One of the boys of my Jewish company was specially a victim of _mal de mer_. He had been a professional legerdemain artist in the London music halls. He said ruefully that he had never in his life brought so many things out of a hat as he had out of himself on the journey over. He said mournfully that he was anxious to fight Germans, but would have much preferred that they had come to England to get into the ring. We landed at Havre, to an enthusiastic welcome from old men, women and children. The old men cheered us, the women wept and the children scampered about our legs, throwing kisses, and with irresistible smiles, shouted: “Bon jour! Bon jour! Oh, bully beef! Oh, biscuits!” If there is one thing that has rung the gong of popularity in France it is our English bully beef. And next to that our biscuits. And what could we do but share our beef and biscuits with those kids with the wonderful smiles! Old men, women and children had all apparently learned the English slogan, “Are we down-hearted? No!” They yelled it at us both joyfully and tearfully, and we yelled back at them with vigor, “_NO!_ _NO!_ NO!” Military transportation was working smoothly as oil, and without delay my own contingent and some 3,000 others were rolled along to Rouen. We were sent to camp No. 55, Infantry Base Depot, a part of the 48th division Territorials, Sixth Army Corps, Major-General Fanshaw, commanding. Other pens, infinitely greater than mine, have already depicted the devastation in pretty Belgium and beautiful little France. But the sights from the car windows stirred great waves of pity across my heart because some ten years before, practically in my boyhood, I had traveled these fair countries on a tour of military observation, and could appreciate how terrible and large had been the wounds inflicted. Our particular camp was in Plugstreat. I have said that it was the reports of Belgium atrocities which mainly made the motive for the great outpouring of Australian manhood into the fray. We had heard these stories and believed them. On March 16th, when we entered the village of St. Elois, I saw with my own eyes that these stories which had come to Australia were not lies. My first confrontation with the shocking facts was when in this village. We came upon a shattered convent. I cannot tell you its name because whatever inscription had been on the building was smashed in the general wreck. But the ancient archway of the entrance still stood, and on the heavy, iron-bound door was the “exhibit” in the case. It was the nude body of the Mother Superior. The villagers so identified her. She had been nailed to the door. She had been crucified. In the ruins we brought out the bodies of four nuns, unspeakably mutilated. Their bodies had been stabbed and slashed each more than one hundred times. They had gone to martyrdom resisting incredible brutes. They had fought hard, the blond hair of their assassins clutched in their dead hands.