nder cover of the night.

Our immediate destination was the railroad yards at Brest, where we
would find our trains. Those wretched days of exposure, lack of food and
sleep greatly weakened many. Chaplain Kerr, who had entered the service
with me at Governor's Island, New York, died of pneumonia, and was
buried at Brest. Although frequent halts for rest were made, many of
the troops fell out and were carried to the First Aid Stations.

How shall I describe the cars that carried our boys from the sea coast
towns to the fighting fronts of France? Each car, plainly marked "Hommes
20, Chevals 8," offered equal accommodations for 20 men or 8
horses--especially were they equipped for the comfort of horses. It was
sans air brake and sans spring; and when the engineer made up his mind,
which he often did, to stop that train, he did so in a manner the most
alarming to aching limbs and weary eyes. "Let's go," the soldiers' war
cry, rang out along the creaking, swaying, grinding train, and we were
off on our 400-mile journey to the training area assigned to our
Division somewhere in France.

How we enjoyed, at least, our eyesight on that journey! The appeal to
the eye was constant--the color and form of scenes unfamiliar offering
views of compelling attraction and delight. Each unadorned car window
and door became the frame of pictures not a Millet nor a Rembrandt could
depict.

The villages, their sturdy houses of gray stone and red tile roofs;
their streets, transformed from "routes" to "rules," where country roads
came to town; their shopping squares stirred to enterprise by signs of
"Boulangerie," "Boucherie," "Cafe" and "Menier Chocolat." Towering over
all, the never-failing church, its lofty, cross-surmounted tower, giving
to the scene tone and character.

Rolling fields, aglow with harvest gold of wheat, oats and rye;
orchards, teeming with luscious fruit ready to be gathered; rivers,
threading their silvery way through meadow and wood; splendid roads,
binding the beauteous bouquet of landscape with ribbons of silky white.

The outstanding feature of that three-day journey was the apparent utter
lack of enthusiasm on the part of a supposedly demonstrative people.

Waiting at crossroads or railway stations, they would look at us in that
same quiet, observing manner we had noticed at Brest. We passed through
Morlix, home city of Foch; Versailles, and Sennes; and at no place did
we hear so much as a single cheer. There