One day toward the end of March, 1917, our battalion was in reserve in huts and tents at Bois des Alleux, a mile or so back of Mt. St. Eloy, so I took advantage of a fine afternoon to ride about the country. Making a detour through fields to avoid being stopped by some officious transport control, I came to the Route Nationale running from Bethune to Arras. To my surprise it looked like the Strand on a busy day, for it was full of marching troops, transport wagons, hurrying motor cars with staff officers, and double-decked motor busses painted gray, full of Tommies, gay and happy, going to a railhead to enjoy a well-earned leave. One could not but wonder in what part of London these motor busses used to carry their passengers, and think how strange it was to see them now hurrying along a French road within shell fire of the Germans. As I rode along the well-paved route, our trench lines could be seen in the nearby fields, and the picturesque towers of Mt. St. Eloy were on my left, seen through the nets stretched from tree to tree to hide the traffic from the watchful eyes of the German observers. Riding toward Arras, eight kilometers away, I came up with an English officer riding in the same direction. When I joined him he was at first, as all English officers are, a little loath to be joined by a stranger, though the latter wears the same uniform. But gradually he thawed and became the likable, courteous chap that the English officer nearly always becomes on closer acquaintance. He informed me that one required a pass to enter Arras, but as he had one and was going in to see his commanding officer, he offered to take me in as the medical officer of his battalion. Availing myself of this brotherly offer, I rode with him along the net-guarded road till we came to the outskirts of Arras where a sentry allowed me to enter with him. We put up our horses at the old French cavalry barracks, now occupied by British--not Canadian--troops, and then we started out to search for his C.O. We came first to what was once the attractive Boulevard Carnot, now "Barbwire Square," as it was nearly filled with this material to keep the soldiers out of it to prevent them from being hit by the German shells which landed there daily, either from the enemy lines only 100 yards away, or from hostile aeroplanes. The Huns had the range of this street to a nicety. As we walked along the street shells bursting a couple of blocks away threw pieces of rock so near our heads that we were glad when we reached the end of it.