institution for us, which fed us royally on steak, fresh biscuit, and hot coffee, instead of our usual train diet of canned roast beef and hardtack. Verily, things were beginning auspiciously.

                Morning of March 28 saw us gliding smoothly along the Breton coast, whose ragged hills opened now and then, allowing us glimpses of the sea, to many their first glimpse since September, 1917. Noon and we were in Brest, looking out over the harbor from our car doors, wondering which of the big liners riding at anchor beyond the breakwater could be ours and when the moment, dreamed of for months, would come when we should go on board.

                Behind us lay a labyrinth of wooden buildings, all bearing the magic word "Embarkation",—the embarkation Mess-hall, the Embarkation Offices, the Embarkation Hospital. Repeating that soul-satisfying word to ourselves, we slowly clambered out of our cars and piled our packs on the station platform. The first move was cheering. We lined up, armed with our mess-kits, and were marched into the yawning maze of the Embarkation Mess-Hall. Surely this presaged a hasty meal and immediate embarkation. Otherwise, why not wait till we reached the camp on the interior and mess at the kitchen there? Hopefully we crowded past the serving-tables and were issued our meal with a speed which for the American Army was surprising. Five thousand men could be fed in an hour by this remarkable system, we were told.

                As sort of a desert to this surprising meal, we started off, sac-a-dos, through the steep winding

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