III
Here is another cross-roads, a good mile farther forward—and less than a hundred yards behind the fire-trench. It is dawn.
The roads themselves are not so distinct as they were. They are becoming grass-grown: for more than a year—in daylight at least—no human foot has trodden them. The place is like hundreds of others that you may see scattered up and down this countryside—two straight, flat, metalled country roads, running north and south and east and west, crossing one another at a faultless right angle.
Of the four corners thus created, one is—or was—occupied by an estaminet: you can still see the sign, Estaminet au Commerce, over the door. Two others contain cottages,—the remains of cottages. At the fourth, facing south and east, stands what is locally known as a "Calvaire,"—bank of stone, a lofty cross, and a life-size figure of Christ, facing east, towards the German lines.
This spot is shelled every day—has been shelled every day for months. Possibly the enemy suspects a machine-gun or an observation post amid the tumble-down buildings. Hardly one brick remains upon another. And yet—the sorrowful Figure is unbroken. The Body is riddled with bullets—in the glowing dawn you may Count not five but fifty wounds—but the Face is untouched. It is the standing miracle of this most materialistic war. Throughout the length of France you will see the same thing.
Agnostics ought to come out here, for a "cure."