Morning in a box car is not an enlivening scene. Everyone is cold, numb, cramped and out-of-sorts. Some misguided enthusiast reaches for his pack, letting it fall with a crash upon a recumbent comrade fortunate enough to be still asleep. Profanity and apologies ensue and quiet reigns once more. We open the car doors and the three lucky enough to be in the strategic position, swing their legs out of the car, in defiance of regulations, and contemplate the passing panorama as they meditatively consume that inspiring breakfast-food, canned roast beef. At noon the train slackens its speed, noses hesitatingly along, and finally comes to a bumpy halt. The engine hoots fiercely, but this is only a bluff—then comes a long, plaintive wail, a clear admission of defeat on the part of the engine. We start again, only to come to a sudden crashing stop. We slide gently backwards. This manoeuvre is repeated until we jolt along by a broad ramp and halt. There is a feeling of finality about this stop, and the occupants of the car, disentangling themselves, struggle to their feet again and crowd to the doors. "All out" is the command, and we jump out to the ramp, dragging our packs after us. The guns are unloaded and pushed with immense labor into a muddy field near the ramp; we climb under our packs again and off we go.

                As we march along, we survey the road ahead of us with growing disfavor; a road of rare beauty from artists' standpoint, no doubt, but to the soldier's eye it presents too many ups and downs to be quite satisfactory. We pass through two or three villages and note with approbation that, although small, they all

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