next train journey, we remembered, would be in their direction. There was a fascination in standing close to them
and wondering.
After another cramped night the spires of Bordeaux greeted us across the vineyards of the Gironde, and at seven o'clock the train halted with a definite jerk at the railhead of Bonneau.
Lt. Klots, who had come as our advance agent, met us and guided the tired column, bent beneath its packs, down a road that entered a pine wood.
"It looks like Upton," we said.
But these evergreens were larger, the sand was deeper, and at a crossroads was an estaminet with tables and chairs set on the edge of the road.
It was only two miles to an arched gateway, summounted by the republican cock and the legend: "Champ de Tir de Souge."
Within we found endless rows of French barracks, painted brown. As we marched along the main avenue we noticed inscribed panels above the doors, reciting the valorous death of some officer or non-commissioned officer who had trained there.
By noon assignments were made. Barrack bags and baggage had arrived. Except for the sand, we gathered, Souge would not be uncomfortable. We were vastly amused at hordes of French coolies, parading around beneath umbrellas against the sun, or languidly making a pretence at work.
