Suddenly, as if reflected from some unimaginable furnace the sky was all aflame. What had happened or was happening those wounded boys could only dimly imagine. Yet, how calm, how wonderful they were in their utter helplessness. Rain began to fall as we were removing the patients. Gradually the dreadful light faded from the sky and the flames that had began to eat their way in the walls of the nearest buildings were extinguished. Only the operating room was burned to the ground.
As we moved among the patients, doing what little we could to ease the pain and quiet the fears of those dear, noble boys, a hand from one of the cots seized oars in a clinging firm embrace and we recognized the voice of Lieut. Lady as he said, "I am so glad you are with me tonight."
When that eventful day of the 11th of November came and the bells from Regret and Verdun rang out the glorious news of the armistice, how the hearts of all the boys in the wards were stirred! It was a beautiful day resembling our American Indian Summer, when we threw open the doors and windows to admit the glorious message. It seemed that the prayers of not only France, but of the world, were being said and the theme that ran through them all was: "How beautiful are the feet of Him upon the mountains that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace." And chiming in with the music of the bells, the clear voice of Lieut. Lady was heard, as he exclaimed, "I hope and pray God that this will be the end of all wars." Let us sincerely hope that the noble sacrifice of such men as this shall not have been in vain. To many the bells that morning meant peace, home and love, but alas, to others they had a sadder meaning!
When spring came again to the shell-torn fields near Verdun, we saw how Nature in places was reclothing the meadows in their mantles of green and around the ruined, tenantless homes along the Meuse, how the primrose and violet were covering up the scars made by unnumbered shells. The air was filled with the joyous notes of the lark, and the linnet and the black-cap warbled among the hedgerows. Here where once had dwelt the peasant, the cuckoo called from the evergreens and nightingales made the evening breeze vocal with their rapturous notes. This wealth of flowers and song only served to call up bitter memories for, alas! how many brave hearts lay sleeping in that vast abode of the dead, all unmindful of the beauty of flower or joy of song about them.
Slowly we made our way from the flower gardens to the French cemetery, where thousands of valiant Poilus who had said: "they shall not pass" were sleeping. We saw where the hand of affection had planted the fleur-de-lis or hung beautiful bead- wrought wreaths upon the crosses until this abode of the dead resembled a vast flower garden.
Just to the west and divided by a narrow road, our own American heroes were resting. Here we reverently paused and placed a wreath of ivy inwrought with flowers, upon the grave of Lieut. Lady and another on that of our own Ambrose Schank as a last loving tribute to all who had so dearly purchased the peace we now enjoy. While thinking of those other dear friends, Corporal Edgar Browder, of Chicago, and Lieut. Erk Cottrell, of Greenville, Ohio, who perished nobly upon the field of duty, we felt the significance of the words of the poet:
"In Flanders fields the poppies grow,
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunsets glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from falling hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high;
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep though poppies grow
In Flanders fields."
If you are approaching Gettysburg for the first time you cannot help but admire those even swells that stretch away from South Mountain like an emerald sea. No doubt you will begin to wonder where the town is situated as you advance. Numerous low ridges are crossed and at last the famous town lies before you.
What a charming situation it has! Vast waves of undulating meadow and farm land appear with fields of gleaming grain and clamps of elm, oak and maple to break its smoothly flowing billows. Farther away rise higher treeless ridges or wooded slopes, but all alike are smoothly flowing.
Looking out over the land in a northwestern direction on a bright day you can see South Mountain, "forerunner of the sierrated Alleghanies," looming up between the town and Cumberland Valley. Back of it the serried ranks of the Alleghanies rise in hazy indistinctness and blend imperceptibly with the blue along the far horizon.