My Home in the Field of Honor

by Frances Wilson Huard

VIII

It was with much reluctance that we turned our backs on La Ferte the following morning and headed our horses westward.

Naturally the right of way was reserved for the army, and the roads bordering the Marne were now lined with soldiers, guns, ambulances and supply vans rushing to the front. After being side-tracked and halted no less than two score times, we finally reached Trilport, where the invaders had done but little material damage. The terrified civil population was even exultant, for two nights previously an automobile containing four German officers sped through the town, in the direction of Paris, and ignorant of the fact that the English had destroyed the bridge, had been precipitated into the river. The affair seemed to be considered as a huge joke, and the chief amusement now consisted in hanging over the broken side and contemplating the gruesome spectacle of a half-submerged motor, and four human bodies lying inanimate on some rocks, rapidly swelling, thanks to heat and the current.

"When we're sure they're good and dead, we'll bury 'em," explained a man whom I questioned.

As I write this phrase, now that more than a year has elapsed, it seems cruel and heartless, but on the spur of the moment, and after all that each one had endured, it was but justice.

Though barges were being rapidly brought into position so as to form a temporary bridge, I felt it would be a good two days before we could get across, and so following the course of the river, we wended our way in and out, round about, this time through peaceful country, until we reached Meaux.

My heart leaped with joy when on approaching I saw the cathedral standing unharmed, like a guardian above the peaceful little city.

The Germans had made but a brief stay here, merely an entrée and sortie, and had been received by Bishop Marbeau, in such a fashion as is likely to be recorded in history and place his name beside that of his famous predecessor, Bossuet.

One or two stray shells had fallen into the place, but the harm done was insignificant. The most picturesque and melancholy sight was along the river front, where to head off the enemy's approach the French had been obliged to blow up those ancient bridges, landmarks of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, for, like the Ponte Vecchio at Florence, they were lined with houses and mills, whose pointed roofs and apparent beams had weathered nearly five hundred years! Strange as it may seem, it was they that resisted the most, and, though the dynamite had severed their connection with land and shattered their pale-blue window panes, not a house had collapsed, and as they stood in the sun's dying blaze, they seemed to say, "Touch me, if you dare!"

Washboats, rowboats, barges and every available means of navigation had been sunk or put out of working order and though the enemy was hardly ten miles distant, men and women were busily engaged in setting them afloat.

Once again all we could do was to stand and gaze at the opposite bank and after assuring ourselves that there was no possible way of crossing, we hastily departed for Lagny.

That night we slept in a shed hospitably offered by a lone peasant woman, and the next morning triumphantly crossed the river and set our faces homeward.

Branching northward into the open country we chose all the by-roads and short cuts where our carts would pass, in order to avoid the long streams of ambulances and ammunition vans, as well as in the hope of finding better thoroughfares. A drizzling rain had set in the night before, making the roads, which up until now had been covered with a thick layer of dust, slippery and uncomfortable. Highways which heretofore had been seldom trodden, were full of ruts and bumps, and from Langy to Villiers there was hardly a corner but what showed signs of the invaders' passage. Over these green and fertile fields whose crops had proudly waved their heads about the lovely Marne, were strewn straw and empty bottles in unimaginable quantities. Thousands of blackened or charred spots dotting the countryside, told of campfires and hasty bivouacs, and as we silently plodded on towards Charny, the growing evidences of recent battle met our saddened gaze.

Here a shell had burst on the road, in the midst of a bicycle squadron, scattering men and machines to the four winds of Heaven. A little mound, a rough-hewn cross, marked the spot where some sixty soldiers lay in their last peaceful sleep, while the melee of tangled wire and iron which had once been machines, as well as blood-stained garments, bits of shell, and even human flesh, made a gruesome and indescribable picture.

Souvenirs? The idea never entered my head. And my kodak, which I had been so prompt to use to commemorate various events, seemed a vulgar, inquisitive instrument, and was left unheeded in the bottom of the cart. Each step brought us face to face with the horrors of warfare. Towards Villeroy a number of battered Parisian taxicabs gave us the first hint of General Gallieni's clever maneuver which helped save the capital—and then the wind brought towards us a nauseating odor, which paralyzed our appetites, and sent us doggedly onwards: the stench of the battlefield.

The girls in the cart drew closer together, shivering, though the air was warm and muggy. Even old Cesar seemed to feel the awe of that Valley of Shadow, and no one murmured as we passed the first bloated carcasses of dead horses and came upon that far more horrid sight—human bodies—swelled to twice their natural size, lying as death had met them, some in piles, others farther apart—all unrecognizable, but once proud mothers' petted darlings. I think they were our enemies. I did not stop to investigate; the flies bothered us so terribly, and long low mounds with red kepis piled upon them told of the graves of France's defenders. Far ahead I could discover groups of men with shovels, hastily burying those who remained. To the right a lazy column of dense smoke rose reluctantly in the heavy air. I fancied it came from a funeral pyre; we certainly smelled tar and petrol. The ground beneath rocked with the thundering of the distant cannon, and as one peal burst louder a flock of jet black crows mounted heavenward, mournfully cawing in the semi-twilight.

So we continued, a silent, foot-sore, rain-soaked community. With the growing remoteness of imminent danger came the reaction of all we had passed through, and deep down in our hearts we welcomed the idea of entering a village.

A village! Alas! As we reached the road leading to Barcy, there was a rift in the clouds, and a long golden ray shot through an enormous breach in the church tower, flickered a moment upon a group of roofless houses, and was gone. Night closed in.

Our spirits sank. Yvonne began to moan with agony, her sciatica had returned with the dampness, and Nini for some unknown reason, began sobbing as though her heart would break. I could see the moment not far distant when our whole party, seized with fear, would become panic-stricken, and that idea, together with the one of camping in the sodden fields surrounded by grim death, was anything but reassuring.

"Come on," I urged. "Surely Barcy is not entirely deserted."

What mud! What a road—sometimes entirely gutted, sometimes so obstructed with gasoline cans, hubs of wheels and scraps of iron, that I was obliged to lead Cesar by the bridle, while the others would walk ahead and clear a passage. Their progress was snail-like, for there was little oil left in our lantern and they hesitated before casting the refuse into the ditch for fear of profaning some unknown hero's grave.

And so, stumbling and halting, we came into Barcy. As we passed in front of the battered church we could see the huge bronze bell lying amid a pile of beams, at the foot of the belfry. The cadran of the clock tower was midway between the ruins of the edifice itself and those of what had once been the town hall. Not a living soul was to be seen anywhere. Stay—yes—there in front of us was a masculine figure.

I called "Monsieur!"

He halted an instant. Then shook his head and skulked away.

Through an oiled paper that had replaced the panes of a shattered window in a house which no longer had a second story I caught sight of a flickering light. I boldly knocked on the door.

"Qui est la?—" asked a high-pitched, trembling female voice.

"I, Madame H. of Villiers."

"I don't know you—go your way."

"But we are refugees."

"I have nothing left. Allez-vous-en!"

That was categorical, to say the least. So on we went, past the charred ruins of one-time happy homes.

As we rounded a corner our lantern cast a dim glow on to the drawn shutters of a half-collapsed structure.

"Stop a moment," said Julie; "there's something written on those blinds."

I approached, and holding the light as close as possible I read the following sign, chalked in huge white letters:

"Attention. No Loitering. Looters will be shot on the spot!"

That was the last straw, and though it was obvious that the warning was intended for the troops now miles away, it sent us ahead with uncanny celerity.

Our advance was short-lived, however, for it soon became evident that our horses were fagged out. Yet where to go became an agonizing question, for though we were still within the limits of the village, not a roof was to be seen. There seemed to be but one thing to do, and so, halting, I fumbled in the bottom of the cart and brought forth a handful of dry straw, and my precious bottle of brandy. Thanks to these, a match and a sheltering wall, a flame managed to blaze up, and from somewhere in the vicinity Julie procured a bundle of brush and an old broom.

With the heat our spirits rose. The girls dried themselves as best they could before the welcome fire, and though still awed by our surroundings, we nibbled a crust of dry bread and some stale cheese.

Then silently Nini and Yvonne crept back into the cart, covered themselves with hay and a blanket, opened an umbrella above their beads, and soon were fast asleep. The others begged me to share their bed beneath the cart, but tormented by the thought of what had become of H., racked by the anxiety of what the future held in store, I could not resign myself to rest, and the first gray streaks of that cool September dawn found me seated on a stone, staring at the glowing embers of our watch-fire.

Again the wind shifted in our direction, bringing with it that same loathsome smell. I shivered and pulled myself together, and after carefully scrutinizing my road-map, decided that there was just a chance of reaching Villiers before night, but only if we started at once. This living in suspense was beginning to tell on my nerves and anything, even the assurance of dreaded misfortune, would have seemed a relief. After the state in which we had found Barcy there was little doubt that our part of the country had been treated the same way. Perhaps it was still in the Germans' hands; we had no way of knowing to the contrary.

I roused the servants and told them of my intention, and in a few moments a pot of coffee was boiling on the tripod. In spite of the early hour I did not hesitate to add a little brandy in each cup, for after twenty-four hours of continual rain a stimulant was not only necessary but welcome. I tried to coax the dogs to take some, they seemed so wet and miserable, but they spurned my offer, and stood looking at me with most pitiful and mournful eyes.

Presently Tiger disappeared behind the wall, and a second later we heard a low growl. With childlike temerity Nini jumped up to see what was the cause of his alarm, and then almost instantly I heard her gasp, "Un mort!"

That brought us to our feet and in a bound I was on the spot just in time to see her fearlessly approaching the prostrate form of a German soldier, the upper extremity of whose body was hidden beneath the top of a tin wash boiler. The child raised the lid, beheld, as we did, a headless human trunk, and fell into a swoon.

We were well on our road before she came to her senses, and there were moments when I almost wished she might remain dormant until we had passed beyond the gruesome plain that stretches between Barcy and Vareddes—now a historic battlefield.

What a weird and wonderful sight it presented that gloomy September morning. Behind us Barcy, whose every edifice was decapitated or so degraded as to look like a gigantic sieve. Around us and on all sides fields fairly ploughed up by shot and shell, and every fifty yards it seemed to me rose a freshly covered mound, extending as far as eye could see. On these new-made graves were piled hundreds of red soldier caps, and here and there a hastily hewn wooden cross bearing such inscriptions as these, scrawled in lead pencil on a smooth space whittled by a jack knife:

Aux Braves du 248

When an officer was found and identified, he was buried alone and his name was carefully written on the cross, but more often we saw graves marked thus:

-Ici reposent deux offlciers et quarante hommes du 28 … ieme._

Sometimes the tomb was in the ditch (to save digging) and once we saw the Parisian pompiers burying some German corpses in the very trench they had dug and died in.

Overhead tangled electric wires swung dangerously near the road, the poles shattered or knocked agog, while in the distance the stumps of a once-majestic row of poplars made the horizon look like a grinning toothless face.

Time and again we were obliged to leave the road to avoid accident by passing over unexploded shells, and I shall always recall a gigantic oak tree which though still standing was cleft in twain by a 77-shell embedded intact in the yawning trunk; the impact, not the explosion, had caused the rift.

The farther we advanced the more evident became the signs of recent conflict. Hay stacks seemed to have been a favorite target as well as refuge. One we saw was almost completely tunneled through, and the blood bespattered sides of the opening told that the occupant had been caught as in a trap. Around these stacks were scattered the remains of old boots and shoes, scarlet blood-soaked rags, dry beans, bits of soap, playing cards and songs. Oh, lighthearted sons of France, it can be truly said that death held no terrors for you, since from Barcy to Soissons the ground you loved and so valiantly defended was strewn white with hundreds of thousands of tender ditties and chansons de route.

From Vareddes we passed on to Congis, the only living soul we met being a little old white-haired parish priest, who had set himself the task of blessing each new-made grave.

"If this rain continues some of them will be so effaced in a fortnight that we shall never find them. See—this cross is but two bits of straw, bound together by a shoe string!"

And he held up the fragile ornament for my inspection.

"These are more durable," and he showed another relic made of a bayonet sheath, crossed on the blade itself!

"And you—Monsieur le Cure—bow is it you are here?"

"Alas—would to God they had taken me in the place of our boys! Seven of them, Madame, carried off as hostages. I was too old to be of use!"

"And the women?"

The poor little man hung his bead.

"Twere better they had died!"

I understood and shuddered.

"God speed you, my daughter, and never cease to thank Him for preserving you!"

Again we went our way.

Lizy-sur-Ourq, which we reached in the late forenoon, presented a more animated, though hardly more pleasing spectacle. On the tracks in front of the station dozens of flat cars and freight trains had been purposely run together. Some had telescoped, others mounted high in piles, one upon the other, their locomotives as well as their contents being smashed and damaged—the whole scene presenting the aspect of a gigantic railway wreck.

On the steps of the station, seated gun in hand, three soldiers sat playing a game of cards. Across the street a sentry mounted guard in front of a large door over which floated a Red Cross flag.

"What's in there?" I asked.

"Prisoners and wounded."

"Can I be of any assistance?"

"Hardly—only flesh wounds."

I peeked into the courtyard.

In one corner lounging upon the ground were a dozen untidy, unshaven men, whom I recognized by their uniforms to be Germans. One man cast an insolent glance toward me and turned his back. Two others smiled and pointed toward the bread they held in their hands. On some straw in a couple of drays lay five or six individuals, their arms in slings, their heads bandaged.

"Nothing serious," explained a sergeant. "We're waiting for our men to clear up the tracks and the genie to throw a bridge across the canal. Then we'll evacuate them."

He was neither sad nor triumphant.

"Were you in the battle?"

"Rather!"

"How did your regiment come off?"

"We're all that are left—forty-four of us," and he pointed toward the station where work was rapidly progressing.

From them I procured some singe or army beef, and we halted an hour to rest the horses and eat our luncheon. We were beginning to reach familiar territory and the idea of getting home put new life into our tired limbs, and made each moment of delay seem uselessly long.

From Lizy ours was a straight road and we made rapid progress. The depressing signs of battle became fewer and fewer. It was evident that the rush had been northwest, for while we encountered numerous proofs of the armies' passage, graves and shells, trenches and corpses gradually began to disappear. At Cocherel, however, the enemy had burned a grocery shop when they had failed to find what they wanted. The few men who remained had suffered much from ill treatment and passing by the open gate of a splendid estate I cast a glance up the long avenue and saw a sight which gave me a pang at the heart. On the green in front of the chateau lay a battered billiard table and a grand piano, both turned on end, and much the worse for having served as a defense against a rain of shot. Around them were strewn broken furniture, pictures, linen and bottles in such a sorry mess that I dared not even think what Villiers might now look like.

Curiosity was quenched. We cast a second glance, and turned our faces eastward.

The afternoon was well advanced when we reached Montreuil-aux-Lions, our home country. We found that here less damage had been done from heavy artillery, but all the edifices had suffered from close-range rifle fire. An English sentry was pacing up and down in front of the town hall. Over the entrance was nailed a Turkish towel on which a Red Cross was stained with human blood!

"Prisoners?" I asked.

"All wounded, thank you," was the courteous reply.

I sought out my friend the inn-keeper who held up his hands in astonishment, bade us enter and made us partake of a warm meal. The first we had had since we left home!

"But how did you come to be spared?" I queried.

"Because I was good to them."

"Bah! How could you?"

"I didn't intend to, but, you see, they tricked me. It was early morning when half a dozen officers on horseback rode up to the door. 'Where are our Allies?' they asked.

"I thought of course they were Englishmen. The uniform was unfamiliar to me, but they all spoke perfect French. Unwittingly I gave them the requested information, and they asked me to bring up some good wine. Then they threw a gold piece on to the table, and when I had poured out my Burgundy, they begged me to touch glasses with them.

"'Ah, gentlemen, it is a pleasure to offer you the best I have. Thank
God, it is not for German stomachs!'

"To my surprise, an uproarious laugh greeted my statement and brought my glass down with a shock.

"'Poor fellow!' they tittered. 'Come, drink to our success and the
Kaiser's health!'

"I think they realized my fright and agony. They did not force me—but laughed anew, drank and were gone."

"What regiments drove them out?"

"The English. Quels gaillards! And clean! Well!"

"What do you mean?"

"Yes, they nearly used up all the water in Montreuil washing!"

"Do you know anything of Villiers?"

"No. I spent most of my time in the cellar during the fight, and since they've been gone I'm living in terror lest they return."

"Have you seen no one from down there?"

"No, not a soul."

"Do you think Villiers was bombarded?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I know the English troops that were here headed in that direction."

This suspense was too agonizing! I fear I so abbreviated my stay at Montreuil that the good inn-keeper was offended. I jumped on to my bicycle and knowing that the roads were now familiar to all, abandoned my little party, bidding them hurry to join me at home.

On, on I sped, through the slippery mud, looking neither right nor left, but straight ahead in the hope of recognizing a familiar face or form.

Twilight was deepening when I entered Bezu-le-Gury (our nearest home town), which seemed to show apparently but few signs of pillaging. I did not even dismount to make inquiries, but pedaled on till I reached the summit of that long, long hill that leads straight down to my home. Excitement lent a new impulse to my energy, and my heart thumped hard as I recognized familiar cottages still standing. This raised my hopes and sent me rocket-like down that steep incline.

Still not a soul in sight—no noise save that of the guns roaring in the distance.

But what was that in the semi-darkness ahead of me? A dog? Could it be true? I back-pedaled and whistled—a long, low, familiar howl greeted my ears and brought the tears to my eyes.

And then my poor old beagle hound came trotting up the road to welcome me—his tail wagging joyously and a long frayed cord dangling from his collar.

This was a relief and somewhat steadied and prepared me for what was to come. Through a gap in the trees I caught a glimpse of the roofs below. And so I rounded the corner and started on my last hundred yards.

The broken and tangled grill of our stately gateway told of the invaders' visit. A few paces further and the chateau come into full view.

Yes, it was standing, but only the shell of that lovely home I had fled from but fourteen days before.

Dropping my machine I rushed towards the entrance hall, cast one glance through the broken panes into the vestibule, and turned away in despair.

All the willful damage that human beings could do had been wrought on the contents of my home.

The spell was broken. My nerves relaxed and heedless of the filth I dropped on to the steps and wept.