[1] These men became confused and wandered into the German lines where they were made prisoners. Information concerning their fate came to us through the Red Cross about two months later, and both rejoined the regiment after the Armistice. CHAPTER V THE CHAMPAGNE DEFENSIVE VADENAY FARM, CAMP DE CHALONS _July_ 2nd, 1918 I like this spot, but it was a terrible place to get to. We got hurry-up orders to leave our pleasant villages on the Coole on June 26th. It was payday and some of the fellows had hiked it into Chalons and back to find something to spend their money on. But it was “pack your kits and trek” for everybody. It was a beautiful soft June night. No moon, but the French highway rolled out before us dull white in the gloom, as if its dust were mingled with phosphorus. The men trudged along behind—joking and singing—it was the beginning of the march. After a couple of hours we entered Chalons, a dream city by night. Not a light was visible, but the chalk stone buildings showed dimly on either hand, and the old Cathedral, with the ravages of the French Revolution obscured by darkness, was more beautiful than in the day. But before we left that town behind, all the poetry had departed from it. It seemed to take hours and hours of hard hiking on uneven pavements before the wearying men found their feet on country roads once more. Nobody knew how far the column had to go, and every spire that marked a village was hailed with hope, and, I fear, cursed when the hope was unrealized. They had a weary night ahead before they reached their destinations. The headquarters found itself with Division Headquarters in the Ferme de Vadenay, which is not a farm at all, but some long low barracks on the Camp de Chalons. The nearest approach to a farmer I saw there was a French soldier, who carefully nursed a few cabbages to feed his rabbits. He was a Breton fisherman, who had gone to the war, and the war had touched his wits. As a younger man he had fished in the North Sea and was the only person I ever found who could confirm the existence of Captain George MacAdie’s native town of Wyck. It was a great triumph for George, for my geographical skepticism had aroused a doubt as to whether he had ever been born at all.