From Le Havre they eventually moved to a base camp at Harfleur, where they spent the days in a route march through the countryside. The nights were still cold with a steely rain, but the war remained distant—somewhere east of the railheads. Occasionally one heard rumors of fighting at the front, but the concerns were mostly local: fatigue, lice, the whims of commanding officers intent on absurd formality.

Gray spent his last evening in Harfleur with Vadime de Massloff, now Captain de Massloff with the 1st Russian Special Imperial Regiment. The meeting had been arranged through a friend of de Massloff, an intelligence officer with access to the personnel lists. Rain that left the village streets deserted drove them to a cafe, where they sipped champagne. The proprietor's daughter was lame but very pretty—another reminder of Paris.

"They want me to photograph Paris," de Massloff said. "Presumably to convince the rest of the world that it still exists."

"Then you haven't been to the front," Gray said.

"Good Lord, no. They've got me in propaganda. And you?"

"I think we're scheduled for Cambrin tomorrow."

"Ah, well, at least you'll miss the rush."

Inevitably there were reminders of Zelle, what with prostitutes on the boardwalk and a memorable song on the gramophone.

"You haven't seen her since Berlin, have you?" de Massloff asked.

Gray shook his head. "Just a letter."

"And?"

"And she's back in The Hague, with some baron."

"Well at least that simplifies things."

"Does it?"

De Massloff smiled, running his finger along the rim of his glass. "Want a bit of advice, my son? Forget about Zelle. Go to the front, kill a Hun and have yourself a marvelous time."

"Don't know if I'm quite up to that."

"Nonsense."

"You see, I'm afraid to get hurt. I've—"

"Oh Christ, Nicky, we're all afraid of that."

"Well, this is different, this is deep-down ..."

"Then kill a whole platoon. That should cure you. And for God-sakes stop thinking about Zelle."

It took nearly twenty-four hours to reach the railhead at Bethune, then another day on foot to the lines. Beyond Saint Omer the war became obvious, with visible shellfire along the horizon, neglected fields and blasted trees. Past the Cambrin suburbs one could actually see the flares curving over the trenches.

There were four parallel trench systems here across eight hundred yards of lowland. The dugouts were crude, always in need of repair. The soil was soft, mostly red clay. Technically, each company held two hundred yards with two platoons in the front line and two more in reserve, though there were variations, depending on casualties and the weather.