We stopped near an abrupt little hill. It looked like a giant thimble, with a rustic summer-house on top. This was once Prince Eitel Friedrich's lookout, and as we climbed up the carefully made stone steps, we saw more and more of the wonderful view he had chosen. French landscapes stretched away on every side, smooth fields, winding roads, and poplars. The group of poilus who were stationed in the lookout gave us a gay welcome. They were ready with information about the surrounding countryside, and pointed out the various villages in the distance. The officer in charge lent us his field-glasses and showed us to the north the spires of the cathedral at Saint-Quentin--still held by the Boches. We took a détour in order to see the grave of Sergeant McConnell, the American aviator who was killed last spring. A French flag and two American flags nailed to a wooden cross mark the grave; fifty yards away are a few splinters of iron and wood, the remains of his aeroplane, which indicate the spot where he fell. Some splinters of wood, some rusty bits of iron, part of the engine, are all that is left of his aeroplane. As I looked back towards the grave I saw our soldier chauffeur stooping to place a bunch of wild poppies below the flags. He walked back to his place at the wheel without knowing that I had seen him. It was a small thing, but I felt grateful to the American who had made a simple Frenchman wish to pay this tribute. I felt, too, a warm pride to think of this corner of a foreign field (to paraphrase Rupert Brooke) that is forever America! We went next to Flavy-le-Martel. This town is half ruined and is inhabited only by soldiers. The great sight is a ruined factory, which is now a grotesque pile of rubbish--wheels and boilers and chimneys; the mass of broken stone and twisted iron is heaped to an immense height and in extent it looked to one like an acre of pure destruction. Suddenly we heard discomforting sounds--guns, big guns, and not very far away. The entrance gate to the factory had been locked and barred with a sign, "No Admittance," in large letters, and we had to enter through a hole in the fence, but certainly that couldn't mean that we were doing anything dangerous? One of the soldiers working near by motioned upwards, and we caught sight of a Boche aeroplane disappearing in a big white cloud--lesser white clouds kept multiplying as the French anti-aircraft guns fired on. Each shot sounded like hitting a barn door with a baseball--only fifty times as loud. I was all for standing with my neck craned waiting to see what would happen next, but the soldiers gave one laconic look (if a look can be laconic) at the signs in the heavens, and walked off to the "abri" or shelter. Our lieutenant asked us to follow, so down we plunged into a little cellar-like place after the soldiers.