A cruel war! A war to the point of exhaustion when the white man, that his God might be defended, had to rouse Confucius from his long contemplation. These men, they tell us, have been recruited from districts in China which have been stricken with famine. They have exchanged their rice-fields and pagodas for the bombed areas and dug-outs of war not for our sakes, but that their yellow wives and children may not starve. You can find representatives from all the world marching up to the trenches along the dusty roads of France. We Canadians have Japanese in our British Columbia battalions; our sharp-shooters are Red Indians. The New Zealanders have Maoris; the South Africans Kaffirs; the West Indians Negroes; the cavalry Sikhs. All mankind is here for one reason or another—for gain, adventure, principle, patriotism; but chiefly that they may prove that it was not in vain that Christ grew up in Nazareth. There are aborigines from the Pacific Islands, one generation removed from cannibals; Arab horsemen who have worshipped Allah in the desert; savages from the jungle; wanderers by divers trails, who had lost their way in the maze that leads out to civilization. They have all been sent here by their indignant gods that they may drag down the more brutal god of the Germans. We drowse; we crawl; we halt. Again we move forward. Our eyes are aching with sleeplessness. We pass by a prison-camp, surrounded by a huge cage, inside of which Hun prisoners are lined up to get their breakfast. Our mouths are dry and we view their steaming mess-tins with envy. We march on, scarcely interested now in our direction. Heels are blistered. Where we are going no longer matters, if they would only give us time to rest. Of a sudden there’s a cheering at the head of the column. Men pull themselves together. There’s been no order passed down that we should march to attention, but every gunner is marching close behind his vehicle and the drivers are sitting upright in their saddles. Far up the road, on the banks on either side, are standing men who wear a strange uniform. Their slouch hats at a distance look a little like the Australians’, but their tunics are much tighter. Before ever we come abreast of them, the word has been whispered back, “They’re here—the Americans!” There’s no sleepiness about us now. The blistered feet are forgotten; we’re marching like soldiers. “They’re here—the Americans!” It’s fifteen months since we heard that they were coming. We’ve sung their promise, Over there, over there, Send the word, send the word over there, That the Yanks are coming——