“ Avez-vous fixed vous with passes?” inquired a friendly inmate of the garage.

I showed him my American card.

“That isn’t bien suffisant ,” he said. “You’ll have to get a pink one to go through the French army zone.”

I recalled then our troubles on a previous automobile trip and was glad he had spoken.

“Where do I go for that?” I inquired.

“Go,” said he, “to the Préfet de Ligne du Communications.” Or something like that.