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WHEN the last preceding chapter of mine ended I had reached a point in the narrative where our little party of four, travelling in our own little tin flivverette, were just leaving Blerincourt, being bound still farther west and aiming, if our abiding luck held out, to reach the front of the Front -- which, I may add, we did.
To be exact we were leaving not one Blerincourt but three. First, Blerincourt, the town, with its huddle of villagers' homes, housing at this moment only French troopers and exhausted refugees; second, Blerincourt, the castle, a mouldering relic of a great house, testifying by its massive empty walls and its tottering ruin of a gateway to the fury which laid hold on the peasants of these parts in the days of the Terror; and, third, Blerincourt, the model colony of model cottages, which for us held the most personal interest, since it was here the American women of the American Fund for French Wounded had during the previous nine months centred their activities relating to the repopulating of districts in the Aisne country, now for the second time evacuated and given over again to the savage malice of the boche.