"The haze and mist will hinder submarines anyway, so the weather is in our favor," was the word passed around.
Save for the guard, and those on other active duty, the passengers on the troopship slept soundly. They might be sunk in the night, but American fighting men do not always dwell on danger.
When first call sounded in the morning the men rubbed their eyes, then realized that the ship was proceeding at very slow speed.
"Get up, you lubbers!" called a man going down to one of the berth decks. "Do you realize that the ship is at the entrance of a French harbor?"
France?
Then a cheer went up that no officer could have stopped until it had spent its first force.
At last! France! "Over there!"
Never had men dressed faster. How the soldiers piled up the companionways! Yet a few bethought themselves to kick their now discarded life belts with a show of resentment and contempt.
However, the first glimpses had from the decks were bound to be disappointing. It was just after daylight. The mist of the night had thickened instead of vanishing. Here and there patchy bits of land could be seen through the haze, but for the most part France was invisible behind a curtain of early winter fog.
One at a time, under the guidance of local pilots, transports moved slowly into the harbor, moved slowly some more, then docked.