[Sidenote:  Siberia differs from Russia.]

In general the Volga divides Siberia, the home of the freedom-seeking exile, from Russia, in which for years German ideas have been encouraged to the exclusion of French and English.  Whole sections of Russia and Siberia will starve this winter.  If we follow the Czechs into Siberia with economic aid, repairing and consolidating the railroad lines behind them, installing modern methods of distribution we can then say to the stricken people—­“Some of you are starving, but this is in spite of all the aid we can give.”  But across the Volga in Russia the people will say to Germany—­“We are starving because you took our food, because you forced disorganization which has ruined us.”  Spring will allow the intelligent Russian peasant to compare such Americanism with the blight of Prussianism.  Never fear that the object lesson will be in vain!

[Sidenote:  A nucleus for the forces of freedom.]

Can the Czechs become an actual nucleus for the forces of freedom in Russia and Siberia?  They already are.  The extent of their influence in Siberia, in the region of the Don and in the heart of the Central Powers themselves, is only limited by the support they receive from the Allies and the restraint of the latter in independent action.  The fate of history may depend on the working out of the Czecho-Slovak miracle—­a plain gift of fortune to the cause of freedom.

Copyright, Asia, Journal of the American Asiatic Association, September, 1918.

* * * * *

The spirit which animated the American soldiers in France was a revelation to the Allies, although it was precisely the spirit which Americans at home knew would inspire them when they reached the actual fighting line.  Some instances of this spirit, and of experiences on the American firing line, are told in the following pages.

SIX DAYS ON THE AMERICAN FIRING LINE

CORPORAL H.J.  BURBACH

“We have arrived!”

[Sidenote:  We reach the front.]

The French Army officer, who, skilled through years of actual artillery service on the French fronts, had been my instructor through weeks of training, and my guide up to the Front, stood still and spoke most casually, as if our destination had been a Chicago restaurant.

[Sidenote:  My comrades are hidden in the fog.]

“Yes, sir.”  I tried to be as casual, but could not disguise the excitement that filled me.  “Shall—­the guns—­” and I stopped, startled at the tone of my own voice.  It sounded as if it were coming from some person a dozen feet away.  And as I stood there a sense of elation, that was possibly partly fear, swept over me.  I looked about me, toward the direction of the French officer who had spoken, toward the fellows of my battery who had accompanied me up to the Front.  I say toward their direction, for I could not see my comrades—­the fog that had come over the land at sunset was too heavy to allow one to see an arm’s length.