In the chill of that bleak November evening we crossed the German frontier and entered Gorz. Aged and feeble men and women looked sadly at us from their doors. Children, whose pinched faces clearly showed the ravages of hunger, timidly followed our supply trucks up the deserted street. [Illustration: "GREATER LOVE THAN THIS NO MAN HAS."] We were the first American soldiers they had ever seen. Drawing up in front of the old market place, Major Hirch explained our mission, speaking to the people in German. When the poor starved creatures realized we were bringing them food, their joy knew no bounds; the children shouted with very joy and swarmed up into the trucks. We found ourselves crying, but supremely happy in the realization that we were doing the Master's work. The inhabitants fluently spoke French as well as German; and when the children saw the Chaplain's cross and found I was a priest, their reverence and affection was most pronounced. The food, indeed, was but the coarse Army fare, "bully" beef, hard tack, and condensed milk; but, withal, it was relished most keenly. We felt gratified in the humble part we had played in saving the lives of those unfortunate non-combatants, and organizing our first Divisional Relief Expedition into Germany. CHAPTER XI DOMREMY--HOME "Major Whittington, I have not had a furlough since we landed in France." "I guess that's so, Chaplain; which city would you prefer visiting, Paris or Metz?" "Domremy--." "Domremy!" he exclaimed, "I never heard of the place. However, you may go." Then, with forced seriousness, added, "I believe you are needed in Domremy on Official Business." It was December eleventh. We had long been anxious to visit the birthplace of Joan of Arc. The story of her heroic brilliant life had ever interested and inspired us; and now, to actually be in the hills of her native Lorraine, to make a pilgrimage to her shrine, became our supreme ambition. I could indeed have visited Domremy before, but purposely had I waited for this date. On December thirteenth, President Wilson, coming to the Peace Conference, was to land in France. I wanted to say Mass, that very morning, at the shrine of the Maid for the welfare of the President. A one hundred and fifty mile trip from Thiacourt to Domremy, south of Verdun on the Meuse, especially in an open motorcycle car and through a blinding storm of hail and rain, is not particularly pleasant. When we recalled, however, the arduous journey she, a girl, of eighteen years, had once made on horseback from Domremy to Chinon, three hundred miles, through snow-covered roads, we determined that nothing short of a Firing Squad should stop us. A cold I had contracted at Rembercourt had settled in my back. Lumbago had painfully doubled me into an inverted "L," a figure not happily adapted to a cycle car.