The Artillery were the last to leave. It was not a difficult task. We were to receive our materiel in France. Individual equipment only was to accompany the troops, for we had nothing else. The few guns we drilled with were out of date and not used abroad. The 302nd, and 303rd regiments were already motorized on paper, so horses were no longer needed for them, but the 301st must have shed bitter tears for the beautiful animals they had spent so much time and energy to condition and train. Twenty-eight lieutenants of the 302nd left ahead of their regiment and sailed from Boston on the “Katoomba” which touched at Halifax on its way to Liverpool. II. OVERSEAS Of that last journey from Devens to Boston on July 15th there is nothing to chronicle. We were again for that brief period of time individuals. Thought and not action crowded the hour. And what a curious collection of thoughts they were. Each was absorbed with the things nearest and dearest, soon to be far away. But there were other, exciting thoughts. We were on our way! What boats were to carry us? The sea! What were we going to accomplish? And that far-away France,--what was it like? And war, what was it like? Would we come back? The train stopped. “Fall out”. There was a scramble for one’s possessions, followed by another for our places on the platform. We were marched on board and to our bunks, where we left our belongings and hastened on deck. All was again hustle and excitement. The gang planks were lowered, the hawsers dropped. The whistles were blowing and we were off for France,--off for the war, July 16th, 1918. Our boat was the “Winifredian”. Soon we were absorbed in our surroundings. There were twenty-three ships in our convoy, curious in their camouflage, but then all was strange to most of us, who were not used to ocean liners. And the harbor had its fascinations. Comparatively speaking we were men of leisure. Jest once more asserted itself. Our quarters while not altogether to our taste, like most other things in the army would have to do, since there was no alternative. We turned in and strangely enough we slept. Then sounded that good old familiar bugle with the good old familiar: “_We can’t get ’em up, We can’t get ’em up, We can’t get ’em up in the morning; We can’t get ’em up, We can’t get ’em up, We can’t get ’em up at all._”