Pershing's headquarters.

[Illustration: He was a rare bird; this American going on a big
drunk on water]

For Americans during the year 1918, "Somewhere in France," will
mean the Joan of Arc country. It is not in the war zone, but lies
among the hills of Central France, a four or five hours' auto ride
from Paris. To reach the American "Somewhere in France" from Paris,
one crosses the battle-field of the Marne, and we passed it the
day after the third anniversary, when all the hundreds of roadside
graves that marked the French advance were a-bloom and a-flutter
with the tri-colour. Great doings were afoot the day before on that
battle-field. Bands had played triumphant songs, and orators had
spoken and the leaders of France--soldier and civilian--had come
out and wept and France had released her emotions and was better
for it. We passed through Meaux and hurried on east to St. Dizier,
where we stopped for the night. We put up at a dingy little inn,
filled to overflowing with as curious a company as ever gathered
under one roof. Of course there were French soldiers--scores of
them, mostly officers in full dress, going to the line or coming
from it. Then there were fathers and mothers of soldiers and sisters
and sweethearts of soldiers and wives of soldiers bound for the
front or coming home. And there we were, the only Americans in the
house, with just enough French to order "des oeufs" and coffee "au
lait" and "ros bif and jambon and pain" and to ask how much and then
make them say it slowly and stick the sum up on their fingers. We
were having engine trouble. And our car was groaning and coughing
and muttering in the gloomy little court of the inn. Around the
court ran the sleeping rooms, and under one end, forty feet from