Our horses he had placed in different stables a mile apart, and put French “fittings” on them, so as to deceive the enemy. He thinks we are well away from the main body of the German army moving in the direction of Paris, but will not hear of our leaving here for at least three days. But I cried, “Curé, we are deserters!” The old man wept and said, “Deserters, no, no--saviours, saviours; you have rescued France from the torments of slavery.” However, we have now secured complete disguises as French cultivateurs--baggy corderoy trousers, blue shirts, boots, stockings, belt, hat, cravat, everything to match--and as we have not shaved for two weeks, and are bronzed with the sun, I think that the corporal and myself can pass anywhere as French peasants, if only he will leave all the talking to me. The two wounded soldiers don’t wish us to leave them, because I am interpreter, and not a soul speaks English in the village. So we have explained to the curé that we shall stay here until our comrades are able to walk, and then the party of four will push our way out somewhere on horseback and get to the coast. The sacristan at once offered to be our guide, and it is arranged that we take a carrier’s wagon which travels in this district and drive our own horses in it, and pick up two additional mounts at a larger village on the way to the coast. We must get back as soon as ever we can. Nothing could be kinder than the people here, but this is not what we came to France for, and hanging about in a French village is not exactly what a soldier calls “cricket.” You cannot imagine how complete the Germans are in the matter of rapid transport. Large automobiles, such as the railway companies have for towns round Harrogate and Scarborough, built like char-à-bancs, carry the soldiers in batches of fifty, so that they are as fresh as paint when they get to the front. But in point of numbers I think one of our side is a fair match for four of the enemy. I hope that the British public are beginning to understand what this war means. The German is not a toy terrier, but a bloodhound absolutely thirsty for blood. * * * * * _Letter 79.--From Private Tom Savage, to his relatives at Larne:_ At Sea. Just a line to let you know that we are landing outside ----. They kept us without any knowledge of how and where we were going till the last moment. I am quite well and extra specially fit. It is good fun on a troopship, and we are going to have a nice little holiday on the Continent. I’ll be able to “swank French” when I come back. I’ll write a good long letter when I settle down. I’m writing this at tea time just before we land. I have got two very nice chums, Jack Wright, the footballer, who has seen service before, and Billy Caughey, both of Belfast. In France.