Something does—an infuriated bull charges Rover’s car and picks off one of his headlights. Rover reverses hastily and unhesitatingly into the car behind, while the farmer’s wife makes her appearance, drives off the bull, and saves Rover from extermination.
Then, one afternoon, we arrive at our point of embarkation, so to speak. It is Bar-le-Duc, sixty kilometres from Verdun, and by virtue of its being the one city in many miles, the meeting place of the world, which is to say, of course, our sector of front—when en repos.
BAR-LE-DUC, the old stronghold of the feudal dukes of Bar, nestling in the valley on the banks of the slow-moving Ornain, tributary to the River Marne, and with la ville haute trespassing far onto one ridge, and the ruined castle frowning down from the other, is a town of memories and traditions which greets this war as but another chapter in the never-ending book of its history. It has two large and ancient cathedrals, the one crowning the upper city—now quite naturally in ruins, as the enemy, by this time a connoisseur in churches, makes frequent air raids. The chateau—considered quite modern as it is but two hundred years of age—has mellowed into the surroundings by now, and forms a sufficiently integral part of the beauty of the city to be likewise a target for our “considerate” neighbor.
One evening, as the last rays of the sun glinted from its roof, it stood solid and strong,—ready to do battle with the elements for many centuries more, but while the city lay quiet in the cold moonlight of an August night, the sound of purring motors broke the silence from above. The contre-avions crashed, and the yellow shrapnel broke in the sky often a mile from its invisible target, and never near enough to arrest the advance of the raiders, who suddenly shut off their motors and, as often before, swooped silently down on their motionless prey, and dropped their bombs. Then, turning on their motors, they climbed and glided over the city again and again until, having dropped their entire cargo, they flew off. But in the morning the chateau no longer stood proudly up from the river mist, and another buttress against the ravages of the elements had crumbled into untimely ruins.
The main street of the town is denuded of its plate glass, and more houses crumble each time the enemy reports “military advantage gained” by an indiscriminate slaughter of the future crop of France’s defenders, and those heroic souls who bear them.
The town is noted for its manufactures, its wines, and its confitures. As to the first-named I know little, but as to the merits of its wines, its liqueurs, and its confitures I cannot say enough, nor can many thousands of others who seek out Bar-le-Duc as the one sanctuary from the mud and deprivations of the rest of their existence, and bask gloriously in the discomforts of its civilization for a few stolen hours.
CONVOY formation again, the cars freshly washed and glistening in the sunlight,—for a few minutes, before the grey cloud of dust pouring from the cars in front settles on us again. We come to a turn. A large sign greets us, Souilly—vers Verdun, emphasized by a giant arrow pointing in the direction we take. We are instantly sure that this is to be our headquarters. Verdun is a name we have long wished to visualize. At the first stop we tell each other the great news. While we are grouped in the road a big grey limousine carrying three generals dashes past. Every one salutes, and by a miracle we are noticed and the salute is returned. Cheerful Liar at once informs us that they were Joffre, Petain, and—he is at a loss for the third name. We help him out—Hindenburg perhaps.
But we are doomed to bitter disappointment. Thirty kilometres from the famous city we are given orders to park our cars in a pile of ruins formerly known as Erize—Erize la petite, and well named.