Then I saw that the men of our army were ready indeed. At this frank suggestion of possible capture by a cruel foe did they shudder and turn pale? They did not. They grinned and wagged their absurd tin hats and said: “You betcha,” and “You said it.” They were as unconcerned as though they were waiting for a subway train instead of army trucks headed for the trenches. Months of training, outdoor living, regular habits, obedience to orders, devotion to an idea, have worked this physical and spiritual miracle with our draft army. The men are as strong as the Rooseveltian bull moose. They are hardened to mud and cold and wildest weather, and their nerves are as steady as an old clock. Nearly four years ago the splendid armies of Belgium and France rushed into the fray, the magnificent volunteer army of Great Britain joining them in swift order. But none of those armies were quite like ours. Those men went out, without adequate training, in a passion of patriotism, in a glory of rage and pain. Their hearts were blazing, their brains on fire. They knew that they must die if their countries were to live. The American soldiers are fired by no such strong emotion. The men I saw in France, on their way to the trenches, were like men going to work. There was a fight ahead of them, and a possibility of wounds and death. Well, that was their job, like mining, or bridge building, or turning virgin soil to make a home. They faced it calmly and conscientiously, and while they waited they made casual conversation with the last woman they would see for weeks, the last woman some of them would ever see. “I seen you down at Aix-lay-Beans a while back, didn’t I?” remarked a tall Texan, holding out a big hand for me to clasp. “Ain’t that some town? Before that I used to think this here France was nothing but a mud-hole. What do they want to fight for such a country, I used to say. Let the Dutchies have it, I said, and let they-all move to Texas.” “Yeah,” agreed a black-eyed, husky young Hebrew from the east side of New York. “I used to think like that. It cost a lot of money to go to Aix, but it was worth it every cent. Who wouldn’t fight to keep those mountains and those grape fields running up them like a regular park?” A young man with a Georgia address stenciled on his knapsack asked me where I came from, and when I told him he said that I certainly looked like a southerner. Anyhow I favored a young lady in Atlanta to whom he was very partial. He hadn’t seen Aix-les-Bains, but give him Atlanta for a sure enough city. He was going to live there after the war.