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30 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST January 30, 1915 You will find such vital parts as the springs and the gears made from Chrome-Vanadium steel; drop forgings and drawn work used exclusively instead of castings; the rear axle, of the finest full floating type; the upholstery, real grain leather with curled hair filling; Eisemann waterproof magneto; Timken bearings thruout; S. R. 0. ball bearings in clutch and transmission; a 30-35 horse power four-cylinder motor; electric lighting and starting, etc. The wheelbase is 110 inches The price of the car complete is $785 f. o. b. Detroit DODGE BROTHERS, DETROIT 4 11 — MINIVAN I 4b, *\ -441 47%. mi/z Apr/ff.e/ A DODGE ERDTHERS MOTOR CAR It will interest you to scan the specifications item by item, and see if you can conceive how the material, the design, or the manufacturing practice could be improved Malines, lying in its ruins, and came to a small, nameless hamlet, empty and half- wrecked by shell fire, which stood upon the crest of a little rise, perhaps six miles distant from the beleaguered city. The nearermost German trenches were just over and beyond the brow of the hill and we were making for them. A sergeant appeared before us, from behind a bend in the road, driving a com- mandeered Belgian cart in which two newly wounded soldiers were stretched, with straw under them. He threw up his arm in a ges- ture of authority and we halted, and he told our captain and our chauffeur that we must not go farther. "The enemy have a battery just yonder in those woods," he said, pointing to a patch of timber perhaps a mile to our right, "and their guns are trained directly upon the road where it crosses the hilltop in front of you. Every time an automobile goes by they fire at it, and as our officers are constantly passing and repassing in cars they have killed and wounded a number today. The Herr Captain and his friends must not go any farther." It was not so much a warning that he uttered as an order, and we hearkened and obeyed. Btit I am quite sure that if the sergeant had not known some of us for civilians and recognized us as being residents of another country, and presumably, therefore, noncombatants, he would never have said to us what he did say. It was interesting to see and to hear how the men reflected each veering shift of opinion in the minds of the officers above them. In his mental attitudes Private Schmidt was a faithful copyist of his captain, as his captain was of his general and his general was of his Kaiser, even though the soldier, representing as he did the bottom stratum of the organism, was debarred from expressing his beliefs with the freedom vouchsafed those higher up. When the General Staff concerned itself with the alleged use of dum-dums by the French and was vocally and loudly indignant upon the subject, the musketeer in the ranks talked dum-dums and dreamed dum-dums. Like unto his officer and his Emperor, he openly deplored for a while the military necessity—I use the phrase coined by the German Chancellor—which drove the army to violate the neutrality of Belgium. That was at the outset. A little later, when the politicians of the forces were accusing Belgium of having entered, long before hostilities, into a secret alliance of offense and defense with England and France, the soldiers overnight fell quite naturally into the fashion of calling Belgium a traitorous captured province, which because of her perfidy deserved what she had suffered and would undoubtedly be annexed to the Empire. One day at a field-marshal's mess I heard that the British and French were quarreling bitterly among themselves, and that it was necessary to keep the English and French prisoners separated lest they fight together with their fists and feet. Next day I heard the same tale, with elaborations, at a soup kitchen in the battle-lines before Laon. If the German officers charged the Turcos with having sacked and burned abandoned French châteaux and then putting the blame upon the Germans, the common soldiers repeated the accusation with the air of believing it—although we didn't. And so on and so forth. In the first two months of fighting the privates appeared to hate the English with almost as much of poisoned intensity as the younger officers and the stay-at-homes displayed. But later I thought I saw this feeling undergoing a modification, and seeking for the proper explanation of this, I decided in my own mind that brave men cannot and will not continue to have a personal hate for equally brave men with whom they have exchanged deadly blows in actual battle. Politicians batten on feuds and grow fat and venomous on grudges; fighting men refuse to cherish the quarrel for very long. At least that is my humble opinion, which is based on my own observations. In one concrete and visible aspect, and one only, the officers and the men were brothers after the first few weeks of hard campaigning. They were brothers in physical filthiness—and still are, for the matter of that. There being no time for washing the body and no facilities for washing it, they grew foul of person together. Next to their skins they were kin. I have seen an officer in the field who at a distance of ten feet seemed newly escaped from a bandbox, so spick and span was he. His boots shone with polish; his long, gray, perfectly fitted coat was spotless and smart; the handle of his saber glistened like burnished gold; and the insignia upon his collar and his shoulders seemed newly minted silver. But when he drew nearer I saw that his shirt cuffs, where they showed at the ends of his sleeves, were black and heavy with caked dirt, and I knew without his telling me that for weeks, and perhaps for months, he had been sleeping in his boots as the common soldier slept. "I had a bath to-day," a colonel on General von Heeringen's staff said to me one night at dinner with a smile of superiority, as though he had been favored above the lot of other men—" a dry bath." "What's a dry bath?" I asked. "Oh," he said, "it is a trick I learned from an uncle who was a general in the war of '70-'71. I had my orderly save me a meal sack which had been emptied and I stripped myself and got inside of it and had him rub me until the grit in the sack and the roughened fabric had cut some of the accumulated dirt and a few of the crawlers off my body. Really, I feel quite refreshed and almost clean now." This man, remember, was noble born—a baron and a chancellor of the Kingdom of Saxony—and most gently bred. In any one of the armies there are thousands and hundreds of thousands of men like him, men used ordinarily to cleansed bodies and clean body linen, who have not bathed themselves decently since the first of last August and who will not have opportunity to bathe themselves until the middle of the coming spring. Do you wonder that war is not so much a sight as a stench? And do you wonder that many men are dying today, and many have already died, of lockjaw, because the bullets which struck them first passed through their filthy outer garments and carried into the wound the germ which lives in dirt, the germ of tetanus? For my last picture of Private Johann Schmidt I visualize him standing sentry duty in that selfsame little Belgian town where first I saw him. It is the same town, and yet it isn't. For the fate which befell half its fellow-towns in little Belgium has descended upon it. Some rebellious burgher raised his hand against the conqueror, and now there is left of it only the dead bones of a town. The houses are houses no longer. They are crumpled cadavers of houses, with their shattered rafters which stand up like broken rib ends and their empty window openings which are like the eyesockets in fleshless skulls. Private Johann Schmidt has changed too. He is changed in all his outer and some of his inner aspects. He looks years older than he looked six months ago—and indeed in all that goes to age a man he is years and years older. He has learned to endure things the mere thought of which a little while ago would have sickened him to the hobs of his soul. He has learned to accept the daily and hourly chance of a violent and a painful death as the ordinary business of his life. His yellow hair is long and matted, and creeping vermin hide it and he cannot jaws get them out. His aws are covered with a dirty, tawny beard. His uniform is part fouled and odorsome woolen cloth and part worn, seamy leather. He looks upon the waste and wreckage about him with indifferent eyes. He has learned to care for nothing at all except the cause he serves and the orders he obeys. Least of all does he care for himself, for the training of war has taught him that the individual is of no consequence. He will willingly share his ration with the starving natives who haunt the shells of their homes, like furtive ghosts; but if they should transgress the code of laws made and provided by his superiors he will shoot them with the same willing- ness. He is sentimental, but he is not sympathetic. Indeed I think the German has so much of sentiment in him that he has not much room for sympathy. Also a change has stolen over his psycho- logical side, I think. Maybe his confidence has been shaken without his having realized it. Maybe a stubborn determination to die before he gives in has taken the place of that blind, Muss ulmanlike confidence which possessed him last August. He no longer says:„ "We win and we win and we always win. He says: But he is still the Johann Schmidt who does not know how. to disobey. A command "We cannot lose!" c h salutes ump o a upon h ra rhh s im w Hh e a warrant. truth t n heaves s his rifle—that at least is clean and fit for use—and starts bi anendrr and u him rumble out the two words with which I shall always associate him: "Ja wohl!" hhear If you are going to have some spare time this winter we will buy it. In every town in the country there are subscriptions for The Saturday Evening Post, The Ladies' Home Journal and The Country Gentleman which must be renewed and forwarded. We will pay you in salary and commission if you will look after these and new orders. Thousands of men and women are doing this now, but we want more. Let us tell you about it. It will involve no expense to you and no experience is required. THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA, PENNA. • Any Spare Time? gLICIOUS golden dates 1_, from the Garden of Eden, Box 730, Agency Division in air-tight, dust-proof packages. 10 cents in the East and Middle West The HILLS BROTHERS Co. Dept. 1E, 375 Washington Street New 'fork ROMEDARY FROM THE la GARDEN OF ATE5 EDEN


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