“Where is Mayen?” I asked.
“Mayence?” they said, looking at me curiously.
“No, no. M-a-y-e-n, Mayen—not Mayence. It’s a small town around here somewhere.”
“Mayen! Mayen!” they repeated. “Mayen!” And then frowned.
“Oh, God!” I sighed. I got out my map. “Mayen—see?” I said.
“Oh, yes,” one of them replied brightly, putting up a finger. “That is so. There is a place called Mayen! It is out that way. You must take the train.”
“How many miles?” I asked.
“About fifteen. It will take you about an hour and a half.”
I went back to the station and found I must wait another two hours before my train left. I had reached the point where I didn’t care a picayune whether I ever got to my father’s town or not. Only a dogged determination not to be beaten kept me at it.
It was at Coblenz, while waiting for my train, that I had my first real taste of the German army. Around a corner a full regiment suddenly came into view. They swung past me and crossed a bridge over the Rhine, their brass helmets glittering. Their trousers were gray and their jackets red, and they marched with a slap, slap, slap of their feet that was positively ominous. Every man’s body was as erect as a poker; every man’s gun was carried with almost loving grace over his shoulder. They were all big men, stolid and broad-chested. As they filed over the bridge, four abreast, they looked, at that distance, like a fine scarlet ribbon with a streak of gold in it. They eventually disappeared between the green hills on the other side.