All of them expected to live through the war. Not one of them was murmuring prayers, not one charged me with any farewell messages. A young chap who said that he belonged to the 1919 class of Chicago University urged me quite earnestly not to leave the village without sampling the doughnuts fried fresh every day by the girls in the Salvation Army hut directly back of us. “They fry nearly fifteen hundred every day,” he told me, “and not a doughnut lasts long enough to get cold.” “How do you feel about going out to kill your first Germans?” I asked curiously. They were not going to let me know how delighted they were to get into “the show” at last. They put on a magnificent air of indifference. “Got to begin sometime,” said one, “might as well begin now.” “If we don’t hustle some the French and English will finish the war without us,” said another. “Then how’d we feel?” The eagerest reply I got was from a strong-armed youth from Wyoming. “That’s what we’re here for, ain’t we?” he exclaimed. “We’re here to kill Germans, and I say, for the love of Mike, cut out some of the drill and let us fight.” I wish I could reproduce the way he spoke that last word, fight. “Don’t you kind of dread the cold and wet of the trenches?” I asked, banteringly. The men laughed, they roared. “Say, lady,” called one man, “the trenches haven’t got a darn thing on the barns we’ve been sleeping in since last October.” They laughed again and the mirth spread to the juvenile population of the village which, practically intact, hung fondly around chewing American gum. “Good night,” shrilled the children. It is the only English expression the French juvenile has acquired, and he uses it on all occasions. It was Sunday afternoon and across the narrow street the bells of the village church began to ring for vespers. The curé, a tall, fine French priest, came striding down the street, the skirts of his soutaine held high out of the mud. With his free hand he swept off his hat to the soldiers, calling _au revoirs_ as he passed. At the same time he rounded up as many of the gum-chewing youngsters as he could, shooing them ahead of him into the darkness of the old church. The bell ceased its impatient clamor, and as if the bell had been a tocsin, the village street became the scene of sudden, intense activity. Orders were roared out and were repeated down the long line. The men sprang to attention, moving like some dynamic piece of machinery. Trucks began to wind and move noisily toward the highway. Whips cracked, mules brayed, sirens sounded, and before I fairly realized what had happened the men were on the march. Snow was falling, first lightly, then in a dense cloud. I watched the soldiers disappear quickly as in a thick mist. Soon even the chug of their feet tramping through the mud was lost. The village street was empty save of mire and falling snow. And in my heart was so much bursting pride that there was no more room for any meaner emotions of pity or of fear.