But to get back to Petite-Saens. We commenced our hike as it is was
getting dark. As we swung out along the once good but now badly
furrowed French road, we could see the Very lights beginning to go
up far off to the left, showing where the lines were. We could
distinguish between our own star lights and the German by the
intensity of the flare, theirs being much superior to ours, so much
so that they send them up from the second-line trenches.

The sound of the guns became more distant as we swung away to the
south and louder again as the road twisted back toward the front.

We began to sing the usual songs of the march and I noticed that
the American ragtime was more popular among the boys than their own
music. "Dixie" frequently figured in these songs.

It is always a good deal easier to march when the men sing, as it
helps to keep time and puts pep into a column and makes the packs
seem lighter. The officers see to it that the mouth organs get
tuned up the minute a hike begins.

At the end of each hour we came to a halt for the regulation ten
minutes' rest. Troops in heavy marching order move very slowly,
even with the music--and the hours drag. The ten minutes' rest
though goes like a flash. The men keep an eye on the watches and
"wangle" for the last second.

We passed through two ruined villages with the battered walls
sticking up like broken teeth and the gray moonlight shining
through empty holes that had been windows. The people were gone
from these places, but a dog howled over yonder. Several times we