With me went Peter Bukowski, carrying in his pockets two of those most coveted of all documents to the war-time correspondent--the pass that entitles the bearer to safe-conduct into that forbidden territory where visitors are discouraged at the point of the bayonet. Only slightly less important than the permits was Peter himself; for he was my voice, my ears, and my bodyguard--though in this last capacity he proved entirely superfluous. Polish grandparents bequeathed to Peter a foreign name and an aptitude for languages. Somebody--it must have been a fairy, for every one else disclaimed all responsibility--put a map of Ireland on his face. Two generations of Chicago, U. S. A., did the rest. The result was a typical American, one hundred and seventy pounds of bounding vitality, irrepressible good nature, and plain boy. Peter won the heart of every one from Johanna Ivanovna to the Division Chief, and paved my way from the lazaret to the trenches. Peter, upon the night of our departure, was torn with conflicting emotions. The American colony was going to honor the Fourth of July by consuming quantities of white-bread sandwiches from the Ambassador’s pantry. Peter wanted desperately to see the Russian front. The vision of stacks of sandwiches--white-bread sandwiches--appeared before him, but Peter would not be there. We went early to the station, in the hope of claiming two upper berths. There were no longer any sleeping-car reservations in Russia, but there was an unwritten law that the person who first put his belongings into the upper berth was entitled to sleep there, while the other occupants huddled together on the seat below or stood in the aisles. We poked inquiring heads into one compartment after another, but the earlier birds, to make assurance doubly sure, had thrown not only their baggage but their persons in the coveted places. When I dozed off to sleep, a girl who had fled from Riga at the German advance was sitting beside me. I awoke an hour later, and she was gone. In her place was a round-faced, blue-eyed boy drawing shiny black cavalry boots over blue breeches with a golden stripe down each bulging side. He looked too young for war, but five red stripes on his sleeve proclaimed as many wounds. All night long the stream of life flowed in and out. All night long a changing procession filed through the compartment. Men stayed for an hour or two, and dropped off at wayside stations. Some, just out of the hospital, were home on sick leave. Some were returning to their positions at the front. All were tired--tired to death; yet sleep was out of the question. Each man unfolded his own scrap of story, expressed his opinion about the war, and dropped out to make room for another.