We learnt later that Boche spies disguised in our uniform had been seen in the vicinity of the trenches.  That the Boche took an interest in our Corps we knew, for, in pre-war days, we had continually received applications from German girls who wished to become members.  Needless to say they were never accepted.

The first English troops began to filter into the town about this time, and important “red hats” with brassards bearing the device “L. of C.” walked about the place as if indeed they had bought every stone.

Great were our surmises as to what “L. of C.” actually stood for, one suggestion being “Lords of Creation,” and another, “Lords of Calais”!  It was comparatively disappointing to find out it only stood for “Lines of Communication.”

English people have a strange manner of treating their compatriots when they meet in a foreign country.  You would imagine that under the circumstances they would waive ceremony and greet one another in passing, but no, such is not the case.  If they happen to pass in the same street they either look haughtily at each other, with apparently the utmost dislike, or else they gaze ahead with unseeing eyes.

We rather resented this “invasion,” as we called it, and felt we could no longer flit freely across the Place d’Armes in caps and aprons as heretofore.

In June of 1915, my first leave, after six months’ work, was due.  Instead of going to England I went to friends in Paris.  The journey was an adventure in itself and took fourteen hours, a distance that in peace time takes four or five.  We stopped at every station and very often in between.  When this occurred, heads appeared at every window to find out the reason. "Qu’ est ce qu’il y’a?" everyone cried at once.  It was invariably either that a troop train was passing up the line and we must wait for it to go by, or else part of the engine had fallen off.  In the case of the former, the train was looked for with breathless interest and handkerchiefs waved frantically, to be used later to wipe away a furtive tear for those brave poilus or “Tommees” who were going to fight for la belle France and might never return.

If it was the engine that collapsed, the passengers, with a resigned expression, returned to their seats, saying placidly:  “C’est la guerre, que voulez-vous,” and no one grumbled or made any other comment.  With a grunt and a snort we moved on again, only to stop a little further up the line.  I came to the conclusion that that rotten engine must be tied together with string.  No one seemed to mind or worry.  “He will arrive” they said optimistically, and talked of other things.  At every station fascinating-looking infirmieres from the French Red Cross, clad in white from top to toe, stepped into the carriage jingling little white tin boxes. “Messieurs, Mesdames, pour les blesses, s’il vous plait,"[8] they begged, and everyone fumbled without a murmur in their pockets.  I began with 5 francs, but by the time I’d reached Paris I was giving ha’ pennies.