More stretchers, each bearing a pallid and grimy sufferer. Not a cry or scream, though occasionally some poor fellow, on being involuntarily hustled, utters a long-drawn-out "Ah!" and clenches his teeth. A quite young infantryman lies outstretched between the doors, both legs swathed in wadding. On asking how he feels, he feebly whispers, "Bien mal," and shakes his head. Another squeeze to make room for fresh arrivals. One of these exclaims-- "What numbers of Germans have been killed! They're paying for this, I can tell you!" From every corner exclamations are heard approving of the sentiment. At two o'clock the train begins to move. Ever since dawn the boom of cannon has been heard without a break. A feverish sensation comes over me, and I close my eyes. How hot it is! To obtain a little air and leave as much room as possible for the more severely wounded, I sit down by the side of a sergeant-major on the edge of the truck, my legs hanging outside the carriage. The firs of the Vosges file past in a seemingly endless procession. At each station Red-Cross and volunteer nurses bring milk, bread and tea; frequently also cakes, eggs and preserves. Those of us who can walk serve the rest, leaving the van and returning with hands full of provisions. At nightfall I fling myself on the floor, under a form close to the wall. Out in the open country, stoppages are frequent. From time to time the engine-driver's shrill whistles keep the way clear. _Thursday, 27th August._ The infantry sergeant has stretched his legs and placed his feet on the form under which I am lying. On awakening, I notice that the blood from his wound has been streaming over my hair and neck. About nine o'clock we reach Gray. The men-attendants remove a few severe cases which must be operated on without delay. One part of the station has been transformed into a hospital. There are any number of majors about, and they find plenty to do. I request permission to return to the depot; since I have no broken limbs, why should I stay on at the hospital? Accordingly I am sent to Chalindrey, where I have two hours to wait for the Langres train. I wonder if I can find a chemist's shop. One is pointed out to me. The chemist looks me over with considerable suspicion and mistrust. A shapeless _képi_, a dirty, threadbare coat, and an unshaven face all covered with mud are not prepossessing features. He asks-- "My dear fellow, what do you do in ordinary times?" Respect for the journal causes me to hesitate somewhat. But then, this war excuses everything, and I confess-- "I am on the editorial staff of the _Figaro_, monsieur." "Indeed? you don't look like it!" He laughs heartily, introduces his wife, and ... invites me to lunch. My hosts have three sons at the front; they attend to my wants as though I were one of these. Then they motor me back to Humes. I cannot find words to thank them, nor do I know how to tell them that I will not forget their kindness.