actually called on to keep our first-line infantry in contact with the disappearing Hun.
As we skirted the Vosges foothills along a road toward the St. Mihiel salient we passed squad after squad of German prisoners, some working on the roads, others in camp behind barbed wire,others—just captured—still marching under guard toward the rear. I have failed to observe the extreme youth of German prisoners much mentioned by portions of the Allied press. Many of these were young indeed, but no younger than many of our own boys. They were mostly strong and well set up, though not up to the American standard of "huskiness." But unmistakably they were glad to be out of the war.
Through ankle-deep mud, almost the color and consistency of cream, I waded up the road at Malancourt from the Third Corps' post of command toward the front, looking for a lift. The clouds which hid the sun this morning, in early November, were about the tint of the mud. So were the spirits of the Military Police crouching at the roadside, with their hands cupping the warmth from a tiny fire in an empty petrol box.
"This is war, is it?" grumbled an M. P. with a freckled face. "Wish the folks could see us now! Say, some of the letters I get from home give me a pain. 'Sabout time people back there tumbled to the fact that instead o' being just
