The Soul of the War

tten that way-but because I must find a boat to carry a dispatch across the Channel, I waited with the crowd of fugitives, struggled with them for a seat in the train which left at dawn and endured an

ragic

rds the west, and at every station the carria

de Dieu, laiss

é nom de Dieu, c'est le dernier train! Et j'ai peur pour l

nd wailing babes could not make a place in carriages already packed to

t impossible! Regardez! On ne peut

a message for the English people. They, too, were in anguish because the enemy had come so close to Paris in pursuit of a little army which seemed to have been wiped out behind the screen of secrecy through which on

ged with them, and down other roads away from Paris families were trekking to far fie

ot more fantastic than my waking hours so that there seemed no dividing line between illusion and reality, I opened my eyes to see those faces in the grass, bronzed bearded faces with anxious eyes, below a hedge of rifle barrels slanted to

"Those chaps in the grass seem to

knees, which overlapped his fe

e line here it closes

good business from

oint another correspondent to succeed a man swallowed up somewhere inside the German lines. It would be a queer adventure. I conjured up an imaginary conve

bombs and was satisfied with its reconnaissance. The whistle of the train shrieked out, and there wa

over the coffee cups by a number of English families, who said perhaps: "I wond

if the truth may be told, for what the English public chose to think or not to think,

smell the sea we were back again along the road to Paris, fretful t