The Gendarme came back from her leave tonight just in time for the Grand Opening. This took place at seven o’clock. The hall was packed to the last inch. As one boy said; “There’s plenty of room for me, but there ain’t none for the buttons on my coat.” There was a reason for this. The new colonel was to make a speech and he had advised all the officers and non-coms, in the whole regiment to be present. I caught a glimpse of Company A wedged in among the suffocating mass. Everything, I understand, went off very nicely; there was much music by the band and somebody sang Danny Deever very thrillingly, but I was too busy in the kitchen to pay much attention. The new Secretary had wanted me to sit on the platform, but after a three days’ debate, he had finally agreed to let me off, and luckily, for the minute the last note of the S. S. B. had sounded we were ready to start handing out the hot chocolate and cookies over the counter to the mob. When everyone else had been fed the colonel himself appeared back of the counter, to graciously accept a cup of chocolate, and make himself generally charming. When the last guest had gone and we were getting ready to shut up the hut for the night, the Chief who had come over from Bourmont for the occasion drew me aside, looking solemn. “I have a question to put to you.” “What is it?” “The division leaves for the front within a short while. Do you wish to go with them?” “Of course!” said I. Goncourt, March 8. This week has gone by in a whirl. Because it was our first and presumably our last week in the big hut we wanted to make it just as nice as was humanly possible. And this hasn’t been an easy task because with the regiment putting on the last touches before they go to the front, there hasn’t been a bit of spare man-power available to help us; and the mere problem of keeping that huge place anything like clean has almost swamped us. After mess at night, to be sure, we have no lack of assistance. The boys swarm into the little kitchen in droves, eager to help stir the chocolate, or cut the bread for the sandwiches. If only ten out of every dozen would be content to stay the other side of the counter, it would simplify matters, but much as they may be underfoot one hasn’t the heart to turn them out. Those who can’t get into the kitchen hang about the doors, looking in, teasing for a “hand-out” of bread and jam. “I’m just so hungry,” sighed a lad plaintively today, looking at me out of the corner of his eyes, “I could eat the jamb off the door!”