On 4th December I visited General Maistre, and with him went a long tour of the trenches of the XXIst Corps d’Armée. What struck me most was the extraordinarily well constructed communication trenches leading up to the village of Fosse-Calonne. The country was chalky and rolling and as different as a place could be from our own boggy front. I was also struck by the perfection to which the French had brought their village defences. The dug-outs were far more substantial and comfortable than our own ever were at any time: electric power was available, and hence many shelters were lighted with electricity, and every man appeared to be hard at work improving the defences. The whole organisation was excellent, and the nature of the soil and advantage of having a village in the centre of the defensive line greatly assisted all their protective measures. The men were full of humour and gave proof of this in one room which was loopholed and only thirty yards away from another held by the Germans. The roof had been damaged by a shell, and through an opening one of the poilus proceeded to display a tricolour flag on the end of a pole, his daily amusement. On this occasion, however, Brother Boche was not to be drawn. On the table was a gramophone, and another man at once turning it towards the loophole started the “Marseillaise.” “If this will not fetch them,” he said, “I will try ‘God save the King.’” But the Hun must have been in his mid-day sleep, as nothing would move him, and all was quiet till we got outside, when they started a lively fusillade at a chimney behind us, with what object I could not surmise. After spending three very interesting hours we returned by another trench, and at an opening near a mound I emerged to find a Guard of Honour drawn up with a band. To my surprise I learnt this was in my honour, and after being saluted, those fine soldiers marched past me. Needless to say I was more than gratified by this compliment paid to me by an Allied brother Corps Commander. It is actions like this that bind peoples together, and it is only one of a hundred proofs that our friendship is not on the surface, but deep. Personally, I shall always look on France as a land where I saw more human nature in its truest form than I have ever seen elsewhere, and like Alexander and Diogenes shall feel that if I were not an Englishman I would be a Frenchman.