On a straight tip from the legation the English correspondents were going to motor to Diest.  From a Belgian officer we had been given inside information that the fight would be pulled off at Gembloux.  And, unencumbered by even a sandwich, and too wise to carry a field-glass or a camera, each would depart upon his separate errand, at night returning to a perfectly served dinner and a luxurious bed.  For the news-gatherers it was a game of chance.  The wisest veterans would cast their nets south and see only harvesters in the fields, the amateurs would lose their way to the north and find themselves facing an army corps or running a gauntlet of shell-fire.  It was like throwing a handful of coins on the table hoping that one might rest upon the winning number.  Over the map of Belgium we threw ourselves.  Some days we landed on the right color, on others we saw no more than we would see at state manoeuvres.  Judging by his questions, the lay brother seems to think that the chief trouble of the war correspondent is dodging bullets.  It is not.  It consists in trying to bribe a station-master to carry you on a troop train, or in finding forage for your horse.  What wars I have seen have taken place in spots isolated and inaccessible, far from the haunts of men.  By day you followed the fight and tried to find the censor, and at night you sat on a cracker-box and by the light of a candle struggled to keep awake and to write deathless prose.  In Belgium it was not like that.  The automobile which Gerald Morgan, of the London Daily Telegraph, and I shared was of surpassing beauty, speed, and comfort.  It was as long as a Plant freight-car and as yellow; and from it flapped in the breeze more English, Belgian, French, and Russian flags than fly from the roof of the New York Hippodrome.  Whenever we sighted an army we lashed the flags of its country to our headlights, and at sixty miles an hour bore down upon it.

The army always first arrested us, and then, on learning our nationality, asked if it were true that America had joined the Allies.  After I had punched his ribs a sufficient number of times Morgan learned to reply without winking that it had.  In those days the sun shone continuously; the roads, except where we ran on the blocks that made Belgium famous, were perfect; and overhead for miles noble trees met and embraced.  The country was smiling and beautiful.  In the fields the women (for the men were at the front) were gathering the crops, the stacks of golden grain stretched from village to village.  The houses in these were white-washed and, the better to advertise chocolates, liqueurs, and automobile tires, were painted a cobalt blue; their roofs were of red tiles, and they sat in gardens of purple cabbages or gaudy hollyhocks.  In the orchards the pear-trees were bent with fruit.  We never lacked for food; always, when we lost the trail and “checked,” or burst a tire, there was an inn with fruit-trees trained to lie flat against