They were well-set-up soldiers, apparently of a picked grade
of men, who wore wide cocked hats, like those worn by the British
troops in the American revolution. The cocked hats of the Italian
carabinieri are as wide as their handsome shoulders and they
make striking figures. This one who entered our compartment was
drunk--grandly, gorgeously and sociably drunk. He wanted to talk
to us. He tried Italian and we shook our heads. Then Medill tackled
him in French and he shook his head. Then Henry squared off and
gave him the native Kansas English--with appropriate gestures. But
the Italian sighed amiably and it was clear he was balked. Then
he looked up and down the outer corridor of the car, came in, shut
the door and smiled as broadly as his cocked hat.

"Sprecken sie Deutsch?" he asked, and Medill answered, "Seemlich!"
When it was apparent that two of us understood German he opened up.
He had to talk slowly, but he was willing to make any sacrifice
to get conversation going. He rambled along in a maudlin way, and
finally picked up an illustrated paper containing an account of
the Turin riots, which angered him, and then and there being, that
Italian soldier told us in German the story of what he called der
grosser rebellion! To talk German in an allied country today is
as much as one's life is worth. For a soldier to talk German is a
crime; for a soldier to tell three foreigners about a riot in his
country, which he, as a soldier behind machine guns had to suppress,
killing hundreds, was mighty near to treason. And we gasped. We
thought he might be testing us out as potential spies. So we shut
up. But he ambled on, and slowly, as the liquor overcame him, he
ran down and went sound asleep with the offending paper in his arms.
Perhaps he was one of those Germans wearing the Italian uniform who
in the German drive three weeks later gave commands to the ignorant