"Ah, monsieur, it is the first white bread and good French sausage we have seen since the Bosches came. They took everything from us, everything, and if it had not been for the American relief we should have starved. They are brutes, pig-brutes, monsieur, they kill everything." And, with tears in her eyes, she told me how the Huns shot her beautiful dog because, in its joyfulness, it used to play with and bark at the children. "They did not like being disturbed, monsieur, so they shot him—poor Jacques! They have not left one single animal; everything has gone. Mon Dieu, but they shall suffer!"
I changed the painful subject by saying that now the British had driven back the Bosche everything would be quite all right. With a wan smile she agreed.
I set up my camera, and telling my man to hand over the food, the Mayoress shared it out. One sausage and a piece of white bread to each person, men, women, and children. The joy on their faces was wonderful to behold. As they received their share they ran off to the shelter of some ruins, or up into the church, to cook their wonderful gifts. I filmed the scene, and I shall never forget it.
The last of the batch had disappeared when up the road came hobbling a woman whose age I should say was somewhere about forty-five. I could see she was on the point of exhaustion. She had a huge bundle upon her back and a child in her arms, another about seven years clinging to her skirts. They halted outside the ruins of a cottage, the woman dropped her bundle, and crouching down upon it clung convulsively to the babe in her arms and burst into tears.
I went up to her and gently asked her the cause.
"This, monsieur, was my house. Two days past the Germans drove me away with my children. My husband has already been killed at the front. They drove me away, and I come back to-day and now my home, all that I had in the world, monsieur, is gone. They have burnt it. What can I do, monsieur? And we are starving."
The babe in her arms began to send forth a thin lifeless wail. I helped the poor woman to her feet and told her to go to the church, and that I would bring her bundle and some food for her.
God above, what despair! The grim track of war in all its damnable nakedness was epitomised in this little French hamlet. Houses burnt, horses taken away, agricultural implements wilfully smashed, fruit trees and bushes cut down, even the hedges around their little gardens, their cemetery violated and the remains of their dead strewn to the four winds of heaven. Their wells polluted with garbage and filth; in some cases deliberately poisoned, in others totally destroyed by dynamite. Their churches used as stables for horses and for drunken orgies. All the younger men deported, and the prettiest of the girls. In some cases their clothes had been forcibly taken away from them and sacks had been given in exchange to clothe themselves with. They were robbed of every penny they possessed.
But when the wonderful sound of the British guns and the tramp of our soldiers crept nearer and nearer, terrifying, relentless, and irresistible, the Germans left, fleeing with their ill-gotten spoil like demons of darkness before the angels of light, leaving in their trail the picture I have unfolded to you.
Wishing to push on further I scouted round the outskirts of the village. In a wood a short distance away it was evident that our patrols were in contact with the Huns. Volley after volley of rifle-fire rang out, and now and then a burst from the machine-guns. A horseman was heading straight for me. Was he British or Hun? In a few minutes I could see he was one of our men—evidently a dispatch-rider. He swept down into a hollow, then up the road into the village. He was riding hard; his horse stumbled, but by a great effort the rider recovered himself. He dashed past me and, clattering over the fallen masonry, disappeared from sight.