“Just my luck!  I say”—­(and this addressed to our group with a sort of blank, hopeless expression) “I don’t suppose any of you Frenchies know where I could get a cup of tea!”

I laughed outright, much to his astonishment.

“Not anywhere around here, unless you’re willing to wait until I can build fire enough to make you one!”

The man blushed crimson.

“Ah—­I couldn’t think—­”

“No trouble.  Get one of your men to make a blaze, and, boasting aside, I’ll brew you a cup such as you haven’t had since you left England.”

No sooner said than done, and quarter of an hour later, a half-dozen Tommy Atkins were sipping hot Kardomah with sugar and condensed milk from tin mugs.

“You’re certainly right—­the French don’t know how to do it, at least in these parts.  I had a teapotful yesterday morning that was as near a mixture of stewed herbs and Hunyadi water I ever hope to taste.  And now, isn’t there something we can do for you?”

“Tell me where you’re bound for?”

The man brought out a note-book and pointed to a name.

“La Ferte-sous-Jouarre?”

“Yes, that’s it.  I wouldn’t dare tackle it.”

“Is the road clear?  Can we go there?  It’s only fifteen kilometers from my home.”

“I don’t know if they’ll let you by—­but if you’re clever and follow on close behind us with your Red Cross armlet, there’s just a chance—­that’s all.”

I didn’t need a second bidding and after warning my people not to talk if we met sentries but to have faith in me, we pushed ahead.  Our army friends with better horses soon left us in the rear, but undaunted we proceeded, finally reaching the heights that overlooked La Ferte—­and led into the village, Jouarre, perched on the side of the hill running towards the Marne.

Oh, the pitiful sights that met our gaze as we wended our way along those glorious roads, now full of ruts and knee-deep in mud!  As far as eye could see the entire country had served as a huge camp for the invader, and when forced to flee he had sacked and destroyed everything within his reach.  The wonderful fertile fields had been soiled, polluted, and among other damning evidences of their fury, the smoking ruins of every farm house stood like specters in the brilliant sunshine.

At the entrance to La Ferte our road was barred by two sentinels, elderly peasants, by their looks.  I played mum and tapped my Red Cross armlet.

“Non, on ne passe pas!”

I beckoned them and fumbled among my papers for my carte d’identite.  They approached the cart, but as they did so, my faithful Betsy let forth an angry growl.

“Down!” I commanded in English.  “Down!  I say!  They’re not going to hurt me!”

Those phrases were my undoing!

“Oh, ho!” said my interlocutors.  “And after that you think you’re going to get past us?  We’ve had enough Boches in this place.  You can come in—­but between us!”