It was an interesting road all the way. We met a priest trotting comfortably down the road on a fat chestnut mare. His gown fluttered and his beads swung by his side in time to the horse’s gait. We all felt included in his smile as he lifted his shallow-crowned, wide-brimmed hat in greeting; we Americans bowed, the militaires saluted inflexibly.
Next we saw—or rather were stopped by—a herd of cows. They looked utterly peaceful and oblivious, and along with the window curtains and nasturtiums that we had just seen on leaving Flavy-le-Martel, they seemed to give hope that the forlorn shells of houses might one day become homes again. I asked our lieutenant what the enemy had done with the cattle that they had found when they came. He answered, smiling broadly, “Zay ett heem!”
Ham is interesting chiefly for its ancient château. The town itself is only partially destroyed, and there are at the moment fifteen hundred and thirty civilians living there. We got out of the motor by the bank of the canal, and looked first at the havoc wrought to it and the bridges. The sides have been blown up and great masses of stone have fallen into the ditch stopping up the deepest part of it. Rude wooden bridges have been built to replace the stone ones and to carry the traffic of trucks and military cars that are constantly passing. The trees that once stood in even rows along the banks have totally disappeared. Not a stump is left.
The canal widens just south of the main road, and begins to have the aspect of a stone quarry. There is a vast area of broken stone; groups of workmen applying themselves with pick and shovel; iron cars drawn by mules moving here and there; and the noise of incessant labor. Across the excavation stands a great wall, fifty feet high, split down the middle as though by a stroke of lightning. Over the top you can just see the tower, with a pointed slate roof.
“But where’s the château?” some one asked.
“Le voilà,” said our guide.
Oh, the hours of labor that must be put in to restore what was once built so carefully. New trees will be planted, but the chateau can never be replaced. It’s all unspeakable!
Just as we turned to take the road to Nesle (I never can be reconciled to pronouncing it “Nell” in view of neslerode pudding), I saw a storm-beaten signpost reading, “Saint-Quentin, 8 kilomètres”—just as though you could go there! I wonder just how soon one would be killed if she tried it?
A German Graveyard