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" is going to be perhaps a dangerous undertaking," says the French army officer the next day in the reception room at Maison de la Presse. He is speaking solemnly and impressively. "Do you still wish to go?" he asks, addressing me in particular. I look back steadily into his eyes. "Oui, Monsieur." Then his glance sweeps inquiringly the semicircle of faces. There are six journalists and a munitions manufacturer from Bridgeport, Connecticut. And they all nod assent. The room is singularly silent for an instant, the officer just standing quietly, his left hand resting on his sword-hilt. Then he turns and passes to each of us the official Permis de Correspondent de la Presse aux Armees, for our journey to Rheims the next day. And we all sign on the dotted line.

Before I retire that night I rip the pink rose from off my hat and lay out the long dark coat which is to envelop me from my neck to my heels. It is the camouflage which, in accordance with the army orders, blends one with the landscape as a means of concealment from the German gunners' range. Rheims is under bombardment. It was fired on yesterday. It may be to-morrow. There must not be,