The colonel was at the station to meet us. How glad we were to see his genial face once more! "Your billets are all arranged," he said. "The officers will stay at the _Louvre_ and the non-commissioned officers and men at the _Jean d’arc_ theâtre." The men were lined-up and, now that the unit was once more complete, formed quite an imposing sight. In those days medical units wore the red shoulder straps; the privilege of retaining these coloured straps has been granted only to members of the First Contingent. The men marched across _Le Pont Marguet_, up the main thoroughfare, along the _Rue Victor Hugo_, crossing the market place, and in a narrow street not far from the market found the little theâtre. It made a perfect billet, the main hall serving as a mess room, and the gallery as an excellent dormitory. The quartermaster, Reggy, and I were billeted in one large room at the _Louvre_. Our window overlooked the basin and across the quay we could see the fish-wives unloading the herring boats as they arrived in dozens. With their queer wooden shoes (sabots) they clack-clacked across the cobblestones; their large baskets, overflowing with fish, strapped to their backs. Among all the varied odours of that odorous city, that of fish rises supreme. It saluted our nostrils when we marched in the streets, and was wafted in at our windows when the thoughtless breeze ventured our way. We could see too, the Channel boats arriving at the dock, bringing battalion after battalion of troops. These rapidly entrained, and were whisked away in the shrill-whistling little French trains toward the battlefront. Sometimes convoys of London ’busses, now bereft of their advertisements and painted dull grey, filled with "Tommies" destined for the "big show," passed by the door and rolled away into the far beyond. The second morning of our stay at Boulogne Reggy awoke feeling that he really must have a bath. Why he should consider himself different from all the other people in France, is a matter I am not prepared to discuss. A bath, in France, is a luxury, so to speak, and is indulged in at infrequent intervals—on fête days or some other such auspicious occasion. He rang the bell to summon the maid. In a few moments a tousled blonde head-of-hair, surmounted by a scrap of old lace, was thrust inside the door. "_Monsieur?_" it enquired. Reggy prided himself upon his French—he had taken a high place in college in this particular subject, but, as he remarked deprecatingly, his French seemed a bit too refined for the lower classes, who couldn’t grasp its subtleties. "_Je veux un bain_," he said. He was startled by the ease with which she understood. Could it be that he looked—but, no, he appeared as clean as the rest of us. At any rate, she responded at once in French: "_Oui, monsieur_. I’ll bring it in to you." She withdrew her head and closed the door.