“Bare, ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang”
—ruined carefully and deliberately.
We stopped near an abrupt little hill. It looked like a giant thimble, with a rustic summer-house on top. This was once Prince Eitel Friedrich’s lookout, and as we climbed up the carefully made stone steps, we saw more and more of the wonderful view he had chosen. French landscapes stretched away on every side, smooth fields, winding roads, and poplars. The group of poilus who were stationed in the lookout gave us a gay welcome. They were ready with information about the surrounding countryside, and pointed out the various villages in the distance. The officer in charge lent us his field-glasses and showed us to the north the spires of the cathedral at Saint-Quentin—still held by the Boches.
We took a détour in order to see the grave of Sergeant McConnell, the American aviator who was killed last spring. A French flag and two American flags nailed to a wooden cross mark the grave; fifty yards away are a few splinters of iron and wood, the remains of his aeroplane, which indicate the spot where he fell. Some splinters of wood, some rusty bits of iron, part of the engine, are all that is left of his aeroplane. As I looked back towards the grave I saw our soldier chauffeur stooping to place a bunch of wild poppies below the flags. He walked back to his place at the wheel without knowing that I had seen him. It was a small thing, but I felt grateful to the American who had made a simple Frenchman wish to pay this tribute. I felt, too, a warm pride to think of this corner of a foreign field (to paraphrase Rupert Brooke) that is forever America!
We went next to Flavy-le-Martel. This town is half ruined and is inhabited only by soldiers. The great sight is a ruined factory, which is now a grotesque pile of rubbish—wheels and boilers and chimneys; the mass of broken stone and twisted iron is heaped to an immense height and in extent it looked to one like an acre of pure destruction.
Suddenly we heard discomforting sounds—guns, big guns, and not very far away. The entrance gate to the factory had been locked and barred with a sign, “No Admittance,” in large letters, and we had to enter through a hole in the fence, but certainly that couldn’t mean that we were doing anything dangerous? One of the soldiers working near by motioned upwards, and we caught sight of a Boche aeroplane disappearing in a big white cloud—lesser white clouds kept multiplying as the French anti-aircraft guns fired on. Each shot sounded like hitting a barn door with a baseball—only fifty times as loud. I was all for standing with my neck craned waiting to see what would happen next, but the soldiers gave one laconic look (if a look can be laconic) at the signs in the heavens, and walked off to the “abri” or shelter. Our lieutenant asked us to follow, so down we plunged into a little cellar-like place after the soldiers.
“Five men were wounded here yesterday by pieces of flying shell,” said one of them; “so, Mon Dieu! it is not worth the trouble to make one’s self a target to-day.”
That seemed sensible enough, but it had never occurred to me that anything would ever come down and hit me. I’m not a soldier, I’m not even French, and everything about the front has always been a name to me until now. What am I usually doing the first week in July? I’m helping the kids set off firecrackers down on the beach—on a good old American beach; or getting the mail at the post-office to read the latest war news. Zum-zum! and here I am crouched down in an abri with some poilus, and a German biplane a mile in the air straight over my head. Wouldn’t it be funny if—I wonder how thick the roof of this place is, anyway? Zum, zum, zum! How foolish to drop bombs on a place that is destroyed, anyway.
The firing became less frequent and the explosions farther off. We climbed out to the great outdoors again, and looked around. Nothing to be seen or heard. Just as we started off, a last zum! and a fleeting glimpse of the Boche disappeared gayly into a cloud. That was a week ago; I’m wondering if they have got him by now.
Along the road on the way to Ham were rows of neat little brick and stone houses, so unlike anything I had seen that their very neatness looked strange. “The soldiers have already begun rebuilding,” said the lieutenant. And they have done well, may I add; the architecture is of an unimaginative, cubelike variety, but a touch of poetry is supplied by the white muslin curtains and climbing nasturtiums! The soldiers, working with sleeves rolled up and with gorgeous red sashes round their waists, smiled and waved as we passed, and if we had slowed down who knows but that we should have had an invitation to tea; with a Boche avion only just lost from view.