I could indeed have visited Domremy before, but purposely had I waited for this date. On December thirteenth, President Wilson, coming to the Peace Conference, was to land in France. I wanted to say Mass, that very morning, at the shrine of the Maid for the welfare of the President.
A one hundred and fifty mile trip from Thiacourt to Domremy, south of Verdun on the Meuse, especially in an open motorcycle car and through a blinding storm of hail and rain, is not particularly pleasant.
When we recalled, however, the arduous journey she, a girl, of eighteen years, had once made on horseback from Domremy to Chinon, three hundred miles, through snow-covered roads, we determined that nothing short of a Firing Squad should stop us.
A cold I had contracted at Rembercourt had settled in my back. Lumbago had painfully doubled me into an inverted "L," a figure not happily adapted to a cycle car.
Laboriously adjusting myself to the machine I plainly told the Maid, "I wish you clearly to appreciate, Saintly Joan, that I am making this journey for you. Of old, you were supremely helpful to the ruler of your country. I want you to do as much for the President of mine. I am going to say Mass on your home altar for him, and I want you to help me. If God spares me, and I return to America, I promise to proclaim your glory and encourage all I can, young and old, in the practice of your devotion."
Early dawn found us on our way. The steel helmet pulled low offers splendid protection to one's eyes. Traversing the old battlefields of St. Michel, we passed ruined Even and Essey and took the highroad leading south. The shell-torn steeple of Flirey church still leaned over the road; and the grewsome Limey Gondrecourt front, its deserted dugouts resembling grinning skulls, elicited a sigh and a prayer for its dead legions.
Through Noviant and Men-le-Tour we sped, and at noon were beyond Toul and racing through the historic valley of the Moselle.
At Bullney, our speeding car was curiously observed by thousands of German prisoners peering through the barbed wire enclosure of their roadside camp.
Columbes-les-Belles, with its huge hangars, grimly stood in silhouette against a crimson burst of sunset.
At Neufchateau we reached the river Meuse with whose glory the names of heroic inconquerable Petain and Verdun shall be forever shared.