“Isn’t there _some_ way we can manage?” we teased. “No, they’ve got our range.” “Well at least we can say hello to them!” We went down to the tracks where the men were spilling out of the box cars. They were gathering up their equipment and forming in companies in double time. One red-in-the-face sergeant was furiously demanding who in blazes had stolen his revolver on him; it was evident that he found the presence of ladies sadly hampering to his flow of language. Three companies marched off. The last to go was H Company, the company that had been billeted on the same street with us at Goncourt. We waved and they smiled back at us. They marched down the road, disappeared over the brow of the hill. We stood chatting with two boys who were on a billeting detail. There was a dull heavy detonation beyond the hills. A moment later a strange whistling screech shrilled over our heads. I stared into the air, trying to see—I knew of course it was a shell, but I had never thought one would travel so slowly or be quite so noisy about it. The whistling shriek passed over us, changed to a dropping whine. Down the street there was a thunderous explosion followed instantly by a shattering crash. Timbers, tiles, stones, a mass of debris splashed for a moment up against the sky. The shell had fallen at the cross-roads. I stared at M. I was cold all over. “It must have got them,” I heard myself whispering. “My God! it must have got them!” We stared down the road. Everywhere figures in poilu blue and some in khaki, were running like rabbits towards the dugouts. It seemed to me the uncertainty was more than I could bear. “I’m going to go and see.” “I’ll go with you,” said M. We stopped at the station-house and put on our helmets; then we started down the road. Just beyond the station-house we passed a little cortege of poilus carrying the body of their comrade on a stretcher-bier. They were on their way to the church. When the first shell came over I had seen the funeral procession waver, hesitate, seem uncertain for a few moments whether to proceed or to seek shelter, now, their indecision conquered, they were continuing their march with what seemed an added dignity. A limousine drew up behind us, stopped. In the back seat sat an American major. “Give you a lift?” We climbed in. Half way down the hill another shell shrieked over our heads, burst in front of us. We reached the cross-roads. “Let us out, please.”