The next day we formed with rifles, belts and bayonets, and marched about four miles out into the flat, flat country; past windmills and hedges and a little estaminet here and there, until we came to a British gas house. Here some English and Scotch sergeants issued English gas masks, and after a couple of hours gas mask drill we went through the gas house, and started back to camp. On our way we stopped by at an ordnance hut where our American Enfields were exchanged for English Enfields, with their stubby looking barrels and heavy sight guards. In our army issuing or exchanging any piece of ordnance property is like getting married, and when a rifle is involved it is like five actions at law and a couple of breach of promise suits. Here we filed in one door, shoved our rifle at a Tommy, beat it for the other door, grabbed an English weapon and bayonet, and the deed was done. I happened to be in command of the battalion that day, and somewhere I suppose the British government has a couple of grubby slips of paper on which I’ve signed for 1,000 gas masks, rifles and bayonets. The transaction would probably have been a fatal blow to a U. S. ordnance officer. Being only a reserve officer of infantry, it seemed to me pretty sensible. Back in camp we were pretty much left alone, and some there were who lost no time making an acquaintance with the estaminets of Calais. In thirty-six hours we had learned enough English to discourse glibly of “tuppence ha’ penny,” and I even overheard Price offer to “Shoot you a bob,” and somebody promptly took “six penn ’orth of it.” But this was nothing compared to our excursions into the unexplored fields of the long suffering French language. By that evening most of the men seemed quite proficient in a few such indispensable phrases as “Vin rouge tout de suite” or rather “Van rooge toot sweet,” “Encore,” “Combien,” and “Oo la la, ma cherie.” The next morning--Wednesday, June 5th--we left Rest Camp No. 6, and glad we were to leave it, for a dirty, hot hole it was. We hadn’t been bombed, though the town got its usual raid, and the camp was complimented the next night by the Boche. The hike to the station was long and hot and made without a rest. Of course, not knowing as much as they would later, the men’s packs were tremendous. The overcoat, blanket, 100 rounds of ammunition and extra shoes and rations alone are a good load, and when one adds several suits of underwear, extra toilet articles, Jenny’s sweaters, Aunt Sarah’s wristlets, a couple of cartons of cigarettes and pipe tobacco, and some chocolate, it gets tremendous. Little Effingham’s pack as usual, was down to his heels, but he stoutly refused assistance, also as usual. The company arrived at the station feeling like a dyspeptic bear with scarlet fever. We were forthwith introduced to the famous “Hommes 40, Chevaux 8.” It was seldom that bad, but even 25 or 30 men are a tight fit in those little cattle cars, as you all can testify.