“Wait here,” said the officer as he walked inside.

We stood there trying to appear unconcerned while we cursed the exploring bent in our constitutions, and mentally composed farewell letters to the folks at home.

But luck does sometimes light upon the banners of the daring.  It seems that in the two hours since we had left headquarters a complete change had been made in the staff.  At any rate, an officer whom we had not seen before came out and addressed us in English.  We told him that we were Americans.

“Well, let’s see what you know about New York,” he said.

We displayed an intensive knowledge of Coney Island and the Great White Way, which he deemed satisfactory.

“Nothing like them in Europe!” he assured us.  “I did enjoy those ten years in America.  I would do anything I could for one of you fellows.”

He backed this up by straightway ordering our release, and authenticated his claim to American residence by his last shot: 

“Now boys, beat it back to Brussels.”

We stood not on the order of our beating, but beat at once.

One may pick out of such an experience precisely what one wishes to pick out:  the imbecile hatred in the Teuton—­the perfidy of the British—­the efficiency or the blundering of the German—­or perchance the foolhardiness of the American, just as his nationalistic bias leads him.

So, from the narratives in this book, one may select just the material which supports his theory as to the merits or demerits of any nation.  To myself, out of these insights into the Great Calamity, there has come re-enforcement to my belief in the essential greatness of the human stuff in all nations.  Along with this goes a faith that in the New Internationalism mankind will lay low the military Frankenstein that he has created, and realize the triumphant brotherhood of all human souls.

Part I The Spy-Hunters Of Belgium

Chapter I

A Little German Surprise Party

“Two days and the French will be here!  Three days at the outside, and not an ugly Boche left.  Just mark my word!”

This the patriarchal gentleman in the Hotel Metropole whispered to me about a month after the Germans had captured Brussels.  They had taken away his responsibilities as President of the Belgian Red Cross, so that now he had naught to do but to sit upon the lobby divan, of which he covered much, being of extensive girth.  But no more extensive than his heart, from which radiated a genial glow of benevolence to all—­all except the invaders, the sight or mention of whom put harshness in his face and anger in his voice.

“Scabbard-rattler!” he mumbled derisively, as an officer approached.  “Clicks his spurs to get attention!  Wants you to look at him.  Don’t you do it.  I never do.”  He closed his eyes tightly, as if in sleep.

Oftentimes he did not need to feign his slumber.  But sinking slowly down into unconsciousness his native gentleness would return and a smile would rest upon his lips; I doubt not that in his dreams the Green-Gray troops of Despotism were ridden down by the Blue and Red Republicans of France.