"No!" It was a wonderful ovation--far more wonderful than might have
been expected from a people who had grown accustomed to the sight of
troops during the last three years. The genuineness of the welcome
was patent; it was the voice of England that was thundering along the
pavements.

I was anxious to see the quality of the men which America had sent.
They drew near; then I saw them plainly. They were fine strapping
chaps, broad of shoulder and proudly independent. They were not
soldiers yet; they were civilians who had been rushed into khaki.
Their equipment was of every kind and sort and spoke eloquently of the
hurry in which they had been brought together. That meant much to us
in London-much more than if they had paraded with all the "spit and
polish" of the crack troops who led them. It meant to us that America
was doing her bit at the earliest date possible.

The other day, here in France, I met an officer of one of those
battalions; he told me the Americans' side of the story. They were
expert railroad troops, picked out of civilian life and packed off
to England without any pretence at military training. When they
were informed that they were to be the leading feature in a London
procession, many of them even lacked uniforms. With true American
democracy of spirit, the officers stripped their rank-badges from
their spare tunics and lent them to the privates, who otherwise could
not have marched.

"I'm satisfied," my friend said, "that there were Londoners so doggone
hoarse that night that they couldn't so much as whisper."

What impressed the men most of all was the King's friendly greeting of