heard many people express the opinion, in which I now heartily agree,
that the Germans are a childish sort of people. They are stupidly
boastful, inordinately fond of adulation and attention, and peevish
and sulky when they cannot have their own way. I tried to imagine how
a young German boy would have been treated by one of our doctors, and
laughed to myself at the absurdity of the thought that they would
make faces at him!

The young bugler was examined before I was, and as he was marched out
of the room, the doctor who had made the faces grabbed at his kilt
with an insulting gesture, at which the lad attempted to kick him.
The doctor dodged the kick, and the Germans who were in the room
roared with laughter. I hated them more that minute than I had up to
that time.

The Belgian attendants who looked after the bathing of us were kind
and polite. One of them could speak a little English, and he tried
hard to get information regarding his country from us.

"Is it well?" he asked us eagerly. "My country--is it well?"

We thought of the shell-scarred country, with its piles of
smouldering ashes, its pallid women with their haunted faces, the
deathlike silence of the ruined streets. We thought of these things,
but we didn't tell him of them. We told him the war was going on in
great shape: the Allies were advancing all along the line, and were
going to be in Berlin by Christmas. It was worth the effort to see
his little pinched face brighten. He fairly danced at his work
after that, and when I saw him afterwards, he eagerly asked--"My
country--is it well?" I do not know why he thought I knew, or maybe