Suddenly, far away bands struck up.  We thronged the windows, leaning out that we might miss nothing.  Through the half mile of people that stretched between us and the music a shudder of excitement was running.  Then came cheers—­the deep-throated babel of men’s voices and the shrill staccato of women’s.  “They’re coming,” some one cried; then I saw them.

I forget which regiment lead.  The Coldstreams were there, the Scotch and Welsh Guards, the Irish Guards with their saffron kilts and green ribbons floating from their bag-pipes.  A British regimental band marched ahead of each American regiment to do it honour.  Down the sunlit canyon of Pall Mall they swung to the tremendous cheering of the crowd.  Quite respectable citizens had climbed lamp-posts and railings, and were waving their hats.  I caught the words that were being shouted, “Are we downhearted?” Then, in a fierce roar of denial, “No!” It was a wonderful ovation—­far more wonderful than might have been expected from a people who had grown accustomed to the sight of troops during the last three years.  The genuineness of the welcome was patent; it was the voice of England that was thundering along the pavements.

I was anxious to see the quality of the men which America had sent.  They drew near; then I saw them plainly.  They were fine strapping chaps, broad of shoulder and proudly independent.  They were not soldiers yet; they were civilians who had been rushed into khaki.  Their equipment was of every kind and sort and spoke eloquently of the hurry in which they had been brought together.  That meant much to us in London-much more than if they had paraded with all the “spit and polish” of the crack troops who led them.  It meant to us that America was doing her bit at the earliest date possible.

The other day, here in France, I met an officer of one of those battalions; he told me the Americans’ side of the story.  They were expert railroad troops, picked out of civilian life and packed off to England without any pretence at military training.  When they were informed that they were to be the leading feature in a London procession, many of them even lacked uniforms.  With true American democracy of spirit, the officers stripped their rank-badges from their spare tunics and lent them to the privates, who otherwise could not have marched.

“I’m satisfied,” my friend said, “that there were Londoners so doggone hoarse that night that they couldn’t so much as whisper.”

What impressed the men most of all was the King’s friendly greeting of them at Buckingham Palace.  There were few of them who had ever seen a king before.  “Friendly—­that’s the word!  From the King downwards they were all so friendly.  It was more like a family party than a procession; and on the return journey, when we marched at ease, old ladies broke up our formations to kiss us.  Nice and grandmotherly of them we thought.”