wn the gang-plank, we
stood on what was to us real land, only it was but one of the many
floating docks of England.

On the side of the main street, Y. M. C. A. signs were seen, and
incidentally three live American girls, who were soon serving the
"to-be-heroes" with hot coffee, buns and cookies. Although they were war
buns and war cookies, without sugar, we enjoyed them to the utmost.

A large, stately policeman stood guarding the gates to the street and
the docks. Some of us, wondering what was on the other side of the gate,
climbed up and peered over on a large, beautifully designed square,
which was crowded with women and children. But, alas, we were in a big
hurry, and did not get to parade before them, or to receive the embraces
and kisses which we were told awaited us. The R. T. O.'s (Railway
Transportation Officers) crowded us into a "miniature train," like the
ones seen in the parks in "God's Country," and we were soon on our way.

We rode across streets and through buildings just like a runaway engine
might do. All the time pretty girls, dressed in overalls, waved at us
from factory windows. After numerous stops, and more tunnels, we passed
through the suburbs, traveling at a speed which did not seem possible
from the looks of the engine.

We will never forget the beauty of the English villages, nestled snugly
between green hills, or the soothing effect of the winding brooks which
spread their cool waters over the well kept gardens.

Three or four times the train stopped to take on water (or perhaps at
the command of the "top-cutter" in order to give the boys a chance to
open another can of "bully beef"). About midnight we grew weary of
sitting in our little compartments, and having cosmopolitan ideas, we
proceeded to make ourselves "at home." Some were packed upon the baggage
racks and managed to get a little sleep,--being used to the bunks on the
boat, it was not difficult to adjust ourselves to this situation.

Sometime early in the morning we were awakened by a pounding at the
door, and thinking it was a fire call, or submarine drill, one chap
immediately began to feel around for his life-belt. He stuck his fist in
somebody's eye, and was soon told by that unfortunate person just where
he was. We fell in at the side of our "vest pocket edition of a train"
and marched off, and just as the sun was about to show his face, we
arrived at Camp Woodley, Romsey, England. After waiting for sometime to
be assi