In each of the five sections there are twenty drivers, all Americans and volunteers. Most of them are college men who have come over from the United States to ‘do their bit’ for France and see the war at the same time. Certainly our section was gathered from the four corners of the ‘States.’ One, a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, had worked for two years on the Panama Canal as an engineer; another, an Alaskan, had brought 200 dogs over for the French Government, to be used for transportation in the Vosges; a third was a well-known American novelist who had left his home at Florence to be a chauffeur for France. There were also two architects, a New York undertaker, several soi-disant students, and a man who owned a Mexican ranch that was not sufficiently flourishing to keep him at home. The term of service required by the French authorities is now six months, though, of course, some of the men have been in the section since the Battle of the Marne. We all got five sous a day and rations as privates in the French army, which was represented in our midst by a lieutenant, a _maréchal de logis_, a mechanic, and a cook. On February 22 our French lieutenant gave us our ‘order to move,’ but all he could tell us about our destination was that we were going north. We started from Bar-le-Duc about noon, and it took us six hours to make forty miles through roads covered with snow, swarming with troops, and all but blocked by convoys of food carts and sections of trucks. Of course, we knew that there was an attack in the neighbourhood of Verdun, but we did not know who was making it or how it was going. Then about four o’clock in the short winter twilight we passed two or three regiments of French colonial troops on the march with all their field equipment. I knew who and what they were by the curious Eastern smell that I had always before associated with camels and circuses. They were lined up on each side of the road around their soup kitchens, which were smoking busily, and I had a good look at them as we drove along. It was the first time I had seen an African army in the field, and though they had had a long march they were cheerful and in high spirits at the prospect of battle. They were all young, active men, and of all colours and complexions, from blue-eyed blonds to shiny blacks. They all wore khaki and brown shrapnel casques bearing the trumpet insignia of the French sharpshooter. We were greeted with laughter and chaff, for the most part, in an unknown chatter, but now and again some one would say, ‘Hee, hee, Ambulance Americaine,’ or ‘Yes, Ingliish, Good-bye.’