Though they had had hardly time to explore the little village or make the acquaintance of its inhabitants, the entire population turned out to see them off. French matrons and pretty young girls fluttered their handkerchiefs at the marching columns of Sammies, just as the American mothers, wives and sisters did when the trains pulled out of the home towns bearing Uncle Sam's Boys away to the training camps. With the backbone of winter broken, the day was clear and fair. The sun shone brightly down in inspiriting fashion. There was but one drawback--the ever-present mud. A recent spell of wet weather had made of the roads an unending succession of small pools of water, interspersed with little stretches of sticky, clinging mire, into which the soldiers' feet sank, ankle deep. Long before the afternoon merged into sunset, the Khaki Boys had begun to feel the effects of that strenuous march. Their heavy, hob-nailed trench shoes, made heavier by constant contact with the mud, blistered their feet and caused them acute suffering. Yet they sang home songs, and joked with one another as they plodded along, unmindful of their discomfort. Not a man hung back or gave up. Neither did the fact trouble them that every step they took was bringing them nearer to the big guns, the booming of which was ever in their ears. For each hour on the road they were allowed a ten-minutes' halt, in which to nurse their swollen feet, and rest their weary backs, aching from the heavy packs. Though the majority did not know of how long duration the hike would be, a few knew that their difficult march would end in a partially ruined village, just out of range of the German guns. There they would be billeted until the order came to take their first turn in the trenches. It was after eight o'clock in the evening when a foot-sore, mud-spattered company of young defenders tramped wearily along the principal thoroughfare of the French hamlet. That thoroughfare was nothing more than a very muddy road. On each side of it stood the shattered remnants of what had once been the homes of the unfortunate inhabitants whose quaint little cottages had been demolished by the enemy's guns. Less than half the houses in the village still remained intact. So near to the firing lines, they had not been able to avert the dire misfortunes of war. Continuing on through the village, they were finally halted in a large meadow on its outskirts. Here the work of erecting shelter or "pup" tents began, in which they would sleep that night. The cook wagons, too, immediately went into action, and the way-worn travelers were presently given the comfort of a hot supper before turning in for a night's sleep. Rolled up in their ponchos, the Khaki Boys slept as soundly that night as though back in the home barracks they had so long ago left behind them. A hot breakfast the next morning and they were again in good trim for the eventful hike that would bring them to the firing line.