On the crowded platforms of trams an occasional German might be seen, pressed close to a haggard-looking Britisher worn to emaciation after months of harsh treatment by the former’s compatriots; or shoulder to shoulder with a jubilant Belgian officer, hearing his response to the triumphant greeting of friends—hearing the wild applause given to units of all the Allied nations! Strange and incredible sight, in those streets where the _casque à pointe_ had reigned supreme but a few days before, where—it seemed but yesterday—the hope of seeing a Belgian, English, or French uniform had been almost extinguished! And now the spiked helmet was ignored. No voice was raised to acclaim it; the once-dreaded uniform passed unnoticed. So far as I know, however, there was no serious outbreak or obvious resentment of conditions doubtless sorely trying to those men of defeated Germany, denied even the prospect of joyous welcome in their own country, already seething with civil strife. German soldiers—even German officers, whose rank could no longer be discerned, came face to face with surly, dark-browed Russians, and exchanged curious glances, as though furtively trying to read one another’s minds; with Italians, whose eyes twinkled with the satisfaction their impulsive natures were less able to conceal; with French, beginning to forget, in the joy of victory, the wrongs of their prison camps; and with British, into whose haggard faces they dared not look! Even the knowledge of having discarded the Imperial yoke could not have lessened the pangs these men must have suffered, or blinded even the dullest of them to the evidence afforded by those units of wronged nations of a punishment too awful and complete to be attributed to mortal power alone. Especially galling to them must have been the intense enthusiasm shown by the population for every Britisher. These, at the time, only wretched-looking prisoners, were the first Allies who appeared, and the sight of them sent the people into a frenzy of pride, excitement, and sympathy. Here and there, in the newly enlivened streets, would be seen a black swarm of Belgians gathered about one pitiably emaciated English lad, trying, without knowing a word of the language, to find some place of refuge to which he had been directed by the Belgian committee who looked after the prisoners. There was nothing, as a rule, to denote his nationality, save his speech, and a ragged khaki jacket, with his prison number painted on the back. In his poor, dazed face—made more haggard by several weeks’ growth of beard—in the filthiness of his whole appearance, there was little to denote the bath-loving Englishman. Some told me they had not changed their shirts during eight months of imprisonment; had been forced to do hard labour, with nothing to eat but turnip soup, and one loaf of bread a day shared by four men.