I picked up a chap near Brocourt today who was on his way back to Mort Homme after his permission. He had walked all the way from Bar-le-Duc that day and was all tired out. He was mighty glad to get the ride for he had orders to be back in his company before midnight. We talked for a while in jerky little sentences; I, using the usual "n'estce pas" and "Comprenez-vous" and he always relying on "C'est la Guerre" for an answer to my questions. At one place we passed a flock of strange birds. I pointed to them and mumbled something to signify that I wanted to know what they were. He simply said "oiseau" and I replied as well as I could that we didn't have any oiseaus in America. He looked rather surprised and muttered something about having always heard that Etats Unis was a queer sort of a place. I discovered when I got back to the cantonment that the word oiseau means bird.
Cook relieved me at nine o'clock, saying that three big "boys" had fallen near him as he passed through Montzèville. This was a pleasant send off and I pictured a delightful little journey back to Dombasle. But the stars were out when I started and a sprinkling of snow upon the ground made it very easy to keep on the road. I had only one blessé, for things were quiet in the trenches today.
