Whenever we were halted, invariably there was the knowing individual who recognized us as newspaper men, and in order to save his country from destruction clamored to have us hung.

It was for this pest that the one with the newspaper lay in wait.

And the instant the pest opened his lips our man in reserve would shove the Figaro at him.
"Have you seen this morning's paper ?" he would ask sweetly.

It never failed us.

The suspicious one would grab at the paper as a dog snatches at a bone, and our chauffeur, trained to our team-work, would shoot forward.
When after hundreds of delays we did reach the firing-line, we always announced we were on our way back to Paris and would convey there postal cards and letters.