WHATSAWAT THEBRITISH FR. ;, ' : • :NT* r*'25? ithe courteous influence of the Foreign Office I was recently enabled to be a guest at General Headquarters in France on a memorable four days’ visit to the scene of military operations, which, in ever-increasing intensity, is absorbing the whole interest and energies of theBritish Empire. ■In the company of a number of American newspaper correspondents and literary men I had a brief opportunity of becoming acquainted with my companions when our boat train fluickly reached the Channel coast. At the quayside station passports were examined, and for the first time we began to feel we were under scrutiny. As an example, however, of the kindly consideration of military officials, the persons travelling to France who were given precedence in the somewhat tedious examination of papers weie the relatives going to see wounded soldiers. That concluded, our party immediately passed through the office and stepped on board.A War-Time Channel Crossing.Quickly we saw evidence that the trip might have its excitements. The Channel steamer, since my last visit before the war, had received a com-neutralplete change of color to aofficers.andgrey; generals, staff khaki-clad men generally predominated, and lifebuoy harness to tie round the chest and back lay around for passengers to fit on.It was a calm evening as the first two transports, crowded with soldiers, loosed their moorings, and the “Tommies,” evidently new drafts, raised cheers and sang as they went ahead, our boat slowly following. Soon we noticed our watchful guardians ahead, keenly observant for an enemy periscope. The Channel is swept daily for floating mines, and it is a tribute to the dficiencyof our Gra.?d Fleet that they have not lo3‘ a transport on the Folkestone-Boulogne route. Naturally we proceeded slowly and cautiously, changing our position from line-ahead to two abreast according to signals received.As it was getting dusk we could see the outline of the French coast. Going into port stern first, one observed dim figures on the pier, and crowds of soldiers off duty leaning over the sides were singing as one would hear crowds on a Bank Holiday night in England, “Are we downhearted?” to the refrain of a hymm One’s mind went back to the accounts of the landing of our first Army in that eventful August of 1914, and imagined the troops then marching off to the song of “It’s a long, long way to Tipperary.”We had by this time lined up near one of the cabin doors for our passports to be examined by the military and French authorities who came on board. Again there came the dull, heavy inquiry, “Any relatives to see the wounded?” Then. “Are there any diplomatic visitors? Are these gentlemen here?”—mentioning our names.At last we were over the side and our baggage had been transferred to the motor-cars in waiting. Now our military hosts warmly welcomed us, and the Major in charge of the American Chateau to which we were bound, and his assistants, a captain and two lieutenants, entertained us to dinner. Shortly before ten o’clock We entered our caTs and quickly left the town behind. Through the keen air and darkness we raced, to as yet an unknown destination somewhereand dimly lit smoking-room of the thirteenth century feudal Chateau, withits great carved stone fireplace, and by an open hearth, partaking of stimulants after our keen ride, meanwhile becoming on the friendliest terms withour • -'-VAparttourtheBwhirand of t expe ed tplislwaythrocouineycornin.Cfrus sons field the fam han for' awan drer of tstop exai trie:sawof t fielc coo suffi ed.inFrance, until I rubbed my eyes and wondered whether it was a dream.fAter about an hour we reached a quiet spot among the trees, and a large building loomed before us, with a draw-bridge and a moat filled with water. Soon we were inside the cosy\thefanthechamo:kncweithaancprediathe. ,Kj ■var to trifliojna c acrWemeiourha sthemapecanmetheancexcjecI hfor ; 1 tioi pai m ouifigistacoiletthr. I Iofunflalt;«arlt;