“Ici a crevê
Le Boche
Qui a fait
Sauter l’Êglise.
18 Mars, 1917.”
The story is that the officer, who ordered the destruction of the church just before their departure, was found half buried in the churchyard, the next morning (after the destruction), presumably killed by a French obus, but, to my way of thinking, more likely sniped by an irate villager. Anyway, the story is good, and the few remaining villagers like to tell it, and do it well.
All the time that I was on this trip I think the thing that gave me the sincerest sympathy with the people was the thought which was constantly in my mind: “Suppose this was Marion; suppose this was our house, our garden, etc.”
Another rather amusing incident in Suzoy was an old lady, who appeared from somewhere, and insisted upon telling us her story. The thing that was uppermost in her mind, and the thing which she has personally against the Kaiser,—more than the destruction of her home, the total loss of possessions, the killing of one of her children by an obus,—all these are of slight consequence beside the awful fact that the German commander took with him when he left every solitary key in the whole village! “And how do you expect me to get along—this is too much, too much.” If you know how the French love to lock up anything and everything, you can imagine what a tragedy this was!
Lassigny was the next village, and was in some ways the most totally destroyed one which we saw. There is nothing left at all. We went through it quickly, and returned to Noyon, where we left our officer with many thanks, and turned towards Compiègne, where we arrived at about 9 p.m., tired out, or, at any rate, I was dead. We had a good dinner, and I turned in very soon after. I had seen so many battlefields, so much destruction and so many novel sights, that I was afraid I would not sleep, but I did. Maybe the wine which we had at dinner made me sleep, but, anyway, I only came to at 7.30 the next a.m. I had some coffee and went down to find that the car was wet, and that the cap on the front wheel was cut open, and the grease running out. This meant something was wrong with the bearings, I knew, but, as Compiègne is about as convenient as the Desert of Sahara when it comes to getting hold of Ford parts, I decided to let well enough alone, and so tied it up with wire as best I could. King Edward showed a great longing to investigate, but I would not let him! As long as a Ford will run, let it run, is my motto—particularly when seventy-five kilometres from the nearest Maison Ford.
We all went at nine sharp to the famous Carrel Hospital, and were given an hour and a half lecture with colored slides of his system of irrigation. This was interesting, but I fear one member of the party felt that she would rather be out looking at things and battlefields than at slides of human beings, torn to pieces and then all nicely mended. After the talk, Dr. C. joined us, and took us through two wards. We watched some dressings which were gory and quite interesting. He assured us that he did not hurt the patient, but there was a difference of opinion on that subject, for the poilus yelled nobly most of the time. I talked with one man particularly. He attracted me, for he was so young-looking and was sitting up in bed with his leg on a pulley out in front of him, and in the most detached position I have ever seen. It did not seem to be part of him at all. He was reading a choice book called “La Douleur de l’Amour.” I asked him if he didn’t have a pain worse than love, and he allowed that he thought yes. He was a nice soul, and I am sending him some magazines to while away the time, for he will remain, even in this hospital where they are so quick, for several months. One nice old wizened-looking man said that he had been in five hospitals, had seven operations, and now was here with his right arm and left leg suspended. I asked him how he stood it, and he said that he would stand anything rather than go back to the trenches again, and live in water for two months at a time. A queer choice? We came away at about half-past eleven, after having had a long talk with Dr. C., who said the same thing that I have heard from so many sides. I asked why, if his system of irrigation could so reduce amputation, mortality, and suffering, didn’t the other French hospitals adopt it. He said that it was a new thing, and that they would not, because they are not used to the idea, and they prefer to keep on in the same old way, cutting off the limb if poisoning sets in, and so sending out a tremendous number of needlessly crippled men. How awful that does seem! I do hope that America is going to be sensible and profit by all the mistakes that the Allies have made so far.