Since then I have seen many sights.

Some were dramatic and some were pathetic, and nearly all were stirring; but I still recall quite clearly the little picture of the forks of the Belgian road, with a background of trampled fields and sacked houses, and just at my feet the doll, with its head crushed in and the sawdust spilled out in the rut the ongoing army had made.

And always now, when I think of this, I find myself thinking of Belgium.
They have called her the cockpit of Europe.

She is too.

In wars that were neither of her making nor her choosing she has borne the hardest blows--a poor little buffer state thrust in between great and truculent neighbors.