I remember a pleasant dinner in the old town of Noyon, in a little restaurant where two pretty girls waited. They had come from Paris with their parents to start this business, now that Noyon was safe. (Safe, O Lord!) And everything was very dainty and clean. At dinner that night there was a hostile air raid overhead. Bombs crashed. But the girls were brave. One of them volunteered to go with an officer across the square to show him the way to the A.P.M. , from where he had to get a pass to stay for dinner. Shrapnel bullets were whipping the flagstones of the Grande Place, from antiaircraft guns. The officer wore his steel helmet. The girl was going out without any hat above her braided hair. We did not let her go, and the officer had another guide. One night I brought my brother to the place from his battery near St. -Quentin. We dined well, slept well.

“Noyon is a good spot,” he said. “I shall come here again when you give me a lift.”