* * * * * WE have been ordered _en repos_, and after turning in our extra gas masks—we carry ten in the car for the wounded in addition to the two on our person—our _blessé_ blankets, and stretchers, we start in to load the cars with our friends, and our own baggage. As for some time our baggage has been lying _en masse_ in the “drawing-room” of Tucker Inn, as some humorous _conducteur_ styled the roofless pen in Récicourt, where our belongings were left while we were rolling, or in the surrounding _abris_, one could not be at all certain that he was putting the right things in the right duffles, and it was not surprising if a stray jar or two of _confiture_ most unaccountably found its way into one’s own duffle. The section in formation, we roll off with the sun shining brightly on grimy cars and drivers, down the roads, passing ruin after ruin, with a burst of speed past a corner in view of the German trenches, and we again begin to see familiar ground. The green hill back of Erize, with shadows of the woods and the scars of the old trenches, appears in the distance, and my friend looks at me and chuckles. Back in the same little town, parked in the same ruins with the same quietness, peace, and relaxation from the tenseness of the past days, which is so welcome this time, my friend and I walk into a little _estaminet_, pledge each other in glasses of French beer, and taking off our helmets for almost the first time in what seems an age, survey them and each other in placid contentment. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ III EN REPOS A BATCH of mail was given out the morning after our return. When we moved, our address seemed to have been lost, for only a few letters, of no interest to any one, managed to find us. We have been too busy to miss them, and when they arrived in a bunch there were no complaints. It is a wonderful thrill to get a letter from home, to read what those who mean all to one are doing, and to feel their personalities throbbing “between the lines.” We bridge for a brief moment the chasm of three thousand miles, and in revery gaze upon those persons, those places, and those things we have known. Our thoughts here are always in the past. We cannot think of the present, and we dare not think of the future, but there is always the past to live in,—the past of events and memories. We settle down to the same dull monotony as before. For a few days this is bliss, but it soon becomes tiring again. All work here is contrast. When we are at work, we work intensively, taking less rest than seems physically possible, and when _en repos_ we are plunged into the dullest monotony imaginable, with nothing to amuse or occupy us. This is true of every branch of active service.