once got the better
of him in Brussels before the war. There were other stories of matters
equally foreign to war. The private on one side of me told me he was the
manager for Belgium of an American typewriter. The lieutenant on the
other side was in ordinary times an insurance agent. All the men there
were in business and talked and acted like a company of young American
business men.

My first hint that these men had been through any trying experience was
the apology offered by a new-comer for being late. He entered rather
gravely and said something about having to take the word to his sister
of his brother-in-law's death. The whole company turned grave then and
conversation from being general was carried on for a few minutes between
those near together. I asked the typewriter agent, to fill an awkward
pause, whether they had seen much action, and he told me their story.

[Sidenote: The fight on the road to Nieuport.]

This was a crack mitrailleuse company of Brussels. It had been in the
fight from Liege back to Malines and from Antwerp back to Dixmude and
Nieuport. Three days before it was told to hold a road into Nieuport. It
was a road the Germans must take, if they were to advance, but the
Belgians would not give way. They were too clever with their rapid-fire
guns to be rushed, and the German bayonet charges only blocked the road
with their dead. Again and again the gray line came on, but each time it
crumpled before their fire. They were attacked every hour of the day or
night, but they were always ready. Finally the Germans got their range
and dropped shell after shell right among them.

"They blew us all to pieces," the story went on in a low tone at my
elbow. "Those shells don't leave many wounded, but they littered the
place with arms and legs. They got a good many of us, but they did not
seem to be able to get our guns."

I asked what their loss had been, and he looked around the table,
counting, before he answered.

"Let's see, now," he said. "We lost some at Dixmude first. I think there
were just seventy last Monday." This was Thursday. "We had a pretty bad
time," he ended; looking down.

"How many are there now?" I asked, and he answered with a sweep of his
hand around the table. "Five or six more," he said. There were eighteen
of them at table now. That meant twenty-three or twenty-four--out of
seventy.

"The dogs suffered, too," he added. "We've only got eight out of twenty,
and I just heard