The Marne here is about as large as a good-sized American creek. There were quite a few dead horses and men still bobbing around in it. The countryside had not been under fire for very long, compared to the Arras section; some crops were still standing, and a few people at work reaping them already. I am sorry to say that one of our men was thoughtless enough to grab a pile of new cut hay from a field during a stop. I happened to see him and of course he put it back, and got a summary out of it. I mention this to remind you that in most of our trouble with the French peasants we were at fault to some extent. Of course, it isn’t pleasant to sleep for several nights on the floor of a jolting cattle car. But neither is it enjoyable for poor Jacques to see his hay miraculously preserved from the H. E.’s, laboriously gathered, and then have a doughboy coolly annex it and roll away in a train. We rolled on through the sunny August day, east to Chalons-sur-Marne, then southeast, away from the battle front. Night came on, and dragged along toward dawn. At about 2:00 A. M. we stopped at a little way station for hot coffee, ready for us in great G. I. boilers. The French corporal in charge of the station gave me a cup out of his own private pot, cooking over a smelly little oil stove, thick as mud, black as night, reeking with cognac, altogether very satisfactory. I wished every man could have had such a shot. Early in the morning we passed the walled heights of Chaumont, A. E. F. headquarters. On past the picturesque battlements of Langres, centre of the Army Schools; then east again. The country was more rugged and less highly cultivated. Here was a place where one might get off the road without stepping on Jacques’ garden. It looked more like home. The woods were sure enough ones, not little, severely confined, neatly trimmed groves such as they had in the north, with every tree numbered and recorded. Best of all, we were in the American sector. The M. P.’s at the stations were doughboys instead of Tommies or poilus. Here an American ambulance hustled along the road; there a good old 3-ton Q. M. truck lumbered along. Overseas caps were sprinkled about the stations. No more now of “What is the name of this bally station, old top?,” and “Kesky eessy, Mossure.” We could yell: “Say, buddy, what t’ell burg’s this?” like civilized persons. Off on a branch line, around hills, over a long, white stone bridge, and the train slid up to the long platform at Passavant station. CHAPTER V “THE AMERICAN SECTOR” The battalion tumbled off, very greasy as to face and stiff as to legs. The rolling kitchens were unloaded; the Colonel and Lt. Gibbs appeared and disappeared. We saw our own supply company hard at work in the adjacent field. In a few minutes it was “Fall in,” and we hiked across the railroad and down into the centre of the little town.