One or more cars must always have taken the wrong road, and lead a hare and hound chase for some minutes before the final roundup, leaving for clues numerous peasants who, when queried, always know just where it went. Of course, by the law of chance, some one of these has undoubtedly seen it, and the lost is eventually found. There was one particular member of our section who was a rover at soul, and led several interesting hunts. A little later in the season this same rover took a by-road and started through the Hesse Forest for Germany. Our whole pack was called out, and after an exciting chase he was finally caught and convinced of his error. Fortunately for both him and us the _chef_ has a sense of humor, and the section, in spite of our many innocent attempts to disintegrate it and take individual excursions to different parts of France, continues to be a unit. For five days we proceed thus, with the white road stretching out in front and the brown dust trailing behind. We stop to get gasoline, to eat, and to sleep. We begin to near the front, and pass through town after town of roofless houses, shattered churches, and scattered homes. Through fields dotted with wooden crosses with the tricolored ribbon, and pock-marked with shell-holes. We pass aeroplane hangars and batteries of guns. We see more _saucisses_ in the sky and soldiers on the ground. The hand of the Hun lies heavy on the land, and his poison breath scorches the grass of the fields. We see fewer civilians and more steel helmets, and yet the rumble of the guns is no louder. But there is a certain breath of power and energy in the air, and one feels himself waiting for something to happen. Something does—an infuriated bull charges Rover’s car and picks off one of his headlights. Rover reverses hastily and unhesitatingly into the car behind, while the farmer’s wife makes her appearance, drives off the bull, and saves Rover from extermination. Then, one afternoon, we arrive at our point of embarkation, so to speak. It is Bar-le-Duc, sixty kilometres from Verdun, and by virtue of its being the one city in many miles, the meeting place of the world, which is to say, of course, our sector of front—when _en repos_. * * * * *