[Footnote A:  This is written of conditions in the early spring of 1915.  Although the relative positions of the three armies are the same, the British are holding a considerably longer frontage.]

The British soldier is well equipped, well fed, comfortably transported.  When it is remembered that England is also assisting to equip all the allied armies, it will be seen that she is doing much more than holding the high seas.

To see the wounded, then; to follow the lines of hospital trains to that mysterious region, the front; to see the men in the trenches and in their billets; to observe their morale, the conditions under which they lived—­and died.  It was too late to think of the cause of the war or of the justice or injustice of that cause.  It will never be too late for its humanities and inhumanities, its braveries and its occasional flinchings, its tragedies and its absurdities.

It was through the assistance of the Belgian Red Cross that I got out of England and across the Channel.  I visited the Anglo-Belgian Committee at its quarters in the Savoy Hotel, London, and told them of my twofold errand.  They saw at once the point I made.  America was sending large amounts of money and vast quantities of supplies to the Belgians on both sides of the line.  What was being done in interned Belgium was well known.  But those hospital supplies and other things shipped to Northern France were swallowed up in the great silence.  The war would not be ended in a day or a month.

“Let me see conditions as they really are,” I said.  “It is no use telling me about them.  Let me see them.  Then I can tell the American people what they have already done in the war zone, and what they may be asked to do.”

Through a piece of good luck Doctor Depage, the president, had come across the Channel to a conference, and was present.  A huge man, in the uniform of a colonel of the Belgian Army, with a great military cape, he seemed to fill and dominate the little room.

They conferred together in rapid French.

“Where do you wish to go?” I was asked.

“Everywhere.”

“Hospitals are not always cheerful to visit.”

“I am a graduate of a hospital training-school.  Also a member of the American Red Cross.”

They conferred again.

“Madame will not always be comfortable—­over there.”

“I don’t want to be comfortable,” I said bravely.

Another conference.  The idea was a new one; it took some mental readjustment.  But their cause was just, and mingled with their desire to let America know what they were doing was a justifiable pride.  They knew what I was to find out—­that one of the finest hospitals in the world, as to organisation, equipment and results, was situated almost under the guns of devastated Nieuport, so close that the roar of artillery is always in one’s ears.