Our stops are frequent and prolonged. From time to time we jump down to stretch our legs a little. A red disc bars the way. Behind our train waits another, which sets up a loud strident whistle. The engine starts afresh. A few kilometres farther along, another stop. At the stations they offer us fresh, clear water in pails; they even offer us wine. Everything is very welcome. It is sultry. Conversation begins to languish. Those who have a photograph of their children pass it round. We look at these portraits with the utmost sympathy and return them to the father, who apologizes for the fact that his eyes are brimming with tears. Night descends. The men, half asleep, drowsily nod their heads or drop them gently on to their neighbours' shoulders. _Wednesday, 12th August._ About three in the morning we reach Langres. In the dimly lit station a thousand men are moving to and fro, asking questions. At the exit stand sub-officers, holding above their heads, at the end of a pole, large boards stating the numbers of the regiments. They collect their reservists and carry them off. Is there no placard containing our number? What are we to do? I show my paper to an adjutant. "The 352nd, 27th company? You must go to Humes." "Humes! Where is that?" "Have you come here for me to give you a lesson in geography? Find your way there as best you can." A few paces away a detachment is forming: it is that of the 352nd. There are a hundred of us, and we are started along the road. Dawn appears. An hour and a half's march in silence. The men stagger along drowsily. We reach Humes, a village five or six kilometres distant from Langres, situated in the valley of the Marne. The houses are low, with thatched roofs. The sergeant calls a halt in one of the streets. Shortly we hear a commanding voice say-- "Second section, muster!" Men issue from a shed near by, elbowing one another, some with and others without arms: this is the second section. They fall into line, form fours, and march off to drill, to the repeated call of one, two, one, two! "Suppose we try to find the post-office?" says Verrier. On reaching it, we each scribble a postcard and return to the street, wondering what to do next. Before the sputtering tap of a street fountain stands a soldier at his ablutions, with bare breast, his red-trousered legs far apart. Of a sudden he gives a snort. I notice his closely cropped hair and his unshaven chin. "Reymond!" Reymond is a bosom friend of Janson's. "I believe you're right," drawled Verrier. "We have not met for about a dozen years, so I don't suppose he'll recognize us." Meanwhile, I call out-- "Hello, Reymond!" The soldier stares at us from head to foot hesitatingly. We look like a pair of tramps, dirty and dishevelled, capless and collarless. Verrier affects a smoked eyeglass. Nevertheless, Reymond recognizes us. "Ah! It's you, is it? _Chouette!_"