d to some and perhaps to many who
refrained soberly from placing it in words. I knew several in the
organisation who felt that we were on our way to that sacrifice. I can
not estimate in how many minds the thought became tangible, but among
several whom I heard seriously discussing the matter, I found a perfect
willingness on their part to meet the unknown--to march on to the
sacrifice with the feeling that if the loss of their life would help
bring about a greater prosecution of the war by our country, then they
would not have died in vain.

If this was the underlying spirit, it had no effect whatever upon
outward appearances which could hardly be better described than with
Cliff Raymond's lilting words: "There are roses in their rifles just the
same." If this move was on to the sacrifice--if death awaited at the
end of the road, then those men were marching toward it with a song.

It takes a hard march to test the morale of soldiers. When the feet are
road-sore, when the legs ache from the endless pounding of hobnails on
hard macadam, when the pack straps cut and burn to the shoulder blades,
and the tin hat weighs down like a crown of thorns, then keep your ear
open for a jest and if your hearing is rewarded, you will know that you
march with men.

Many times that first day, those jests came to enliven dejected spirits
and put smiles on sweat-rinsed faces. I recall our battery as it
negotiated the steep hills. When the eight horses attached to the gun
carriages were struggling to pull them up the incline, a certain
subaltern with a voice slow, but damnably insistent, would sing out,
"Cannoneers, to the wheels." This reiterated command at every grade
forced aching shoulders already weary with their own burdens to strain
behind the heavy carriages and ease the pull on the animals.

Once on a down grade, our way crossed the tracks of a narrow gauge
railroad. Not far from the crossing could be seen a dinky engine puffing
and snorting furiously in terrific effort to move up the hill its
attached train of loaded ammunition cars. The engine was having a hard
fight when some light-hearted weary one in our column gave voice to
something which brought up the smile.

"Cannoneers, to the wheel!" was the shout and even the dignified
subaltern whose pet command was the butt of the exclamation, joined in
the wave of laughs that went down the line.

An imposing chateau of the second empire now presided over by an
American heir