e
never see again what I could see from the window beside him, the
winter sunset over the sea, the glistening white of the sands, the
flat line of the surf as it crept in to the sentries' feet? Why? Why?

All these wrecks of boys and men, where are they to go? What are they
to do? Blind and maimed, weak from long privation followed by great
suffering, what is to become of them when the hospital has fulfilled
its function and they are discharged "cured"? Their occupations, their
homes, their usefulness are gone. They have not always even clothing
in which to leave the hospital. If it was not destroyed by the shell
or shrapnel that mutilated them it was worn beyond belief and
redemption. Such ragged uniforms as I have seen! Such tragedies of
trousers! Such absurd and heart-breaking tunics!

When, soon after, I was presented to the King of the Belgians, these
very questions had written lines in his face. It is easy to believe
that King Albert of Belgium has buried his private anxieties in the
common grief and stress of his people.

CHAPTER V

A TALK WITH THE KING OF THE BELGIANS

The letter announcing that I was to have an audience with the King of
the Belgians reached me at Dunkirk, France, on the evening of the day
before the date set. It was brief and to the effect that the King
would receive me the next afternoon at two o'clock at the Belgian Army
headquarters.

The object of my visit was well known; and, because I wished an
authoritative statement to give to America, I had requested that the
notes of my conversation with His Majesty should be officially
approved. This request was granted. The manuscript of the interview
that follows was submitted to His Majesty for approval. It is
published as it occurred, and nothing has been added to the record.

A general from the Ministry of War came to the Hotel des Arcades, in
Dunkirk, and I was taken in a motor car to the Belgian Army
headquarters some miles away. As the general who conducted me had
influenza, and I was trying to keep my nerves in good order, it was
rather a silent drive. The car, as are all military cars--and there
are no others--was driven by a soldier-chauffeur by whose side sat the
general's orderly. Through the narrow gate, with its drawbridge
guarded by many sentries, we went out into the open country.

The road, considering the constant traffic of heavy transports and
guns, was very fair. It is under constant repair. At first, during
t