frosty nights and sunny days and beautiful coloring on the sparse foliage
that breaks here and there the wide rolling expanses of open country.

Every day, from the distance to the north, has come the booming of the cannon
around Reims and the lines along the Meuse. . . . But imagine how thrilling

it will be tomorrow and the following days, marching toward the front
with the noise of battle growing continually" target="_blank" title="ad.不断地，频繁地">continually louder before us.

I could tell you where we are going, but I do not want to run any risk
of having this letter stopped by the censor. The whole regiment is going,

four battalions, about 4000 men. You have no idea how beautiful it is to see
the troops undulating along the road in front of one, in `colonnes par quatre'

as far as the eye can see, with the captains and lieutenants on horseback
at the head of their companies. . . . Tomorrow the real hardship

and privations begin. But I go into action with the lightest of light hearts.
The hard work and moments of frightfulfatigue have not broken

but hardened me, and I am in excellent health and spirits. . . .
I am happy and full of excitement over the wonderful days that are ahead.

It was such a comfort to receive your letter, and know that you approved
of my action.

==
In a post-card of October 20, postmarked "Vertus", he says:

==
This is the second night's halt of our march to the front. All our way

has been one immensebattlefield. It was a magnificentvictory for the French
that the world does not fully realize. I think we are marching

to victory too, but whatever we are going to we are going triumphantly.
==

On October 23, he writes from "17 kil. south-east of Reims".
==

Dear Mother. . . . I am sitting on the curbstone of a street
at the edge of the town. The houses end abruptly and the yellow vineyards

begin here. The view is broad and uninterrupted to the crest
ten kilometers or so across the valley. Between this and ourselves are

the lines of the two armies. A fierce cannonading is going on continually" target="_blank" title="ad.不断地，频繁地">continually,
and I lift my eyes from the sheet at each report, to see the puffs of smoke

two or three miles off. The Germans have been firing salvoes of four shots
over a little village where the French batteries are stationed,

shrapnel that burst in little puffs of white smoke; the French reply
with explosive shells that raise columns of dust over the German lines.

Half of our regiment have left already for the trenches. We may go tonight.
We have made a march of about 75 kilometers in four days, and are now

on the front, ready to be called on at any moment. I am feeling fine,
in my element, for I have always thirsted for this kind of thing,

to be present always where the pulsations are liveliest. Every minute here
is worth weeks of ordinary experience. How beautiful the view is here,

over the sunny vineyards! And what a curious anomaly.
On this slope the grape pickers are singing merrily at their work,

on the other the batteries are roaring. Boom! Boom!
This will spoil one for any other kind of life. The yellow afternoon sunlight

is sloping gloriously across this beautiful valley of Champagne.
Aeroplanes pass continually" target="_blank" title="ad.不断地，频繁地">continuallyoverhead on reconnaissance. I must mail this now.

There is too much to be said and too little time to say it.
So glad to get your letter. Love and lots of it to all.

Alan.
==

Alas! the hopes of swift, decisive action with which the Legion advanced
were destined to disappointment. They soon settled down for the winter into

the monotonous hardships of trenchwarfare. Alan described this experience
in admirably vivid letters published in the New York `Sun',

from which a few extracts must suffice. He writes on December 8,
during his fourth period of service in the trenches:

==
We left our camp in the woods before daybreak this morning,

and marched up the hill in single file, under the winter stars. . . .
Through openings in the woods we could see that we were marching

along a high ridge, and on either hand vaporous depths and distances expanded,
the darkness broken sometimes by a far light or the momentary glow

of a magnesiumrocket sent up from the German lines.
There is something fascinating if one is stationed on sentry-duty

immediately after arrival, in watching the dawn slowly illumine
one of these new landscapes, from a position taken up under cover of darkness.

The other section has been relieved and departs. We are given the `consigne',
by the precedingsentinel, and are left alone behind a mound of dirt,

facing the north and the blank, perilous night. Slowly the mystery
that it shrouds resolves as the grey light steals over the eastern hills.

Like a photograph in the washing, its high lights and shadows
come gradually forth. The light splash in the foreground

becomes a ruined chateau, the grey street a demolished village.
The details come out on the hillside opposite, where the silent trenches

of the enemy are hidden a few hundred metres away. We find ourselves
in a woody, mountainous country, with broad horizons and streaks of mist

in the valleys. Our position is excellent this time, a high crest,
with open land sloping down from the trenches and plenty of barbed wire

strung along immediately in front. It would be a hard task
to carry such a line, and there is not much danger that the enemy will try.

With increasing daylight the sentinel takes a sheltered position,
and surveys his new environment through little gaps where the mounds

have been crenellated and covered with branches. Suddenly he starts
as a metallic bang rings out from the woods immediately behind him.

It is of the unmistakable voice of a French 75 starting the day's
artillery duel. By the time the sentinel is relieved, in broad daylight,

the cannonade is general all along the line. He surrenders his post
to a comrade, and crawls down into his bombproof dugout almost reluctantly,

for the long day of inactivewaiting has commenced.
==

Though he never expresses even a momentary regret for the choice he has made,
he freely admits that trenchwarfare is "anything but romantic".

For the artilleryman it is "doubtless very interesting"
but "the poor common soldier" has a pretty mean time of it:

==
His rule is simply to dig himself a hole in the ground

and to keep hidden in it as tightly as possible. Continually under
the fire of the opposing batteries, he is yet never allowed

to get a glimpse of the enemy. Exposed to all the dangers of war,
but with none of its enthusiasm or splendid elan, he is condemned to sit

like an animal in its burrow, and hear the shells whistle over his head,
and take their little daily toll from his comrades.

The winter morning dawns with grey skies and the hoar frost on the fields.
His feet are numb, his canteen frozen, but he is not allowed to make a fire.

The winter night falls, with its prospect of sentry-duty,
and the continualapprehension of the hurried call to arms; he is not

even permitted to light a candle, but must fold himself in his blanket
and lie down cramped in the dirty straw to sleep as best he may.

How different from the popular notion of the evening campfire,
the songs and good cheer.

==
Of the commissariat arrangements he gives, on the whole, a very good account;

but he admits that "to supplement the regular rations with luxuries
such as butter, cheese, preserves, & especially chocolate,

is a matter that occupies more of the young soldier's thoughts
than the invisible enemy. Our corporal told us the other day

that there wasn't a man in the squad that wouldn't exchange his rifle
for a jar of jam." But "though modern warfare allows us to think

more about eating than fighting, still we do not actually forget
that we are in a battle line."

==
Ever over our heads goes on the precise and scientific struggle

of the artillery. Packed elbow to elbow in these obscure galleries,
one might be content to squat all day long, auditor of the magnificent

orchestra of battle, were it not that one becomes so soon habituated to it
that it is no longer magnificent. We hear the voices of cannon

of all calibres and at all distances. We learn to read the score
& distinguish the instruments. Near us are field batteries;

far away are siege guns. Over all there is the unmistakable,
sharp, metallic twang of the French 75, the whistle of its shell