During the war we thought and talked with anguish daily of that line of trenches stretching from Switzerland to the sea where men suffered and died. Even the most unimaginative were stirred to emotion by stories of the strange semi-subterranean existence which modern conditions of warfare had imposed on the armies of Europe. To-day another line stretches for a distance nearly as great along the banks of the Rhine, but the men composing it are no longer compelled to dwell as troglodytes. The German word for Armistice, “Waffenstillstand,” literally “the standing still of the weapons,” expresses very graphically the conditions under which the Armies of Occupation live. The line has moved east from the horrors and desolation of devastated France to the rich provinces of the left bank of the Rhine. Cannons are silent; bombs drop no more. But the weapons, though standing still, are there, and determine the strange existence which we Allies lead among a conquered people. Along the line of the Rhine, therefore, lie the armies of the conquering powers in a peace their guns have ensured and maintain. The French hold the southern end with their headquarters at Mainz, and Wiesbaden, most attractive of spas, as a centre of refreshment in the lighter moments of life. Next come the Americans at Coblenz, then the English at Cologne, finally the Belgians in the north. As time has gone on the English occupation has become smaller and smaller, while the French has increased proportionately. Nobody quite knows what position the Americans hold at Coblenz, for America has not signed the Peace Treaty, and her forces remain in theory entirely independent of obligations which apply to the signatory powers. But, thanks to the wise and statesmanlike guidance of the American Commander-in-Chief, General Allen, an anomalous position has in practice worked without friction. As for the life we lead in Occupied Germany, certainly during the early days very few people at home were able to appreciate the measure of its comfort and security. On returning to England for the first time on a visit from Cologne, I was met by many anxious inquiries from friends and relatives. Was it really safe for me to be in such a place? Of course I never walked about the town alone? Did the Germans spit at me? Perhaps out of fear they repressed that natural inclination, but of course they were as insolent as they dared under the circumstances? Had we machine guns at every street corner ready to fire? Others in the same breath, both militant and inconsequent--of course I never spoke to the brutes, but naturally I laid it across them if I did ... it was to be hoped I had lost no opportunity of rubbing in their enormities. Two pictures out of many rose before my mind as I listened to these remarks....