I chatted with him for an hour, smoked one of his fine black cigars and, of course, found him a delightful man. Then I said, "Colonel, is there anything else I need to do before I can go to Belgium?" "Oh, by George!" he said, slapping himself upon the knee, "I almost forgot the most important part. Sure, you must go over to the German Consuls and get their consent, and go before four o'clock." Ah! there was the rub. I knew it. But I went. And I had some whale of a time getting their consent, too. When I went into the room there were six of them sitting behind the table. I went up to the first one and told him I wanted to go to Belgium. I was now in my civilian clothes and I had put the set of photographs with the Red Cross arm band on, in my left pocket and the set without the arm band in my right pocket. The man asked me, "What do you want to go to Belgium for?" I replied: "Relief work." "What kind?" "Red Cross." "Are you a Red Cross man?" "Yes, sir." "Have you a commission?" "N-n-no." "How do you prove you are a Red Cross man?" I began fumbling for my photographs. For the life of me I couldn't tell which kind were in which pocket. I reached and shuffled, and turned red, and pulled out--the wrong one! Well, it didn't make much difference. I said, "That's just a civilian picture for putting on my passports, but here is my Red Cross picture." Then I pulled the other on him. He seemed satisfied. That Red Cross on the sleeve seemed to do the business. He said "You will offer yourself to the Red Cross in Belgium?" I said, "Yes, sir." When he was about finished, another consul passing by became curious. He said, "What is it this man wants?" And about the time I had satisfied him, still another came. And if you don't think it is some job to convince six Germans to be of the same mind at the same moment, try it sometime. The man finally said, "I shall write it on your passport that you will offer yourself to the Red Cross in Belgium?" I knew that he meant business, and if it was written on there it meant for me to do it, but I was ready to do anything. I wanted to get into Belgium. I had been five days making the trip up to the doors of Belgium, a trip that would take ten hours ordinarily, and I did not want to be balked. I said, "Yes, sir, you may write it on my passport." He did it, too. He then said, "Eight marks!" and I fished out two dollars. That passport is one of my valued souvenirs today. I was now getting poor, as every consul had been bleeding me both to leave and to enter his country. The Americans were the only ones whose stamp was free. My pass was given me to Brussels and the next morning I embarked. When we crossed the border a mile or two in, the train stopped at Esschen. Most of the cars were locked and the passengers, a few at a time, were taken out and searched. I was among them, and it was not a pleasant sensation. But I was in Belgium, had come from the enemy and had literally bluffed my way through. CHAPTER XXIV