In the evening of April 22, 1915, my regiment left camp, and entrained at about 11 P.M. We were very packed in the train, and this did not improve our tempers. We had not the slightest idea where we were going, and in the early hours of the morning of April 23 we found ourselves at Cassel, a small town in the department du Nord, where we detrained, and began a long, weary march. The country-side was very hilly, and we soon began to feel how near we were to the front, as we distinctly heard the booming of the guns, and all the cross-roads were guarded by French soldiers. At last, when very tired, we found ourselves marching into a plain, and shortly afterwards arrived at the little town of Winnezeele, a few miles from the Belgian frontier. It was about 9 A.M. when we arrived there, and we were told that we were going no further that day. Troops were billeted in the neighbouring farms, and I was kept busy interpreting for everyone. I was at last able to see to the needs of my own platoon, and got my odd sixty men comfortably settled down in a nice farm. The lady of the place, whose husband was serving at Dunkirk, was rather surly at first, owing to her having shortly before received an enforced visit from some Canadians, who had proved rather rough. She and I ended in becoming very good friends, and still further cementing the _Entente cordiale_. We spent a delightful day of rest amid charming scenery, in the enjoyment of a really lovely day in early summer; it was hard to realise what we were doing there at all. We would forget, only to be brought back to earth by the rumbling of the guns, none too far away, and by the sight of a German aeroplane which was being fired at, the flash of the guns being quite visible. I have nothing but pleasant memories of Winnezeele and district. The farms were very picturesque, the village clean and prosperous, and prettily situated. Its atmosphere somehow reminded me of Bamburgh. The people were all cordial. One old man told me that early in the war, when the Germans attempted their great enveloping movement, an Uhlan patrol rode into the village. In tones of great excitement, he told me how some courageous citizen, whose name he declared must be kept a profound secret, went and informed the French infantry patrol, and how the ‘fantassins’ came and rounded up the enemy. Since then no German had appeared in Winnezeele. This little incursion must have been one of the high-water marks of the Teuton invasion. We officers messed at the chief Inn, and had quite a good time, trying to turn our French to good account by conversing with a certain ‘Marie Louise,’ who ministered to our wants. It was a little picture of France at war: France at her best. There were no young civilians to be seen, no ‘starred’ men. All had gone to the war. The fields were being worked by women, girls, young children, and old folk, and all worked with a will. Even the farmer was not exempt. The husband of Madame Dubois, upon whom I