I
IT gave us rather a wrench to leave Pont-à-Mousson. The Section had
been quartered there since April, 1915, and we were attached to
the quaint town and to the friends we had made. The morning of our
departure was warm and clear. Walking along the convoy, which had
formed in the road before our villa, came the _poilus_, and shook
hands with each _conducteur_. "_Au revoir, monsieur._" "_Au revoir,
Paul._" "_Bonne chance, Pierre!_" We took a last look at the town which
had sheltered us, at the scene of the most dramatic moments in our
lives. Above the tragic silhouette of a huddle of ruined houses rose
the grassy slopes of the great ridge crowned by the Bois-le-Prêtre,
the rosy morning mists were lifting from the shell-shattered trees, a
golden sun poured down a spring-like radiance. Suddenly a great cloud
of grayish white smoke rose over the haggard wood and melted slowly
away in the northeast wind; an instant later, a reverberating boom
signalled the explosion of a mine in the trenches. There was a shrill
whistle, our lieutenant raised his hand, and the convoy swung down the
road to Dieulouard. "_Au revoir, les Américains!_" cried our friends.
A little, mud-slopped, blue-helmeted handful, they waved to us till we
turned the corner. "_Au revoir, les Américains!_"