one bridge), through its
villages, many in which American soldiers had never been seen before;
welcomed by the people as the saviors of France, seeing its way strewn
with the flowers of spring by little children, and with the welcome and
the tears of French mothers and daughters clad in black, seeing it
march along the French streams from early morning until late at night,
this was a sight to stir the pride of any American to the point of
reverence.

But all day as we rode along that winding trail I thought of the song
that the soldiers are singing, "There's a Long, Long Trail Awinding to
the Land of Our Dreams," and when I looked into the faces of those
American boys I saw there the determination that the trail that they
were taking was a trail that, although it was leading physically
directly away from home, and toward Berlin, yet it was, to their way of
thinking, the shortest way home. The trail that the American army took
that day as it marched into the Marne line was the "home trail," and
every boy marched that road with the determination that the sooner they
got that hard job ahead over with, the sooner they would get home. I
talked with many of them as they stopped to rest and found this
sentiment on every lip.

But it was a silent army. I heard no singing all day long--not a song.
Men may sing as they are marching into training-camps; they may sing
when they board the boats for France now; they may sing as they march
into rest-billets, but they were not singing that day as they marched
into the great battle-line of Europe.

I heard no laughter. I heard no loud talking, I heard no singing; I
heard only the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching feet, and the crunching
of the great motor-trucks, and the patter of horses as the officers
galloped along their lines. That army of American men knew that the
job on which they were entering was not child's play. They knew that
democracy depended upon what they did in that line. They knew that
many of them would never come back. They knew that at last the real
thing was facing them. They were not like dumb, driven beasts. They
were men. They were American men. They were thinking men. They were
silent men. They were brave men.

They were marching to their place in history unafraid, and unflinching,
but thoughtful and silent.

Another Silhouette of Silence. It was after midnight on the Toul line.
We were driving back from the front. The earth was covered with