few remaining cooties. At last, final orders came; we were to leave Mayet for Brest on March 26. Men on furlough were recalled, all leaves were cancelled, and one last rush finished up the remaining paper work. Strange to say, there was no wild demonstration at the receipt of these orders. We had waited too long; the keen edge was taken off our joy and we were almost apathetic about our approaching move. After all, what was there to exult about? We were ordered to Brest. Rumors and signs pointed to a short stay there. So had signs and rumors indicated a short stay in Mayet, two weeks at the most; and how long had we been here? Nearly two months. So might we be two months in Brest, exchanging our congenial surroundings for a draughty tent in a huge muddy camp.

                On March 20 came an order postponing our departure from Mayet till the 27th, a change greeted with grunts of indifference. A month before such an order would have called forth a howl of indignation, but now it was different. We merely delayed preparations and dully wondered if we ever would move.

                The day of our departure saw us rise before dawn, police our quarters feverishly, roll our packs after a hurried breakfast, march to the station—and wait there three hours for our train. Tumbling on board in great haste, we started on this, the last lap of our pilgrimages over the French railroads.

                Barring the cold, for the cootie-breeding straw was strictly prohibited, our trip was most comfortable. Attached to the train was a kitchen-car, a new

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