o weeks later, in Aix-la-Chapelle, I was
passing a shop and saw his likeness in full uniform on a souvenir
postcard in the window. It was Prince August Wilhelm, fourth son of the
Kaiser; and we had seen him as he was about getting his first taste of
being under fire by the enemy.

Pretty soon he was gone and our colonel was gone, and nearly everybody
else was gone too; Companies of infantry and cavalry fell in and moved
off, and a belated battery of field artillery rumbled out of sight up
the twisting main street. The field postoffice staff, the field
telegraph staff, the Red Cross corps and the wagon trains followed in
due turn, leaving behind only a small squad to hold the town--and us.

A tall young lieutenant was in charge of the handful who remained; and,
by the same token, as was to transpire, he was also in charge of us. He
was built for a football player, and he had shoulders like a Cyclops,
and his family name was Mittendorfer. He never spoke to his men except
to roar at them like a raging lion, and he never addressed us except to
coo as softly as the mourning dove. It was interesting to listen as his
voice changed from a bellow to a croon, and back again a moment later to
a bellow. With training he might have made an opera singer--he had such
a vocal range and such perfect control over it. This Lieutenant
Mittendorfer introduced himself to our attention by coming smartly up
and saying there had been a delay about requisitioning an automobile for
our use; but he thought the car would be along very shortly--and would
the American gentlemen be so good as to wait? There being nothing else
to do, we decided to do as he suggested.

We chose for our place of waiting a row of seats before a taverne, and
there we sat, side by side, keeping count of the guns booming in the
distance, until it began to rain. A sergeant came up then and invited
us to go with him, in order that we might escape a wetting. He waved us
into the doorway of a house two doors from where we had been sitting, at
the same time suggesting to us that we throw away our cigars and
cigarettes. When we crossed the threshold we realized the good intention
behind this advice, seeing that the room we entered, which had been a
shop of sorts, was now an improvised powder magazine.

From the floor to the height of a man it was piled with explosive shells
for field guns, cased in straw covers like wine bottles, and stacked in
neat rows, with their no