It was still raining and we didn’t get a ride. We walked and walked and no sign of camp. My coat was soaked through, my rubber boots were raising the devil with my feet, and my labors had given me a turkish bath. We pulled into Flize, with nothing like a camp in sight. While we were deciding whether to wait around for a ride to Sedan, where the Mission was, or to look for quarters, one of our trucks came panting along. The camp was at Boulzicourt. They had come over near Flize, had stayed two hours, and had gone to Boulzicourt. A staff car came flying along, we got a ride and here we are.
This town is quite large. Our quarters are very comfortable. We are billeted in a French house. Four of us have a front room, and if the sun ever comes out, we should get our share of it. Our fireplace is working all the time and we are kept busy getting wood to keep the home fire burning.
Madame had us in for coffee the other afternoon. She was here while the Huns held the town. Naturally she has no love for them. What they couldn’t steal they took, and she’s just about left high and dry. Her son was captured at Verdun, but is now home.
The town hasn’t come back to life yet. When it does there are enough cafés to feed and drink us all. Two dance halls with these player pianos are open. Ten centimes sets the music going. They have a total of nine tunes among which is the Merry Widow—you can see how up to date the music is. At nights these places are crowded with the French troops and Italian road workers. All told I’ve seen three girls, all at once, in these places.
Yesterday my Christmas box showed up. The cigarettes came at the right moment, as for three days I’d been using a corn cob. The “Y” had run out of smokes, and they hardly ever visit us nowadays. The knife was a wonder—too good to use.
The other day some of our trucks hauled champagne. They came through here and stopped for supper, and then went on. They left a few cases behind, so water isn’t very popular just now.
There is a chance of our getting back inside of a year—just a chance. Hate to think of another winter over here. Guess by the time I get back there won’t be anything going on in the states, the war will be a dead issue then.
