WE started next morning de bonne heure, the C. O. assigning me the wheel. Transport had so kneaded the melting snow and mud that the way was little better than a bog. Frequently, indeed constantly after reaching the foothills, it was necessary for all hands save the helmsman, to go overside in order that the machine might be lightened. All day we stuck to it and the mud stuck to us and night found us still in the lower hills with several streams yet to cross. Once, in the darkness, we lost our way and had to cast about in the gloom for tracks. At last, long after dark, we glimpsed the flicker of camp fires and shortly hove to at the lonesome little mountain village of Zelovia.

Though it was sometime after evening mess, a friendly cook mended his fire and got us some food. Then we were glad to spread our blankets on the straw within one of the stone huts and drift off to sleep.

At daylight we roused out and commenced the ascent of the pass. With a heavy ambulance the way would have been impossible and even with the voiture légère it was the next thing to it. The others walked ---or rather plodded---and, at times, when the going was particularly bad, put their shoulders to the car and heaved. At the wheel, I struggled and threw gas into her until it seemed the engine must fly to pieces. But we kept at it without pause, save now and then to allow the radiator to cool, and at mid-day topped the divide. The descent, narrow and clogged as it was with packtrains and other transport, was a particularly nasty piece of navigation, but by mid-afternoon we were winding through the streets of Florina.

Fifteen kilometers south of Monastir, just where the Serbian-Macedonian line crosses, lie the war-festered remains of the village of Negocani. Here we found the Squad. By early January the cars had suffered so severely from shell fire in Monastir that the division commander had ordered the retirement of Section headquarters to this village beyond mid-calibre range.

It is not a cheerful place, Negocani. Situated in the center of a barren valley the snows and winds of winter and the suns and rains of summer sweep its dreary ruins. On either side, across the plain, the frowning, treeless Macedonian mountains look down upon it. Through its one crooked street five armies have fought and the toll of that fighting is everywhere. By the roadside, in the adjacent fields, in the very courtyards are the little wooden crosses, the aftermath of war's sowing. A third of the mud houses have been levelled and those remaining are pocked with rifle fire or are gaping from shells. Trenches parallel the road and zig-zag across the fields. The débris of war litters the place, the very odor of war hangs ambient over it.

On the edge of the village stands a two-storied 'dobe building, its windows without glass, its walls marked with machine-gun fire. This, with its scattering of out buildings, was our billet, our maison de campagne, and the gods of war never frowned upon one more forlorn. The upper floor of the principal building was divided into two rooms by a hall. Ten men, packed like cartridges in a clip, were quartered in each of these rooms and four of us, "the hall-room boys," shared the space between. That hall, I am convinced---and so are the others who therein shivered---was the draughtiest place known to man. Over the glassless windows we hung blessé blankets, which were about as effective in shutting out the wind as the putting up of a "no admission" sign would have been. It was a great place for a fresh air crank, that hall, though he could never have held to his theories; they would have been blown out of his system. The snow sifted in and swirled about; overhead the roof leaked and from the open companionway, whence led the ladder to the ground below, rushed up the winds of the world. Giles, George, Tom will you ever forget the "hall-room," that bone-searching cold, those shivery nights, the rousings out before the dawn, the homecoming at night to wet blankets? Not while memory lasts, not "if the court knows itself!"

Below, the two rooms were used, one by the French attachés of the Section, the other for the sick---for there was always someone "down." Across a sort of courtyard, formed by flanking sheds, was a low mud cowhouse. In this we messed. To obtain sufficient light we were obliged to knock holes in the walls on all four sides and when it came to draughts this salle à manger was a close second to the hall-room. At the rear our field kitchen or "goulash battery," was drawn up and here the cook concocted his vicious parodies on food. There may have been worse cooks---there are some strange horrors in interior Thibet but I have never been there---but in the course of a somewhat diverse career I have never met the equal of our cook as a despoiler of food and meal after meal, day after day, week after week he served us macaroni boiled to the hue of a dead fish's belly, till we fairly gagged when it was set before us. Sometimes, by way of change, we had half-raw "dum-dums"---beans---but macaroni was never long "reported missing" and the Squad mathematician calculated that during the winter we consumed sufficient to thrice encircle the globe, with enough left over to hang the cook. We had "dog biscuits"---hardtack---too. There were two kinds---with and without worms. By toasting the former the latter was produced. Our greatest craving was for sweets, the French army ration substituting vin ordinaire. We were seldom ever "filled" and hence was forced upon us the strictly acquired taste for yogart, or kuss, as the Albanians call it.

At first, as I have said elsewhere, the Squad scorned this dish but one by one we grew first to tolerate, then to accept and, finally to enjoy yogart. To see us humped up around our plank table eating the stuff and solemnly discussing the particular "brew," would have gladdened the heart of Metchnikoff. Daily we discovered new properties in yogart. It possesses the quality, found but rarely, of mixing well, and being improved by the introduction of other substances. Thus it is delicious with sugar, delectable with chocolate and ambrosial with jam, and we even discovered "Buster" adding macaroni to his portion, in explanation of which inexcusable faux pas he stated that "it made the dish go farther."

Food, or the lack of it, was not the only element which contributed to our discomfort; there was the cold. It was not merely the lowness of the temperature, though the thermometer frequently lingered around ten degrees below zero, Fahrenheit; it was the dampness which accompanied it, the snow and the never-ceasing, penetrating wind. Fuel was very scarce. Since history's dawn armies have marched and bivouacked in this land and its trees have gone to feed their camp-fires. So that now wood, save in the hills remote from the trails, does not exist. What little we did get was furnished indirectly by the enemy himself for when one of his shells demolished a house we salvaged the timbers thereof. As an aid to the cooking we had a little gasoline stove which, when it got under way, made a noise like a high-powered tractor. It possessed the pleasing habit of exploding from causes unknown and altogether was about as safe as a primed hand grenade. Indeed we had a theory that it was originally designed as some deadly engine of war, found too dangerous and relegated to its present use.

Though headquarters had been moved from Monastir, we continued to serve the same sector of line. Two cars remained constantly in the City on twenty-four hour service, subject to special call, and from four to eight, according to need, left one hour before daylight each morning to evacuate the Mosque dressing-station. Our loads were taken to the new field hospital, established at Negocani or, as before, to the evacuation hospital at Florina.

Our billet, as I have said, was on the edge of the village and so stood some two hundred yards from the main road, to reach which we wound in and out among some half destroyed houses. The constant passing and repassing of our cars so churned this piste that by the end of January it became impassable and we were forced to park our cars on a windswept flat by the roadside. This meant additional vexation, since we were obliged to transport by hand our gasoline from quarters, where it was stored, to the cars. As the days wore on, our courtyard and the way to the cars became one great bog, a foot deep in mud, through which we sloshed about, breaking through the ice when it thawed and slipping about when it froze. Only in Manchuria have I seen such mud.

The dismal cold of these days, their grayness, the forlorn feeling that to the end of time we were doomed to slog our weary way down 'valleys dreadly desolate" I cannot hope to convey. Perhaps the entries in my journal may reflect "the atmosphere."

Thus: January 21st. "Snow fell during the night and continued throughout the day. Four of us put in the morning wrecking some half-demolished buildings, getting out the beams for fire wood and then spent the afternoon crouched around the blaze. I have never experienced such penetrating cold. In this windowless, doorless house with an icy wind searching one's very bones but one thought is possible, the cold, cold, cold. The mountains, seen through the swirling snow have taken on an added beauty, but this village, if anything, seems more desolate. At dusk, set out for Monastir where "Beebs" and I are now on twenty-four hour service, quartered at the old cantonment. As we entered the city, the road being clogged with transport, the enemy shelled. I thought they had "Beebs," but his luck held. Another salvo has just gone over, evidently for the crossroads."

And on the 23rd: "A piercing cold day. Tried to write a letter this afternoon but gave it up as my fingers were too numb to hold the pen. Worked on my car this morning. Meals unusually awful---that horrible wine-meat stew, of course macaroni. Have blanketed the windows. Possibly we can now sleep without holding on to the covers. The roof still leaks, but of course one can't expect all the luxuries."

The following day was "Cold and overcast with a biting wind. Up and in Monastir before daylight, evacuating three bad cases to Florina. Made a find in a newly shelled house in Monastir, a window with three unbroken panes. Have installed it at the head of my bed. It ought to help. For the last three nights, in spite of all my blankets I have been unable to sleep for the cold. Today we saw the sun for the first time in two weeks. The impossible has been attained; our courtyard is even deeper in mud. Service never wrote truer words than:

Our costumes these days were more practical than pretty. Beneath our tunics we wore woolen underwear and sweaters, and over them sheepskin coats. On our feet, felt lumberman's boots over which were drawn rubber half-boots. Our heads and faces were covered with woven helmets on top of which we wore fatigue caps, or, when under fire, steel helmets. Our hands were encased in wool gloves with driving gauntlets pulled over. Altogether we were about as bulky as a Russian isvozatik.

Towards the end of January we took over another segment of the line, a section southeast of Monastir, collecting our blessés from a village called Scleveka, situated on the banks of the Tcherna, some twenty-five kilometers from Negocani. Scleveka was the highest point reached by wheeled transport, though some fifteen kilometers back from the line. From here munitions and ravitaillement were carried into the mountains on mule back, the wounded coming out by the same torturing transport. A few kilometers before reaching Scleveka we passed through the town of Brode, the first Serbian town re-taken by the Allies after the great retreat of 1915, the point at which the Serbs first re-entered their country. Here the Tcherna was crossed by two bridges. Through the pass beyond poured French, Serbs and Italians to reach their allotted segment of line. The congestion and babble at this point was terrific.

We saw much of the Italians. Long lines of their troops were constantly marching forward, little men with ill-formed packs. As soldiers they did not impress us, but they had a splendid motor transport, big, powerful cars well adapted to the Balkan mud and handled by the most reckless and skilful drivers in the Allied armies. The men were a vivacious lot and often sang as they marched.

In marked contrast were the Serbs, "the poor relation of the Allies." For the most part they were middle-aged men, clad in non-descript uniforms and with varied equipment. They slogged by silently---almost mournfully. I never saw one laugh and they smiled but rarely. They were unobtrusive, almost unnoticed, yet when a car was mired, they were always the first to help and withal they were invested with a quiet dignity which seemed to set them apart. I never talked with a soldier of any army who had seen them in action, but who praised their prowess.

The going, or rather ploughing, beyond Brode was particularly atrocious and it frequently took from two and a half to three hours to cover the fifteen kilometers. At one point the way was divided by two lonely graves which lay squarely in the middle of the road, the traffic of war passing and repassing on either side. Brode service was particularly uninteresting as the point at which we collected our blessés was too far back of the line to offer the excitement afforded by being under fire, save when there was an air raid. Then too the roads were so congested and in such terrible condition that the driving was of the most trying sort and it frequently meant all day evacuation without one hot meal. Our work at this time was particularly heavy; we were serving three divisions, the one back of Monastir, the Brode division, and the division in Albania. In short we were covering the work of three motor Sections. My journal reflects our life:

February 6th: "Our hopes of spring and bright weather shattered. This has been one of those dismal, iron days which emphasize the grimness of war. Evacuated from Necogani to Florina. The rumor persists that America has declared war against Germany. If this be so we have a time of trial ahead. War as a theory is a magnificent, spectacular adventure---playing bands, dashing horses, flying colors; as a reality it is a gray, soul-wearying business, a business of killing and being killed, a business from which there can be no turning back and the learning of which will mean much agony for America.

February 7th: "A hard day. Up before four, slopping through the mire to the cars. Heavy rain, so I got quite well wet. In Monastir before daylight. An enormous shell hole---must be 210---near the bridge, made since I crossed last. Rain ceased by noon and I worked till night on my gear case.

February 8th: "Temperature fell during night. In snow, driven by biting northeast wind, I worked on my car throughout the morning and till two this afternoon. By this time I was numb with cold. Unable to use gloves in handling tools with the result have frozen two fingers of my left hand. Tonight the snow is coming down harder than ever though wind has abated somewhat. It promises to be our coldest night. The water bottle at the head of my flea-bag has frozen solid.

February 9th: "Up at four-thirty to greet the coldest day of the winter. Had great difficulty in breaking the ice in the creek to get water for my radiator. In the still, driving snow to Monastir. Evacuated to Scleveka. From there to Brode, evacuating again to Scleveka, then two more round trips, reaching quarters at four this afternoon, where I got my first hot food of the day.

February 12th: "It's a cold, snowy night with a wind whistling through every crack of this shelterless shelter. Occasionally a patch of snow flops down on the pup tent I have rigged over my bed, but I am fairly snug in my bag. Left Monastir this morning at 6:30, having been on service there all night and evacuated to S-----. On the return trip my engine refused duty. Finally diagnosed the trouble as a short circuit in the main contact. On removing the point, a matter of considerable difficulty, as I had only a large-sized screwdriver, found a small fragment of wire. I was unable to fish it out and it dropped back into the gear case. However, the short circuit was broken, for the moment---and I got the engine started. As I reached the triangle at the entrance to the City the wiring again short circuited and the engine died. It was now daylight and here I was, stuck in the most bombarded spot in all Monastir, in plain view of the enemy glasses. For an hour I worked---and such an hour. I could feel the eyes of every man in the enemy forces fastened upon me. At last I succeeded in removing the bit of wire and praise be to Allah---not a shell came in during this time.

February 13th: "I got in at the end of a perfect day at 1:30 A. M., having experienced the usual delay at the Greek hospital, then getting lost in the pitchy blackness of Monastir's streets, finally crawling for five kilometers at a snail's pace through an incoming division of troops to reach a point where it was safe to turn on the lights. The run to Florina was a torture as my load were all badly hit and the road is so terrible that it's almost impossible to prevent the wrenching of the blessés. Returning found Fico en panne with a loaded car, so we transferred the wounded and I again evacuated to Florina. Then the weary grind back to quarters."

During all these days the enemy continued to rain his fire upon Monastir. Gradually but none the less surely the city was withering away. Here a house, there a shop or bazaar became a mass of débris. Huge holes gaped in the streets; tangled wire swung mournfully in the wind; once I saw a minaret fairly struck, totter a second and then pitch into the street, transferred in a twinkling from a graceful spire into a heap of brick and mortar, overhung by a shroud of dust.

Though perhaps half of the city's forty thousand inhabitants had fled as best they might, as many more remained. Generally they stayed indoors, though the flimsy walls offered little protection and there were no cellars. When they emerged, it was to slink along in the shadows of the walls. Scuttling, rather than walking, they made their way, every sense tensed in anticipation of the coming of "the death that screams." If Verdun had seemed the City of the Dead, Monastir was the Place of Souls Condemned to Wander in the Twilight of Purgatory. The fate of the population civile was a pitiable one. In a world of war, they had no status. Food, save the farina issued by the military, was unobtainable and fuel equally wanting. Scores were killed. As for the wounded, their situation was terrible. Drugs were too precious, bandages too valuable and surgeons' time too well occupied for their treatment. Their case would have been without hope had it not been for a neutral non-military organization of the Dutch which maintained in Monastir a small hospital for the treatment of civilians. This hospital established in a school did splendid work and its staff are entitled to high praise and credit.

From this hospital, one morning, I got the strangest load my ambulance ever carried---four little girls. As I lifted their stretchers into the car, their weights seemed as nothing. Three were couchés, the fourth, a bright little thing, wounded in the head by H. E. éclat, sat by my side on the driving seat and chatted with me in quaint French all the way to the hospital.

This was the last load I was to carry for many a day. It was the 16th of February. Since the 13th I had been unable to keep any food down, but had managed to stay at the wheel. Now on reaching Quarters I found myself too weak and dizzy to stand. The weeks and days which followed were weary ones. "Enteric fever and jaundice" the doctor pronounced it, limiting me to a milk diet. As there was no milk, matters were further simplified. It was too cold to hold a book and read, even had I been able to do so thus day after day I lay on my back watching the snow sift through the cracks and listening to the rumble of the guns. February passed and March came in with terrible weather and still I was unable to struggle out of my bag. The doctor became keen on evacuating me to Florina and from there to Salonika, from whence I would be carried to France on a hospital ship. But I had seen enough of field hospitals to give me a horror of them, besides which I could not bear the thought of leaving the front in this ignominious fashion and before the end of my enlistment. So I begged for a respite. The Squad was very kind and gave me every care their limited time and our surroundings permitted.

Meanwhile the days grew perceptibly longer and the sun, when it appeared, had a feeble warmth. A new Section coming out from France relieved our cars in Albania and Giles and the others coming back from Coritza reported that the city was under frequent plane bombardment and the population demoralized.

For some time the talk of an attack on Hill 1248 and the line back of Monastir had been growing. There seemed little doubt now that such an attack would shortly be launched with the object of driving the enemy back and freeing the city from artillery fire. Daily our fire grew more intense and, at times, lying in my bag, I could hear it reach the density of drumfire. The fellows coming in reported the roads as congested with up-coming troops and new batteries going into position. Word came in that the Section was to hold itself in readiness to shift quarters to Monastir. Then, at last one night came the order that on the following day the Squad would report for action in the city.

FOR several days I had been up and I have seldom felt keener disappointment than when, at dusk, I watched the cars roll out at five minute intervals, headed for Monastir and action, and realized that I was not to be one of them. The doctor had absolutely forbidden my handling a wheel as yet, save for very short periods and I was to remain at Negocani with two of the mechanicians, Vincent, the second cook, and Le Beau, the chef de bureau. Lieutenant De Rode with that thoughtful tact which characterized him as a man and made him the most beloved of commanders, endeavored to console me by saying I would be of much use by remaining at Negocani, subject to call with the rescue car. But this did not prevent a realization that I was not sharing to the full the risk and work of the Squad. However, I had been in the army long enough to acquire its philosophy and to down my disappointment with "c'est la guerre."

And the days which ensued were not without their compensations. Vincent proved an excellent cook and a sympathetic nurse and all the Frenchmen bons camarades. The weather had grown markedly milder and I was able to walk about a bit. Not far from quarters the French had built a huge wire pen, capable of containing a thousand men and as the attack pressed forward, this began to fill with prisoners. I used to walk over to the corral and watch its bedraggled tenants come in. Mostly they were Bulgars but there were also some Germans, Austrians and Turks.

It was on the 16th of March---exactly one month since I had left the wheel---that I again climbed into the driving seat for a run up for ravitaillement some six kilometers from Monastir. From this point a splendid view could be had of our curtain fire as it burst on the slope of Hill 1248. Our own division, the Colonials, had not as yet I learned, attacked but were awaiting the consolidation of the newly won positions. The general opinion, I gleaned, was that the attack was not marching any too well.

On the following days I responded with the "rescue car" to several calls of distress and on the 19th, just a week after the Squad had gone up, I got permission to join them in Monastir.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when I left Negocani. Passing the corral, I noticed that since morning the number of prisoners had been augmented and that now there must be close to a thousand within the enclosure. About five kilometers outside the city, I began to encounter a stream of wounded---head and arm cases---plodding along the roads, the bloody backwash of the attack. Evidently the volume of wounded was so heavy that the ambulances were all needed to transport the more serious cases. The noise of the guns had now grown very loud. Back of the city Hill 1248 reared its barren slopes. All along its crest shells from our batteries were breaking. It seemed impossible that anything could endure in that zone and yet even then the enemy crouched there awaiting the onslaught of our division. Below, the spires of the minarets reared their graceful forms and caught the rose-hue of the setting sun, but no muezzin appeared on their escarpments to summon the faithful to prayer. The narrow, stone bridge a half mile from the city's entrance showed it had been the object of the renewed interest of the enemy. Scores of shell holes flanked it but as yet it remained intact. From here on, the way was scattered with the freshly-killed carcasses of horses. Newly posted batteries marked the entrance to the city and as I entered a salvo banged out like the slam of hell's door.

The Squad had been literally shelled out of the old cantonment and had moved to another, my directions for finding which were rather vague. I had simply been told to go up the main street to a point where a building had been blown into it and turn to the left. But as buildings had everywhere been blown into the street, this availed me little, save as indicating the general quarter. It was now dusk, I was anxious to locate the cantonment before darkness fell, as of course lights were strictly forbidden. Cruising about through the southwest portion of the town, I glimpsed one of our cars as it vanished around a corner. Proceeding in the direction from which it had come, I presently came on a large, windowless stone building in the doorway of which stood one of the fellows. The building proved to be the new cantonment, formerly some sort of a school. As billets go, it was very good, one of the few solidly constructed buildings in Monastir.

As soon as I entered the Chief handed me a gas mask and warned me to keep it slung. The night before the enemy had, for the first time, shelled with gas. As a result, 344 civils had been killed and some few soldiers' Dead horses, dogs and the few remaining fowls now lay about the streets, ---suffocated by the deadly chlorine. Those of the Squad who had been in quarters, had experienced a very close thing of it.

A number of shells had struck around the building---two actually hitting it. Several of the men had been nearly overcome before they were awakened and their masks fixed. As evidencing the luck with which the Squad was "shot," one shell---a H. E.---had entered the building and exploding inside, had wrecked things generally, tearing several beds to shreds. It so happened that the men quartered in this room were out on duty at the time.

The Chief informed me that, for the present, he would only call on me in case of a "general alarm," for which I was very glad, since I was still feeling a bit crumpled. So I sought out a corner where two walls intervened between me and the enemy's line of fire and spread my bag. The shells were crashing in rather steadily---from two to six thousand now fell in the city in each twenty-four hours---but, though our guns to the number of two or three hundred were adding their din, I slid off to sleep.

Our division had now "gone in"; there was no lack of work for the Section. Heretofore our orders had always been to move our cars only during the hours of darkness, lest they draw the enemy's fire. Now, on account of the volume of wounded, it was necessary to disregard this caution and we "rolled" continuously throughout the twenty-four hours.

It is not possible to convey an idea of the horror of Monastir during this period. The panic-stricken population fleeing the city, the burning houses---for the enemy had added incendiary shells to his répertoire of frightfulness---the rotting carcasses of the gassed animals, the field dressing-stations with their blackened, bloody occupants, the débris-littered streets and shattered houses, the air itself, bearing the breath of death, these gave to Monastir an awfulness that cannot be expressed in words. Another horror was added late in the afternoon of the 20th when the enemy's planes flew over the city dropping a salvo of bombs. The fire of our anti-aircraft guns did not seem to have the slightest effect and the flying crosses circled their leisurely way about before turning southward back of our lines.

This same afternoon we received word that our division was being withdrawn from the lines and that consequently Squad headquarters would be moved back to Negocani. Immediately after evening mess, I secured a load from the dressing-station and started back for Florina. As I left the town, the enemy planes were coming back and our guns were again opening on them. A little farther along I came upon their work. The road at this point---just out of range of the enemy artillery---was lined on either side with ravitaillement dépôts, large tents, where the stores were sheltered, and scores of smaller tents occupied by les tringlots. Here the aircraft, hovering low, had dropped some forty bombs but a few moments before I reached the scene. A dozen or more torn corpses were scattered about and surgeons were hard at work over the wounded, of which there were several score. Mangled horses were lying about and great pools of blood reflected the last light of the day. Fresh earth flared away from the bomb holes and the excited hum of men's voices rose in the evening air. My car was already full so there was little I could do, save carry a doctor a little way down the road from one group of wounded to another.

This air raid was the first of many with which the enemy harassed our lines of communication and dépôts. They penetrated as far as forty kilometers back of the line, driving our transport camps from the open plain to the shelter of the mountains. At this time our own air service seemed inferior to that of the enemy, both in personnel and in machines, and offered us little protection. The anti-aircraft guns, especially those mobile ones mounted on high-power motors served best for though they rarely made a hit, they did keep the crosses at a height of six or seven thousand feet and prevented their bombing with any great accuracy.

Normal fighting was now resumed; the attack had failed and a period of comparative quiet set in. While the enemy had at several points been forced back a kilometer or more, the chief object of the offensive---the freeing of Monastir from artillery fire---had not been achieved and the commanding mountains back of the city still remained in his hands. Hill 1248 had changed hands no less than seven times and the losses on both sides in prisoners and dead were heavy. So far as we were concerned, the net result was the taking of some two thousand prisoners, mostly Bulgars, though with a sprinkling of Austrians and Germans. Much of the artillery brought up for the attack was now withdrawn, preparatory to shifting to another front in support of the British, who were shortly to launch an attack.

As March waned the snow, leaving the plains, receded slowly up the mountain sides; the few shrubs put forth their leaves, doing their puny best to relieve the barren grayness of the landscape; millions of frogs tuned up their batrachian banjos; back of the line the peasants drove their caribaos, pulling the crude wooden-shafted ploughs; mosquitoes and flies began to appear; quinine and pith helmets were issued; at night we no longer drained our radiators to prevent freezing---in short, spring had come to the Balkans.

With the coming of spring and the drying of the mud, walking became popular with us. Scattered about the valley and nestled in the foothills were numerous villages which were made objectives. Perhaps the most interesting was Kenali, lying about four kilometers across the valley southeast of Negocani. Here it was that the Bulgars made their last stand before falling back on Monastir and where on November 14th the decisive battle of Kenali was fought. The story of that battle was seared into the earth, as plain to read as though written in print. The enemy had entrenched on a triangular salient which rose some eight or ten feet above the dead level of the valley floor. From this elevation he could rake the approaches with machine gun fire. But it was not rapid-firers that won the battle; it was the French artillery which, concentrating on that salient, had swept the ground with such deadly accuracy that the terrain before the elevation showed scarcely a mark of fire, while the trenches had been wiped out of existence and the earth for scores of yards rearward had been tossed about as though by subterranean ebullition. Half buried in the harried soil lay the rotting bodies of men. Here a leg, there an arm protruded. On some the flesh was intact; others had been picked clean by the carrion birds and where a head appeared the eyes had been plucked out. Not a green thing, not a leaf or blade of grass grew within the cursed area. It was as though some blight had descended and, wiping out all life, had poisoned the earth itself.

On the opposite side of the valley, crowning the lower hills, were a number of quaint old monasteries. There also we made pilgrimage. They, too, had suffered from the scourge of war. Half-wrecked, despoiled of their hangings, deserted by the monks, they stood desolate, looking out over the valley and the distant passing of war's panorama. Sometimes we trudged over to Florina, hopping a camion en route. The town had taken on added activity. The refugees, who daily poured out of stricken Monastir in a pitiful stream, flowed into Florina and filled its queer streets. Business took on unwonted activity and the coffeehouses and yogart shops were crowded, so that frequently when we went into "John's" place he informed us, "Yogart, no got."

With the coming of spring, the location of the Squad in the low-lying ground of Negocani became unhealthful. Fever, the bone-shaking Balkan type, was prevalent and the need became imperative to seek the hills. Such a move was made the more desirable because of the increasing activity of the enemy planes.

Brode service had now been abandoned and there was no longer need of remaining at a mid-way point; we could move nearer to Monastir. The C. O., ever careful of the health of his command, began to cast about for a spot which would combine a high altitude with accessibility. On the 11th of April it was announced that on the following day we would leave Negocani.

JUST where the long, barren valley at the head of which stands Monastir narrows down, where the jutting foot-hills encroaching on the plain form a series of ravines, we pitched our camp. A single spur intervened between us and the city, which, as the plane flies, was three kilometers away. To reach the camp, we left the main road by an ascent at first gradual but becoming rapidly steeper, and wound up from the plain into the hills a distance of two kilometers or more. At a height of, perhaps, five hundred feet, the ravine through which the way led flattened out into a small park-like pocket, along one side of which roared a mountain torrent Here our cars were parked. Here, too, was established the mess tent, the stores tent and the atelier. On both sides the hills rose sharply and beyond, the mountains. On the crest of the hills, a hundred feet above the cars and mess tent, we pitched several large "snoring-tents."

The sides of this hill were scarred with earth platforms, formed by digging into the sides of the hill. These had originally been constructed and used by Bulgar and German soldiers, who had been forced to abandon them when the French advanced on Monastir By erecting a ridge pole on two supporting poles, covering this frame with two pup tents and stretching the whole over one of these excavations, a very snug "wickyup" was formed. A number of us preferred this style of residence to a tent and the "Aztec Colony" formed no mean proportion of the Squad roster.

Giles and I were the joint proprietors of one of these cliff dwellings. Its inner and end walls were formed by the hillside, its other two walls by earth and stone removed in excavating. When the wind blew, the canvas roof had a disconcerting way of billowing out like a captive Zeppelin. When it rained, sociable little streams of water strolled unobtrusively in and spread themselves over the mud floor. Between times the walls fell in on us. Altogether that "wickyup" required about as much attention as a colicky baby and nearly wore us out with its demands. But the view offered from its V-like door compensated for much. Lying stretched out on our blankets, we could look out on a scene than which I have seldom seen one more beautiful. Below, the valley floor spread out to the mountains on the farther side. The play of light and shade over its surface gave a constant change of aspect. There were many strata of colors, blue, brown, pink, green, gray and then the crowning white of the mountains. Now and then a haze would settle down and fill the valley, so that we seemed to be gazing out on some great lake. Then the mist would rise and again we could discern the toy villages scattered about or perhaps make out some puny, crawling transport, overhung with a yellow dust-cloud, wending its laborious way. Again a storm would sweep along, away down there below us, blotting out the sunshine in its progress and leaving a glistening trail. Off in the distance, it all seemed very peaceful and war very far away, save for the muttering of the guns, which, indeed, might have been thunder. But then suddenly nearby guns, the anti-aircraft batteries might go into action. In the sky planes haloed with bursting shrapnel puffs, darted and dodged while, beneath, scurrying mites of men ran crazily about and clouds of smoke and dust showed where bombs were bursting. At night the picture changed. It took on the added mystery of obscurity. The stars sent down a silvery glow. Sometimes a light flashed weirdly in the immense gloom and now and then the darkness was ripped apart by the searing flare of a rocket and the quiet, which had descended with the going down of the sun, would be pierced with the crackle of machine gun fire or shattered, perhaps, with artillery.

From the next ridge beyond ours, we could look down upon Monastir and the enemy. In turn we were in his view and range. Beyond we could see plainly the road to Prelip, down which came his transport, commanded by our fire.

We had moved into the hills to escape the heat of the plains, believing winter to be over. We had barely become established before an unceasing, freezing wind set in from the mountains. A vardar, it is called. It carried with it small particles of sand and grit which penetrated every crack and crevice, filled our eyes, impregnated the food and generally made life miserable. Our "wickyup" suffered severely and many times, day and night, we were forced to go aloft and mend sail as the roof threatened to fetch loose and leave for parts unknown. The vardar blew itself out in three days and we had just begun to believe that perhaps, after all, life was worth living, when the glass fell and a wet, clinging snow set in. It was hard to determine just what season was being observed. At no time in the winter had we suffered more than we did in the next few days. On leaving Negocani, with gypsy-like improvidence, we had abandoned our sheep-skins and woolens, so the cold caught us entirely unprepared. The snow continued intermittently for three days. When not on duty, we lay in our bags, as the only method of keeping reasonably warm. We spent the time in sleeping and in talking of les meilleurs fois, of wonderful meals we had eaten and of still more wonderful ones we should have if we ever saw Paris again.

I had seen considerable of Monastir service during April and on the night of the 29th it again fell to my lot to go on duty there. With Giles I left camp at eight o'clock. The snow, at the time, was beating down in such masses that all objects were obscured and we drove simply by "feel." Only our perfect familiarity with Monastir's streets enabled us to make our way through the city.

For some time, since the attack, in fact, we had been securing our blessés from beyond the city, from the line itself. The place was known as La Grande Roche, from a huge boulder which rose beside a ravine at this point. This poste could only be approached at night, as the enemy was very near and half encircled it, his line bending back on either flank. To reach La Grande Roche it was necessary to traverse the city, ascend a slight hill, along which batteries were posted, cross a small stream by a bridge which we ourselves constructed, then proceed across a wide open space to a point from whence led a mule road. From here the way wound through a fringe of woods, finally crossing a narrow, shell-damaged viaduct down to the Rock.

No man of the Squad ever saw this route, save by, the light of the moon or the stars, for it was swept by the enemy's machine guns and to attempt a passage in daylight would have meant certain death. On this night---the darkest, I think I ever drove---it was impossible to see the hood of the car before one. The streets were so mapped on our minds that we did not need to see to make our way through them, but on this route it was impossible to cross the wide open space and find the exit road on the other side. In order, therefore, to proceed, we found it necessary for one man to walk immediately in front of the car, his back against the radiator, calling directions to the man at the wheel. As Giles' car was not behaving well, I drove mine while he acted as my eyes. Even with this arrangement, it was often necessary for us to halt, while we both cast about in the intense darkness for the way. It was desperate, tense work for occasionally a flare-bomb would go up and leave us in a sphere of light feeling as conspicuous as an actor who has forgotten his lines. Three torturing trips we made that night. Twice when we were near the "Great Rock," shrapnel screamed overhead and burst a little beyond us in the ravine. Once we lurched fairly into a shell hole. Fortunately it was on our outward trip and we had no wounded on board, so we were able to get the car out.

Somehow the night passed---one of the longest I ever experienced---and the gray, snowy dawn appeared. With our loads we drew out of the ambulance yard, passed down the Street of the River, crossed the dilapidated wooden bridge and wound through the shattered, deserted bazaars out upon the main street and then---though I did not know it---I passed out of Monastir for the last time.

The period of our enlistment with the Army of the Orient was nearing its end. The news that America had entered the war had now been definitely confirmed. Some of the Squad---about half believing that they could do greater service to the cause by continuing with the French, were re-enlisting. Others of us were anxious to get to France or the States at the earliest moment, some to enter French aviation, others to join our own army. Finally the 23rd of April, the last day of enlistment arrived. Yet no men had reached us to take our places so we continued to serve as before. The date was notable only that it brought us our last snow.

Since leaving the valley, we had experienced a sense of security which our position there, exposed to the fire from hostile planes, had not permitted. But this feeling was rudely shattered on the morning of the 24th. It was a fine, clear morning, the first for many days. The men were scattered about the camp, working on their cars, in the sleeping tents or the "wickyup." Over by Monastir the anti-aircraft guns were banging away at some planes, a procedure which had long ceased to hold any interest. As the "crosses" passed but of range, quiet settled down. Then we became aware of the hum of propellers overhead. Scarcely a man looked up---taking for granted that the noise was of our own planes. Suddenly without warning there was a sickening swish terminating in an explosion and the camp stampeded into action. Before a man could reach the cover of the overhanging rocks two more bombs swished down. The éclat spun spitefully through the air and whanged into the hillside. The planes passed on, followed by the fire of our guns. For a while we lay flat against the rocks and then cautiously issued from our holes. One of the bombs had struck near the cars, the others just across the ravine.. A Frenchman had been hit by glancing éclat: that was all. The Squad's luck had held. A fraction of a second's difference in the release of the bombs and---but why speculate?

Three days later a courier coming into camp brought the word that six men of the relieving Squad were in Salonika. This meant that six of us could leave that very night. So we drew lots to determine the six. My slip bore a cross. I was to leave.

For the last time the Squad sat down to mess. We knew that in all probability we should never all mess together again---as I write these lines, already two of the Squad have paid their highest toll---but sentiment or heroics are the last emotions that could find place in the Squad, so the last mess was much like many others. Six times "For he's a jolly good fellow" rose; there were six rounds of cheers---and the last mess was over.

There was a deal of hand shaking and back-pounding, more cheering and we rolled out, the six of us, in two of the ambulances. Just beyond where the camp road joined the main road we passed out of range of the enemy's guns.

Darkness had fallen when we reached Florina Station. A dumpy little engine, to which was attached a long line of freight cars, wheezed impatiently at the platform. There was but time to heave our dunnage into an empty box car and swing on ourselves, and the train bumped out. Throughout the night we lurched and rattled about, getting but fitful naps in our bags.

At noon the next day we reached Salonika. It was a case of rus in urbe. To us after months of grime and grind at the front, the city seemed magnificent. It was Saturday and that afternoon the band played, in the place. None of us, I fancy, will ever forget the thrill of pride which ran through us as we stood at salute that afternoon and heard there in that exotic setting for the first time during the war, the wonderful strains of the Star Spangled Banner.

For three days we remained in Salonika, dividing the time between taking hot baths and eating sticky Turkish pastry. The morning of the fourth saw us on the quay, preparatory to going aboard the transport.

It was on the quay we encountered the Commandant. Someone of the Squad in Albania had done him a favor and he was not the man to forget it. It was his kindness and consideration that was to make our voyage on the transport not only endurable but enjoyable. He was a Chasseur d'Afrique, a splendid type of the French professional soldier. His face was keen and aggressive, with an eye which glinted like a bayonet and a mouth that in anger could thin to a sword edge, yet I have never seen a man of greater courtesy. Across his breast stretched the ribbons of seven decorations. His favorite gesture was a sudden advancing of his clenched right hand as though raising a sword in charge, and when he assured us that if there was anything we wanted, we were to tell him, and he would see that it was done "avec impressement," we felt that indeed that thing would be done "avec impressment." We shall long remember the Commandant.

Our transport, Le Duc d'Aumale, steamed out of the harbor with two others, convoyed by three destroyers, a cruiser and a dirigible. During the night we were wirelessed the approach of two enemy submersibles. Under forced draught, we made for the emergency harbor of -----, where we glided safely in behind the torpedo net. Here we found a score of ships, transports, freighters and their fighting convoys. We lay in this little harbor for three days, putting in the time pleasantly enough, sailing, swimming and burro-riding ashore. Late in the afternoon of the third day, with our convoy in line of battle, we steamed forth.

Two days later we entered the harbor of ------, in Italy. That same night we entrained and the following day reached Rome, where we broke our journey for forty-eight hours. At Turin we again stopped over and finally, just a fortnight after leaving camp in Serbia, we reached Paris and reported to Army Headquarters for discharge.

The captain looked up from the papers. "So, monsieur, you have served as a volunteer for eighteen months. It is long; two service stripes mean more than days---they mean a lifetime. I congratulate you, and for France, I thank you." My hand snaps up in salute---my last salute, for the clutch is thrown out.

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