We get the car and start off down the road with no lights anywhere, and pray that everything coming the other way keeps to its side of the road and goes slowly. There is always something coming the other way—and your way, a steady succession of _camions_ in the centre of the road, and of artillery trains on the side. The _camions_ are mostly very heavy and very powerful, and have no compunction at all about what they run into, as they know that it cannot harm them. The ammunition trains consist of batteries of 75’s, little framework teams with _torpilles_ fitting in small compartments like eggs, and other such vehicles in tow of a number of mules, with the driver invariably asleep. The traffic, however, in spite of the pitch darkness, would be endurable if it were not for the mud which often comes up to the hubs. It is a slimy mud, and if spread thinly is extremely slippery. On the roads it is rarely spread thinly, and when one gets out to push he often sinks in up to the knee. Then of course there is always the whine of _arrivées_ and _départs_ passing overhead, and the occasional crump of a German 77 or 150 landing near at hand. The French and the German gunners play a little game every night with supply trains and shells. The shells are trumps. The object is to see who can play the more “cards” without being trumped. An artillery train counts one, a _camionnette_ two, a _camion_ five—because it blocks the road for some time when hit, and gives the enemy time to trump more cards—two ambulances give a win, and if a gun is hit the enemy is disqualified. The game is very interesting—for the artillery. This modernized blindman’s buff is carried on at its best in the early hours of the morning before the game becomes too free-for-all to score carefully, and most of the cars are returned to the “pack”—out of the zone of fire—to wait for the next evening’s fun. At this time the roads are crowded, and the game is at its height. As the fun increases for the judges, however, it decreases for the players,—that is to say the “cards.” The prospect of being trumped is not a pleasant anticipation, although it keeps up the interest and prevents _ennui_. After an hour or so of sport the going becomes very bad, as there are always many horses killed, and when the fighting is at all severe there is no time to bury them. Then, too, the narrow gauge railway crossing the road every few rods is often hit, and left, like a steel octopus, with its twisted tentacles stretching out in all directions. These add to the sport hugely, and our chief consolation is to imagine the Boche over on his side having fully as bad if not a worse time than we. “This or the next?” inquires my companion in reference to a cross-road which appears on our right. Having no idea I answer, “This one,” and we turn. An unaccountable number of jounces greets us as we continue. “They must have strafed this road a good bit since our last roll,” my friend comments.