He seemed amazed at that thoughtfulness for his comfort. It was in the early days of the Somme fighting, and crowds of our men stood on the banks above a sunken road, watching the prisoners coming down. This officer who spoke to me had an Iron Cross, and the men wanted to see it and handle it. “Will they give it back again?” he asked, nervously, fumbling at the ribbon. “Certainly,” I assured him. He handed it to me, and I gave it to the men, who passed it from one to the other and then back to the owner. “Your men are extraordinary,” he said. “They are wonderful.” One of the most interesting prisoners I met on the field of battle was a tall, black-bearded man whom I saw walking away from La Boisselle when that place was smoking with shell-bursts. An English soldier was on each side of him, and each man carried a hand-bag, while this black-bearded giant chatted with them. It was a strange group, and I edged nearer to them and spoke to one of the men. “Who's this? Why do you carry his bags?” “Oh, we're giving him special privileges,” said the man. “He stayed behind to look after our wounded. Said his job was to look after wounded, whoever they were. So there he's been, in a dugout bandaging our lads; and no joke, either. It's hell up there. We're glad to get out of it.” I spoke to the German doctor and walked with him. He discussed the philosophy of the war simply and with what seemed like sincerity. “This war!” he said, with a sad, ironical laugh. “We go on killing one another-to no purpose. Europe is being bled to death and will be impoverished for long years. We Germans thought it was a war for Kultur--our civilization. Now we know it is a war against Kultur, against religion, against all civilization.” “How will it end?” I asked him. “I see no end to it,” he answered. “It is the suicide of nations. Germany is strong, and England is strong, and France is strong. It is impossible for one side to crush the other, so when is the end to come?” I met many other prisoners then and a year afterward who could see no end of the massacre. They believed the war would go on until living humanity on all sides revolted from the unceasing sacrifice. In the autumn of 1918, when at last the end came in sight, by German defeat, unexpected a few months before even by the greatest optimist in the British armies, the German soldiers were glad. They did not care how the war ended so long as it ended. Defeat? What did that matter? Was it worse to be defeated than for the race to perish by bleeding to death? XVIII