[Illustration] _New Quarters_ _August 6, 1915_ I was delighted to see "Doc" to-day. He arrived yesterday evening from Paris, but I was on M---- duty, so we did not meet until this morning. We had a long talk and I told him the story of the fatal 22d; the recital of it only seems to have reimpressed me with the horror of that night. [Illustration: A "POSTE DE SECOURS" AT MONTAUVILLE] We are now quite comfortably settled in our new quarters, a house never shelled until just after our occupation of it, when we received a 77 a few feet from our windows. I do not know why it has been spared unless the _Boches_ were anxious not to destroy a creation so obviously their own. Architecturally it is incredible--a veritable pastry cook's _chef d'oeuvre_. Some of the colors within are so vivid that hours of darkness cannot drive them out of vision. There is no piano, but musical surprises abound. Everything you touch or move promptly plays a tune, even a stein plays "_Deutschland über alles_"--or something. Still the garden full of fruit and vegetables will make up for the rest. Over the brook which runs through it is a little rustic bridge--all imitation wood made of cast iron! Just beneath the latter I was electrified to discover a very open-mouthed and particularly yellow crockery frog quite eighteen inches long! A stone statue of a dancing boy in front of the house was too much for us all. We ransacked the attic and found some articles of clothing belonging to our absent hostess, and have so dressed it that, with a tin can in its hand, it now looks like an inadequately clad lady speeding to her bath-house with a pail of fresh water. Last night "Mac" and I were on night duty at M----, and when we arrived at the telephone bureau--where we lie on stretchers fully dressed in our blankets waiting for a call (the rats would keep you awake if there were no work to do)--we were told that they expected a bad bombardment of the village. "Mac" and I tossed up for the first call, and I lost. "Auberge Saint-Pierre, I bet," laughed "Mac." That is our worst trip--but it was to be something even more unpleasant than usual. About eleven o'clock the _Boches_ started shelling the little one-street village with 105 shrapnel. In the midst of it a _brancardier_ came running in to ask for an ambulance--three _couchés_, "_très pressé_." Of course, I had to grin and bear it, but it is a horrid feeling to have to go out into a little street where shells are falling regularly--start your motor--turn--back--and run a few yards down the street to a _poste de secours_ where a shell has just landed and another is due any moment.