The excitement of getting away from camp and the knowledge that we
were soon to get into the thick of the big game pleased most of us.
We were glad to go. At least we thought so.

Two hundred of us were loaded into side-door Pullmans, forty to the
car. It was a kind of sardine or Boston Elevated effect, and by the
time we reached Rouen, twenty-four hours later, we had kinks in our
legs and corns on our elbows. Also we were hungry, having had
nothing but bully beef and biscuits. We made "char", which is
trench slang for tea, in the station, and after two hours moved up
the line again, this time in real coaches.

Next night we were billeted at Barlin--don't get that mixed up with
Berlin, it's not the same--in an abandoned convent within range of
the German guns. The roar of artillery was continuous and sounded
pretty close.

Now and again a shell would burst near by with a kind of hollow
"spung", but for some reason we didn't seem to mind. I had expected
to get the shivers at the first sound of the guns and was surprised
when I woke up in the morning after a solid night's sleep.

A message came down from the front trenches at daybreak that we
were wanted and wanted quick. We slung together a dixie of char and
some bacon and bread for breakfast, and marched around to the
"quarters", where they issued "tin hats", extra "ammo", and a
second gas helmet. A good many of the men had been out before, and
they did the customary "grousing" over the added load.