I saw a tube of iron with a star-shaped end which interested me; the lieutenant hastily called out that it was a hand grenade. I had read too many war stories to be inclined to have anything more to do with it, so I passed obediently by; the next minute I caught my foot in some infernal machine and my heart leaped as I wildly clutched at the sides of the trench for support. It was a twisted bedspring.
Near by was an opening twenty-five feet square with dug-outs along the edge, where officers evidently lived. There was a rustic table under a lattice-trimmed shelter, and a flight of birch steps led to the sleeping quarters!
The lavish grass and flowers constantly impressed me. Around the trenches up to the very edges of the shell holes, over the famous strip called “No Man’s Land,” grows to-day a gorgeous carpet of green grass and wild flowers. I like to think that Nature has already begun to heal the scars of war.
A little village called Suzoy is already known for some rough paintings left on the walls of the main schoolroom, by the Germans. We stopped at the building and followed two little girls through the entrance; they showed us the pictures with pride; and for my part, I assure you, what met our eyes were the most astonishing mural decorations you ever saw.
Two naked figures, half man, half beast, sit opposite each other with faces turned to wink at you. They have horns and tails and the unmistakable Boche cap on their heads. Between them is a roaring fire on which they expect with relish to fry their supper. In their hands are two great peacock feathers which cross and make graceful crescents along the length of the wall. On the feathers are poised—or endeavor to be poised—miniature figures of the heads of the Allied nations. President Poincaré, in frock coat and stovepipe hat, is trying frantically to keep his balance; King George V is sprawling and just ready to fall; King Albert is hanging on desperately by one hand; and the Czar, in ermine robes, is trying wildly to hold on to his crown and keep his equilibrium at the same time. The other kings are all awkwardly trying to keep from dropping off. In the center, directly over the flame is a whimsical Scotch lad, playing his swan-song on a bagpipe. And always the big Boches leer diabolically.
The effect on me was at first to make me laugh, and then to make me rage. So cock-sure, so clever, so insulting! There were other caricatures on the side walls, medallion portraits of George V and Poincaré, but nothing so subtle as the big painting.
The little girls, who had stayed in the village throughout the German occupation, told us that the schoolroom was used as an officers’ mess, and that there used to be a great many soirées there. It had taken a month to paint these modern frescoes, and the children had been allowed to watch the artist work.
“Were the Boches nice to you?” I asked one of them.
“Oh, yes, fairly—assez gentils; they taught us a little German, but we never speak it now.”
“Did you have enough to eat?”