gard to who won the war must be curbed. As an example of what would happen in case our inquisitive­ ness got the better of us, we were told of a division being pulled off a transport for asking an M. P. that innocuous question. The many Marines in camp must not be jeered; a word about Chateau-Thierry might mean months in France for us. In fact, the whole procedure was much like some old-fashioned nurse frightening her small charge with the story of the "bad little boy who wouldn't tell the truth and was eaten up by bears."

                Keeping in mind the bears, in the form of embarkation inspectors, we were a silent lot as we trooped off for the last time through the long streets of Camp Pontanezen. Clearing the camp, we breathed more freely, and a few of the more daring spirits exchanged furtive whispers on the subject of packs. Down the steep hills of Brest we went, forgetting the weight of our packs, as the harbor came in view, but never a sound did we make. Silently, steadily we passed the fortifications, gray, ponderous masses of hewn stone, built before the First Empire, and with a thrill of joy, marched into the long echoing sheds at the decks.

                Here we waited while the Red Cross distributed socks filed with cigarettes and chocolates. Still subdued, after an interval of half an hour, we fled silently past a latticed window. A gruff-voiced person, presumably a bear, called out our numbers, and we emerged into the open air, at the head of a gang­ plank.

                Packed on lighters, we slid quietly out of Brest harbor, past the long breakwater and finally came

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