My three companions and myself endeavoured to help the men to pull out the rod, but the united efforts of the six of us proved unavailing. We hailed a passing cart and tied the reins around the motor-cycle, but immediately the horse commenced to pull the leather of the reins snapped. Behind the cart walked a peasant. Only one adjective can possibly describe him: he was decidedly "beer-y." He made no attempt to help but passed from one Tommy to the other, patting them on their backs, assuring them "that with a little good-will all would be well." There was a dangerous glint in the youngest Tommy's eye, but in the presence of ladies he refrained from putting his thoughts into words. Finally, his patience evaporating, he suddenly turned on the peasant and shouted at him, "Ong! Ong!" It took me some time to grasp that this was Tommy's abbreviated version of "Allez vous en" (Clear out). In any event it proved quite useless, as he continued to pat the Tommies affectionately and to bombard them with impracticable suggestions. We were joined later by three villagers, two gendarmes and a postman, and, all pulling together, we managed to extract the rod from the tree. A large lorry was passing and on to it we heaved the wreckage. Up clambered the Tommies, followed by their unwelcome friend, who managed to sit on the only unbroken portion of the side-car. This was too much for Messrs. Atkins' equanimity. Limp with laughter, we watched them pass from sight amidst a chorus of "Ong! Ong!" followed by flights of oratory in the English tongue which do not bear repeating, but which were received by the peasant as expressions of deep esteem and to which he replied by endeavouring to kiss the Tommies and shouting, "Vive l'Angleterre! All right! Hoorah!" Our guiding officer began to show some signs of anxiety to have us leave before ten o'clock, but the good-byes took some time. Presents were showered upon us, German dragees (shell heads and pieces of shrapnel), and the real French dragees, the famous sweet of Verdun. We crept out of the city, but unfortunately at one of the dangerous crossroads our chauffeur mistook the route. A heavy bombardment was taking place and the French were replying. We were lucky enough to get on to the route and into safety before any shell fell near us. It appears that the Germans systematically bombard the roads at night, hoping to destroy the camions bringing up the food for the city, fresh munitions and men. We slept that night at Bar-le-Duc, and next morning saw the various ambulances and hospitals which the Service de Sante had particularly requested me to visit. I was impressed by the splendid organisation of the Red Cross even quite close to the firing line. The Brown And Black Sons Of France