y-looking ambulances parked on the quay!
Everybody in the one-time sleepy, week-end tourist resort seems to
be in uniform; to have something to do with war. All surroundings
become those of war long before you reach the front. That knot of
civilians, waiting their turn for another examination of the same kind
as that on the other side of the Channel, have shown good reasons
for going to Paris to the French Consul in London, or they might not
proceed even this far on the road of war. They seem outcasts--a
humble lot in the variegated costumes of the civil world--outcasts
from the disciplined world in its pattern garb of khaki. Their excuse for
not being in the game is that they are too old or that they are women.
For now the war has sucked into its vortex the great majority of those
who are strong enough to fight or work.

A traveller might be a spy; hence, all this red tape for the many to
catch the one. Even red tape seems now to have become normal.
War is normal. It would seem strange to cross the Channel in time of
peace; the harbour would not look like itself with civilians not having
to show passports, and without the white hospital ships, and the
white-bearded landing-officer at the foot of the gangway, and the
board held up with lists of names of officers who have telegrams
waiting for them.

For the civilians a yellow card of disembarkation and for the military a
white card. The officers and soldiers walk off at once and the queue
of civilians waits. One civilian with a white card, who belongs to no
regiment, who is not even a chaplain or a nurse, puzzles the landing-
officer for a moment. But there is something to go with it--a
correspondent's licence and a letter from a general who looks after
such things. They show that you "belong"; and if you don't belong on
the road of war you will not get far. As well try to walk past the
doorman and take a seat in the United States Senate chamber during
a session.

Most precious that magical piece of paper. I happen to be the only
American with one, unless he is in the fighting line--which is one sure
way to get to the front. The price of all the opera boxes at the
Metropolitan will not buy it; and it is the passport to the welcoming
smile from an army chauffeur, whom I almost regard as my own. But
its real value appears at the outskirts of the city. There the dead line
is drawn; there the sheep are finally separated from the goats by a
French sentry guarding the win