British Naval Brigade falling back before the Germans. I came upon
an American, now captain of a Belgian company. "It's a damn shame,
and I hate to admit it," he said, "but the Allies are done for."
That is the way it looked to us in the black hours of the retreat.

Soldiers were walking in their sleep. Some sank, too exhausted to
continue. An English sailor, a tireless young giant, trudged on
mile after mile with a Belgian soldier on his back. Both the
Belgian's feet had been shot off and tightly bound handkerchiefs
failed to check the crimson trail.

London and Paris were gloomy, but Berlin was basking in the bright
morning sunshine of the war.


Although the fronts were locked during the winter, the German
authorities had good reason to feel optimistic about the coming
spring campaign. They knew that they had increased their munition
output enormously, and their spies told them that Russia had
practically run out of ammunition, while England had not yet
awakened to the realisation that this is a war of shells.

The public saw the result in the spring. The armies of the Tsar
fell back all along the line, while in Germany the flags were
waving and the bells of victory were pealing.