Yesterday noon a detachment of marines arrived in Rattentout. During the day they must keep under cover, but last night after sundown they came out and played baseball in the street. When I looked out my window and saw those lads in olive drab nonchalantly throwing and catching a baseball under my window, I felt as if something safe and sane had somehow appeared in the midst of a strange nightmare world. Rattentout, March 18. I have said; “Good-bye, Good luck!” to my boys. Today we received word that the first battalion of my regiment was to take its place in the trenches by Les Eparges at twelve o’clock tonight, leaving Genicourt where they have been billeted, at eight. I breathed a piteous appeal to the Chief. At five o’clock the car called for us. Earlier in the afternoon there had been an air battle over Genicourt. I heard the soft _whut_, _whut_ of the anti-aircraft guns, and later the staccato rattle of machine-guns in the air. Looking out I could see the planes, one German and two French darting among the shrapnel puffs, the German escaping, sad to say, unharmed. Now a French observation balloon was floating over Genicourt, a curious-looking thing shaped like a huge ram’s head, and a dull green in color. As we neared the town they started to haul the balloon in: it came down with astonishing rapidity. We rolled into Genicourt, a sodden desolate village clinging under the lea of a low hill, just now alive with suppressed vitality. The boys had been ordered to keep their billets until the last moment, as any unusual number of men about might be observed by an enemy aeroplane. Nevertheless there were plenty of stragglers in the streets, while out of the windows were leaning several hundred more, craning their necks in order to get a glimpse of the descending balloon. We went to the _Foyer du Soldat_, a bright clean barracks, the walls covered with posters in vivid hues. It was full of our boys. They laughed, joked, played checkers and pounded the piano, some were dancing together. Yet through all the gaiety one had a sense of tension, of nervous strain. Some of the boys asked us to sing, one lad evidently in a more solemn mood repeatedly requested “My Country ’Tis of Thee.” We sang the “Long, Long Trail” and “Keep the Home Fires Burning.” Then we went out in the street again. The French, we gathered, were quite astonished at the high spirits of the Americans. “Ah, but it’s their first time,” they said. “After four years it will be different.” In the public square they had been holding some sort of ceremony, an interchange of formal greetings between the French and American officers. A French military band had just finished its programme. As we passed they played the Marseillaise and the Star Spangled Banner; we all stood at attention. We came to the street where Company A was billeted. The boys leaned out of the windows and waved and called to me. Everywhere it was the same question: “What shall I bring you from the trenches?”