closed freight cars lay a few wounded first line men, a half a dozen male nurses, and some privates on furlough.  Speaking of nurses, I haven’t—­so far at least-seen a woman nurse nearer the scene of action than a base hospital, i.e., one of the big hospitals in Antwerp, Brussels, or Ghent.  Luther and I, closely followed by the two guards that had trailed us from the time we had got inside the station, climbed into a freight car, apparently used as a box stall on the out trip, and bare except for a pile of damp straw in one corner.  Interminable journey.  Most of the time we stood on sidings waiting for the outbound traffic.  Made fair time to Louvain,—­i.e., an hour and a half,—­and stayed there two hours, for which I was thankful, as it gave me a chance to look around.  Interviewed soldiers, citizens, and a Jesuit priest, of which more later.  One hour more to Tirlemont.  Then seven hours to Liege, where we arrived at 2 A.M., were smothered for two hours in that tunnel, and took six and three quarters hours more from Liege to Verviers—­a distance of less than fifteen miles!  It was another five hours to Aix.

“Saw tremendous troop movements along Brussels-Louvain-Verviers line of communication.  During the first day thirty-five troop and transport trains went past us, moving towards the western frontier, the larger part to strengthen the German attack on Antwerp, which we had not long left behind us, others to discharge their loads as near as possible to Lille, Tournai, and Mons. The average train was twenty cars long, making about seven hundred carloads, with two hundred or more in each car, giving a total of more than 140,000 fighting men.  We stopped counting at the end of the first day.

“After we left Louvain I got out occasionally and stretched my legs along the tracks, but Luther, not being able to talk German, stuck pretty close to his diggings.  Had a great time at a little town called Neerwinden, where we stayed about half an hour.  A crowd of soldiers from our train joined a group cooking supper in the moonlight at one of the soup kitchens along the tracks.  They fed me lukewarm stew and slabs of rye bread, then went on singing and arguing without paying much attention to me.  One bald-headed, stocky private told the crowd the news that von Hindenburg had captured Warsaw.  Later a crowd of big brutes, apparently pretty drunk, swaggered down and clapped me on the back with a ‘Who are you, my friend?’

“‘Amerikaner,’ I explained, not thinking it necessary to mention the war correspondent part.  They set up a cheer, clapped me on the back, and finally lifted me to their shoulders for a triumphal ride up and down the railroad ties, all the time yelling out ’Amerikaner!  Hurrah!  Amerikaner!’