The column came down along the river, the band in front playing “The Yanks Are Coming” and, as we turned to cross the bridge, the lively regimental tune of “Garry Owen.” In front of us, above the German hill, there was a beautiful rainbow. As we marched triumphantly onto German soil, nothing more hostile greeted us than the click of a moving-picture camera. Every soldier in the line was glowing with happiness except myself, perhaps. On occasions like this of glory and excitement my mind has a habit of going back to the lads that are gone. We marched, with advance and rear guards, as if entering a hostile country, our first stop being at Holsthum. We had hopes that our line of march would take us down the Moselle Valley towards Coblenz, but instead we struck off to the north and northeast, through the rough Eiffel country, along mountain roads that were badly worn down by the traffic of war. Our Headquarters for December 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th and 9th were Blickendorf, Wallerschein, Hillesheim (a romantic spot), Weisbaum and, after a desperate hike, Wershofen. The greatest surprise of our first week in Germany was the attitude of the people towards us. We had expected to be in for an unpleasant experience, and I have no doubt that some of our fellows had a picture of themselves moving around in German villages with loaded rifle and fixed bayonet ready to repel treacherous attacks. We were received very peacefully, one might almost say, cordially. Farmers in the fields would go out of the way to put us on the right road, children in the villages were as friendly and curious as youngsters at home; the women lent their utensils and often helped soldiers with their cooking, even offering stuff from their small stores when the hungry men arrived far ahead of their kitchens. There were many German soldiers in these towns still wearing the uniform (they would be naked otherwise), and they, too, were interested, curious, almost friendly. Some of them had been against us in battle, and with the spirit of veterans in all times and places, they struck up conversation with our men, fighting the battles over again and swapping lies. I talked with the priests in the different towns—one of them a Chaplain just returned from the Eastern front. Like all the others that we meet, they say that their country had the French and British licked if we had stayed out; to which I make the very obvious retort that they had followed a very foolish policy when they dragged us in.