Her Netherlandic Majesty's Twelfth Regiment marched mile after mile with stolid precision one day last week toward Assen.
Hour after hour the hard clay road bastinadoed their blistering feet. Dutch maids and matrons skimmed by on bicyclesmade marching seem the harder. As the blazing unclouded sun poured down, scowls gathered and perspiration trickled slimily upon hot flesh. Only one vision of relief loomed. BEER! At Assen there would be beer for all.
Arrived at Assen the troops rushed for their foamy "marching draught." All too soon this cooling ration disappeared. Unappeased, the men called...
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