German propaganda, also. On June 30th the Boche sent
small balloons over our lines, and to the balloons they attached cards
bearing the following message on both sides:

"Soldiers of the U. S. A.

As we hear from your comrades seized by us, your officers say
that we kill prisoners of war or do them some other harm.

Don't be such Greenhorns!

How can you smart Americans believe such a silly thing?"

Needless to say, this sort of propaganda made no impression on the
American troops.

We spent nearly a month in the Wesserling sector. At the end of that
time, Ambulance Company 137 relieved us at Larchey, and Ambulance
Company 140 at Mittlach. We were glad to move back across the boundary
line into France and settle in the sleepy little village of Ventron,
where we could hang up our gas masks and helmets, and almost forget
there was a war.

VENTRON

Ventron, a typical French village, nestles in a peaceful valley. To the
right of the town a broad green meadow stretches out, to be broken at
the foot of the mountain by a small, sparkling stream of water. The
crude stone houses, few in number, are built adjoining each other,
forming irregular lines. A large, quaint, high-steepled church, one
shop, several cafes and one hotel, probably patronized by tourists in
summer, make up the town. The prevailing cleanliness of Ventron
naturally impressed us. Without exception, it was the cleanest town in
which we were billeted during our stay in France.

Needless to say, a sigh of satisfaction could be heard when word reached
us to the effect that we would be billeted in barracks, instead of the
usual hay mow. Having learned to adapt ourselves to the surroundings,
most of us were by this time able to carry on a speaking conversation
with all domestic animals, so this change to cleaner barracks somewhat
elated us, for we would no doubt feel more like human beings.

Our duties were few, consisting of "setting up exercises" and perhaps a
two-hour hike in the morning, and gas mask drill (a most unpleasant
duty) in the afternoon. It was on one of our hikes that we discovered in
a secluded spot on the mountain top an old priest's hermitage. Here in a
small white stone shack lived this eccentric old man and worshipped in
his peculiar way.

Huckleberries and other wild berries grew abundantly on the hillsides,
and oftentimes while we were there a volunteer squad issued forth with
pails, to return l