While we were lying in our stretchers waiting for the train, having arrived at the station in motor ambulances from the Clearing Station, we saw miles of trains pass laden with every conceivable sort of thing for the French firing line; from troops to tin-tacks; a sort of departmental store on wheels; an unending cinematograph film, which took over an hour to roll past us, and showed no sign of ending then. All the French troops, with their cigarettes and their chocolate, had kindly, jovial greetings for the stretchered rows of our chaps as we lay in our blankets on the platform waiting for our train, especially the jolly, rollicking Zouaves. Good luck, and a pleasant rest; quick recovery, and--as I understand it--return to the making of glory, they wished us, and all with an obviously comradely sincerity and play of facial expression, hands and shoulders, which made nothing of difference of language. And our chaps, much more clumsily, but with equal goodwill, did their level best to respond. I think the spirit of their replies was understood. Yes, I feel sure of that. The war's a devastating business, no doubt; but it has introduced a spirit of comradeship between French and English such as peace could never give. * * * * * _Next morning._ You will forgive the left-handedness of the writing, won't you? My friend opposite has had a good deal of pain during the night, and I cannot ask him to write for me now. It was a strange night, and I don't think I'll ever forget it, though there's really nothing to tell; "Nothing to write home about," as the men say. I didn't sleep much, but I had quite a comfortable night, all the same, and plenty to think about. When the train lay still between stations, as it sometimes did, I could hear snatches of talk from different parts of the train itself--doctors, nurses, orderlies, patients, railway officials, and so on. Then perhaps another train would rumble along and halt near us, and there would be talk between people of the two trains: French, English, and the queer jumble of a patois that the coming together of the twain in war has evolved. Also, there was the English which remains English, its speaker not having a word of any other tongue, but which yet, on the face of it, somehow, tells one it is addressed to someone who must understand it from its tone or not at all. "Oh, that's it, is it? Cigarettes? You bet. Here, catch, old chap! Bong, très bong Woodbine. What ho! Same to you, old chap, an' many of 'em. Yes, yes; we'll soon be back again, an' then we'll give the blighters what for, eh? Chocolate, eh? Oh, mercy, mercy! No, no; no more; we got plenty grub; much pang, savvy. You're a brick, you are. You bong, très bong; compree? Hallo! Off again! Well, so long, old sport! Good luck! Bong charnce! See ye 'gain some time! Bong sworr!"