The uniforms of three armies were at the table—­the French, the Belgian and the English.  It was possible to compare them under the light of a single lamp.

The General’s cloak, in spite of my criticism, was the heaviest of the three.  But all of them seemed excellent.  The material was like felt in body, but much softer.

All of the officers were united in thinking khaki an excellent all-round colour.

“The Turcos have been put into khaki,” said the Commandant.  “They disliked it at first; but their other costumes were too conspicuous.  Now they are satisfied.”

The Englishman offered the statement that England was supplying all of the Allies, including Russia, with cloth.

Sitting round the table under the lamp, the Commandant read a postcard taken from the body of a dead German in the attack the night before.  There was a photograph with it, autographed.  The photograph was of the woman who had written the card.  It began “Beloved Otto,” and was signed “Your loving wife, Hedwig.”

This is the postcard: 

“Beloved Otto:  To-day your dear cards came, so full of anxiety for us.  So that now at last I know that you have received my letters.  I was convinced you had not.  We have sent you so many packages of things you may need.  Have you got any of them?  To-day I have sent you my photograph.  I wished to send a letter also instead of this card, but I have no writing paper.  All week I have been busy with the children’s clothing.  We think of you always, dear Otto.  Write to us often.  Greetings from your Hedwig and the children.”

So she was making clothing for the children and sending him little packages.  And Otto lay dead under the stars that night—­dead of an ideal, which is that a man must leave his family and all that he loves and follow the beckoning finger of empire.

“For king and country!”

The Commandant said that when a German soldier surrenders he throws down his gun, takes off his helmet and jerks off his shoulder straps, saying over and over, “Pater familias.”  Sometimes, by way of emphasising that he is a family man, he holds up his fingers—­two children or three children, whatever it may be.  Even boys in their teens will claim huge families.

I did not find it amusing after the postcard and the photograph.  I found it all very tragic and sad and disheartening.

It was growing late and the General was impatient to be off.  We had still a long journey ahead of us, and riding at night was not particularly safe.

I got into the car and they bundled in after me the damaged pictures, the horseshoe, the piece of gargoyle from the Cloth Hall and the nose of the shell.

The orderly reported that a Zeppelin had just passed overhead; but the General shrugged his shoulders.

“They are always seeing Zeppelins,” he said.  “Me, I do not believe there is such a thing!”