We are forgetting our recent experiences already in the meanness of these God-forsaken villages. We are in six of them—each the worst in the opinion of the Companies there. Naives will do for a description of Vacon, Broussey, Villeroi, Bovée or Sauvoy. A group of 40 houses along the slopes of a crinkled plain. The farmers all live together in villages, as is the custom in France. And many features of the custom are excellent. They have a church, school, community wash houses with water supply, good roads with a common radiating point and the pleasures of society, such as it is. The main drawback is that the house on the village street is still a farm house. The dung heap occupies a place of pride outside the front door; and the loftier it stands and the louder it raises its penetrating voice, the more it proclaims the worth and greatness of its possessor. The house is half residence and half stable with a big farm loft over-topping both. The soldiers occupy the loft. I censored a letter yesterday in which one of our lads said: “There are three classes of inhabitants in the houses—first, residents; second, cattle; third, soldiers.” Over my head are some boys from Company B who got in ahead of us with the First Battalion, coming by way of England and then via Havre, after a long and tedious trip. They are Arthur Viens, Tom Blackburn and Jim Lannon of my own parish with Gilbert, Gilgar, Weick, and Healey. Their life is typical of the rest. Up in the morning early and over to Sergeant Gilhooley’s wayside inn for breakfast. Then cut green wood for fire, or drill along the muddy roads or dig in the muddier hillsides for a target range—this all day with a halt for noon meal. Supper at 4:00 o’clock; and already the sun has dropped out of the gloomy heavens, if indeed it has ever shown itself at all. Then—then nothing. They cannot light lanterns—we have landed right bang up behind the front lines the first jump; we can hear the heavy guns booming north along the St. Mihiel lines; and the aeroplanes might take a notion to bomb the town some night if lights stood out. No fire—dangerous to light even a cigarette in a hay loft. There are a couple of wine shops in town but they are too small to accommodate the men. If they had a large lighted place where they could have the good cheer of wine and chat evenings it would be a blessing. They are not fond enough of “Pinard” to do themselves harm with it and I think the pious inn keepers see that it is well baptized before selling it. Good old Senator Parker of the Y. M. C. A. has been right on the job with tents for the men—of course without any curse of “rum” in them—but the cold weather makes it difficult to render them habitable.