streets of Brest, following the sign which pointed to­ ward Camp Pontanezen, our destination. It was a gorgeous day, warm and springlike; ahead of us, crowning a low, gently swelling hill was an orderly array of barracks and tents, stretching as far as the eye could reach, Camp Pontanezen.

                A huge place we found it, row after row of Adrian barracks, of tents, with here and there some huge wooden structure which loomed above its smaller neighbors as an ocean liner overshadows its bevy of tugs. We came to an area that was devoted entirely to tents, and here we halted. Behold, our new homes! And good homes they were, each tent containing a wooden floor, a stove and only six beds; six beds with real mattresses; no overcrowding, no suffering from cold. This was the terrible Brest camp we had heard so much about.

                The rest of the day passed quietly enough, though we were ordered to hold ourselves in readiness for anything that might occur. We messed in a kitchen like that at the station, and soon after rolled up in our blankets on the hard but welcome mattresses.

                Next day saw a feverish activity in our camp. The glorious sun which greeted our arrival had given place to a steady drizzle, through which we tramped to the camp cootie-baths. Filing in between rows of benches in one of the huge buildings we had noted the day before, we stripped and were hastily examined for cooties by rows of harassed looking medical officers. Following this, having thrown away our underwear, we moved on to the next torture, a torture known as the kerosene bath. In a vast room

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