The German soldier is treated as a valuable machine, which must be speeded up to the highest possible efficiency.  Therefore he is well fed, well shod, well clothed—­ and worked as a negro teamster works a mule.  Only men who are well cared-for can march thirty-five miles a day, week in and week out.  Only once did I see a man ill-treated.  A sentry on duty in front of the general headquarters failed to salute an officer with sufficient promptness, whereupon the officer lashed him again and again across the face with a riding-whip.  Though welts rose at every blow, the soldier stood rigidly at attention and never quivered.  It was not a pleasant thing to witness.  Had it been a British or an American soldier who was thus treated there would have been an officer’s funeral the next day.

As we were passing a German outpost a sentry ran into the road and signalled us to stop.

“Are you Americans?” he asked.

“We are,” said I.

“Then I have orders to take you to the commandant,” said he.

“But I am on my way to dine with General von Boehn.  I have a pass signed by the General himself and I am late already.”

“No matter,” the man insisted stubbornly.  “You must come with me.  The commander has so ordered it.”

So there was nothing for it but to accompany the soldier.  Though we tried to laugh away our nervousness, I am quite willing to admit that we had visions of court-martials and prison cells and firing parties.  You never know just where you are at with the Germans.  You see, they have no sense of humour.

We found the commandant and his staff quartered at a farmhouse a half-mile down the road.  He was a stout, florid-faced, boisterous captain of pioneers.

“I’m sorry to detain you,” he said apologetically, “but I ordered the sentries to stop the first American car that passed, and yours happened to be the unlucky one.  I have a brother in America and I wish to send a letter to him to let him know that all is well with me.  Would you have the goodness to post it?”

“I’ll do better than that, Captain,” said I.  “If you will give me your brother’s name and address, and if he takes the New York World, he will read in to-morrow morning’s paper that I have met you.”

And the next morning, just as I had promised, Mr. F. zur Nedden of Rosebank, New York, was astonished to read in the columns of his morning paper that I had left his soldier-brother comfortably quartered in a farmhouse on the outskirts of Renaix, Belgium, in excellent health but drinking more red wine than was likely to be good for him.