e, that the Frankfort doctor in the seat next mine began to talk.
He was an oldish man over sixty, dressed in mourning, and careworn. He
had been to Berlin, he said, to verify the report of his son's death,
and was now headed for Aix, where the body lay.

After Uhlman, the fat merchant, left, we were alone in the second-class
compartment, and the doctor got up and shut the door on the noise of
Landwehr soldiers singing in the section of the troop train attached
behind the car. Presently he showed me two postals from his boy. They
were the stereotyped cards allotted to the men on the field: on one side
space for the address, on the other side the printed word "well," space
for the date (but no locality), and the signature. The third card was a
casualty report, signed, probably, by the company captain, with the
three printed words "slightly wounded," "wounded," and "severely
wounded." The first and last were scratched out, but after the word
"wounded" was written, "condition low."

The boy must have held out--because the body was sent to Aix--until well
along the homeward Red Cross trip. During the Antwerp bombardment, at
Brussels, Liege, and Louvain, I had seen scores of the wounded, and had
myself slept on those trains with their households of blood and pain and
ether, and their long lines of mail cars, box cars, and converted tram
cars fitted with their triple rows of berths, one above another. As the
old doctor talked, I could see the wheeled hospitals stealing into the
city in the darkness--for the troops go off with bands and holiday
accompaniment, but the return is made at dead of night, that the public
may not know the human cost.

"We must have peace," the doctor finished, "and we must have it soon. I
do not say this because I have lost a son, and I do not say it alone.
There are thousands who feel it just as much, but they are afraid to
speak what is in their mind. You are a traveler from the great city
[Berlin], and you do not know what war means. All you have heard is the
talk of fight and victory and glory, and that is all you see if you do
not look close. You must live in the smaller cities, must see the
villages and farms without men, and you must come with me and see the
homes without husband or son." For the third time he interrupted himself
to ask:--"You are Amerikaner--yes? And why do you come?"

"To see the war and find out what the German people think."

"Then go home and tell your country