nation! Some located it on the Swiss border. Others in
something they called the forward training area. A third
group spoke of the vicinity of Bordeaux. It carried off the
laurels. We were bound for the Champ de Tir de Souge.
Weary-eyed we turned our backs on our sylvan rest camp, and tramped to the Brest railroad station. It was here that most of the regiment saw for the first time the now familiar Hommes and Chevaux palace cars. The regiment that pulled out ahead of us had them. Our train was composed of third class carriages, and we laughed at the other fellows while we munched our luncheon of bread and corn willy in the railroad yards.
“Those bullies are traveling like a lot of cattle," one heard. “We can sit up and play cards and look out of the window—"
Perfectly true, but after one experience you should hear how eagerly we would ask on the eve of another journey if we weren't going to have Hommes and Chevaux.
“Sardine boxes are all right for sardines," was the verdict on third class carriages, loaded to capacity, after that first ride, "But they didn't give us any oil."
It was seldom necessary to fill goods vans uncomfortably, and you could stretch out and go to sleep. In the third class carriages there were nearly always broken windows. In the goods van, if it got cold, you simply shut the door. That first trip, however, we piled in thankfully, and had our first doubt when we realized how little room there was for stowing equipment.
A number of small boys from the summit of a neighboring wall watched us entrain. Proudly they chanted for us that hap-hazard Marseillaise of the American soldier.
"Hail! Hail! The gang's all here."
And when the train started a little after two they followed us with the inevitable "good-by" which rose to a supplicating shriek.
