_Friday Midnight._--A fourth-class carriage in the third of three troop trains conveying 4,000 men and 20 guns to Halle. Five of us are perched on the narrow wooden seats; two officers in mufti, and two Halle deputies going as Government delegates, one a brisk little Democrat, the other a patriarchal Social-Democrat, in a long white beard and a broad black hat. We make the best of it. One officer has a candle, the other a stock of war adventures; I have a bottle of wine and a budget of news from outside; the patriarch has sections of an eel and views on the food question, which he roars like a hungry lion. Bump! we are mostly on the floor. The engine of No. 2 has broken down, and we have trodden on and derailed its tail. We pile into train No. 1, and get cushioned seats. The officers snore, the patriarch dozes, rumbling like a distant storm. Only the little Democrat sits brooding. "Oh, Halle! Halle!" he mutters, "that I should ever come to you like this." _Saturday Morning._--The General and I are marching up the road to Halle; behind us officers in mufti, beside us the head of the column of volunteers. The little General is telling me this is the seventh town he and his flying column have occupied, but the first real big one. An expert in Bolshevist busting, this tiny General of a toy army, with the face and manner of a dear demure little old maiden lady. He ignores politely the women and boys, who are shouting, "Bloodhounds!" "Brutes!" "Vultures!" "Vermin!" and salutes scrupulously any burgher bold enough to wave. So we enter Halle, pass the factories and skyscrapers, where the hands live stacked in tiers, and then occupy the station yard. The General with a few officers and men, marches straight through the great deserted station into the guardroom of the insurgent troops. The guard, taken by surprise, seize their rifles, and some cock and point them, shouting threats. The little General raps out an order like a machine-gun, and after a long half-minute a man drops his rifle, the others follow suit, and all file out--one shouting in a heart-broken voice, "Is this all we can do?" A deputation of sailors arrives, fine upstanding fellows, with intelligent faces. These are the real fighters, and some hundreds of them are occupying a building in the town. They have probably only come to find out what chance there is of holding it, and the guns outside are answer enough, for they leave abruptly. The General sends a summons to evacuate after them, and they have cleared before their building is surrounded. "Those cursed blue boys," says a young officer. "What wouldn't I have done for them during the war, and now they've brought us to this."