“Out there” beyond the quiet fields that mighty force which was to swing through Belgium in flank was massed and ready to move when the German staff opened the throttle. A mile or so away a patrol of Belgian cyclists stopped us as we turned toward Brussels. They were dust-covered and weary; the voice of their captain was faint with fatigue. For over two weeks he had been on the hunt of Uhlan patrols. Another _shipperke_ he, who could not only hate but fight as best he knew how. “We had an alarm,” he said. “Have you heard anything?” When we told him no, he pedalled on more slowly, and oh, how wearily! to the front. Rather pitiful that, too, when you thought of what was “out there.” One had learned enough to know, without the confidential information that he received, that the Germans could take Brussels if they chose. But the people of Brussels still thronged the streets under the blankets of bunting. If bunting could save Brussels, it was in no danger. There was a mockery about my dinner that night. The waiter who laid the white cloth on a marble table was unctuously suggestive as to menu. Luscious grapes and crisp salad, which Belgian gardeners grow with meticulous care, I remember of it. One might linger over his coffee, knowing the truth, and look out at the people who did not know it. When they were not buying more buttons with the allied colours, or more flags, or dropping nickel pieces in Red Cross boxes, they were thronging to the kiosks for the latest edition of the evening papers, which told them nothing. And one had to make up his mind. Clearly, he had only to keep in his room in his hotel in order to have a great experience. He might see the German troops enter Belgium. His American passport would protect him as a neutral; Minister Brand Whitlock and Secretary of Legation Hugh Gibson would get him out of trouble. “Stick to the army you are with!” an eminent American had told me. “Yes, but I prefer to choose my army,” I had replied. The army I chose was not about to enter Brussels. It was on the side of the _shipperke_ dog mitrailleuse battery which I had seen in the streets of Haelen, and the peasant woman who shook her fist at the invader, and all who had the _shipperke_ spirit. My empty appointment as the representative of the American press with the British army was, at least, taken seriously by the policeman at the War Office in London when I returned from trips to France. The day came when it was good for British trenches and gun positions; when it was worth all the waiting, if one wished to see the drama of modern war intimately. III MONS AND PARIS The English base--Stories of the wounded--The cataclysm a reality-- London after Mons--The call to Englishmen--The “Fog of war”-- From Dieppe to Paris--The red trousers of the French--Empty Paris--Can the German machine be held?--“The French have not had their battle yet!”