On the Edge of the War Zone From the Battle of the Marne to the Entrance of the Stars and Stripes

ber 5

aving some bea

e, to decorate the graves on the battlefield at Chambry. Crowds went out on All

t Esbly for Meaux at half past one-only ten minutes by train-and were back in the station at Meaux at quarter

of the big livery- stable man at Meaux, an energetic-and, incidentally, a handsome- woman, who took over the business when her husband joined his regiment, had a couple of automobiles, and would furnish me with all the necessary papers. They are not taxi-cabs, b

several important families who had remained with the Archbishop and aided him to organize matters for saving the city, if possible, and protect the property of those who had fled, and that the measures whi

I imagine, when you come over to make the grand tour of Fighting France

of Meaux, and took the route départmentale of Senlis, a soldier step

sto

orward to smile at the soldier. I might have spared myself the effort. He never even glanced inside the car. The examination of the papers was the most cursory thing imagin

the paper again. We did meet two gendarmes on bicyc

grimages together it is associated! We have looked through it at the walls of Provins, when the lindens were rosy with the first rising of the sap; we have looked through it at the circular panorama from the top of the ruined tower of Montlhéry; we have looked through it across Jean Jacques Rous

e Marne together. When we do, I trust it will be

l, so pretty, so normal, that it was hard to realize that we were moving towards the front, and were only about three miles from the point where the

ich was bombarded, and from a point in the road I looked back across the valley of the Marne, a

ge is that

ound and repl

I knew that if I could see Chauconin so clearly from my gard

ge on this side of the hill. "Distance" does, indeed, "lend enchantment." When you come to see me I shall show you Quin

found destruction enough. One whole street of houses was literally gutted. The walls stand, but the roofs are off and doors and windows gone, while the shells seem burned out. The destruction of the big farms seems to have been pretty complete. There they stood, long walls of rubble and plaster, bre

ooked quite natural, and I had to make an effort to shake myself into a becoming frame of mind. If you had been with me I should have asked you to pinch me,

the hill just in the centre of the line which I see from the garden. It was one of the towns bombarded on the evening of

driven out the next day by the French soixante-quinze, which trott

y passing behind the apse of the village

village, beautifully situated, commanding the slopes to the Marne on one side, and the wide plains of Barcy and Chambry on the other. It is prosperous looking, the home of sturdy farmers and the small ren

p unless you have a big map. N

he hill, on top of which stand the white walls of Montyon, fro

to find that it was dated September 6, whereas we had seen the battle begin on the 5th. Here I found what I presume to be the explanation,

e 276th Regiment was preparing its soup for lunch, when, suddenly, from the trees on the heights, German shells fell amongst them, and food was forgotten, whi

ians dropped their work in the fields and snatched up guns which the dead or wounded soldiers let fall and enter

who wore a lieutenant's stripes, and was referred to by his companions on that day as "un glorieux fou dans sa bravoure." This long tomb, with its crosses and flags and flow

he line of battle, to the hillside hamlet of Barcy, the s

ced. No house on this street escaped. Some of them are absolutely destroyed. The church is a mere shell. Its tower is pierced with huge holes. Its bell lies, a wreck, on the floor beneath its tower. The roof has fallen in, a heaped-up mass of débris in the nave

r the restauration fund it was possible to enter-at one's own risk-by a side door. It was hardly worth while, as one could see no more than was

l courtyard, where the school children were playing under the pr

, and the schoolroom, which has its home in it, ha

treet to the interior of what had evidently been a comfortable country house. It was now like an uncovered box, in the centre of which there was a conical shaped heap of ashes as high as the top of the fireplace. We co

d blurred with much weeping. She was rubbing her distorted old hands together nervously as she watched us. It was inevitable that I should get into conversation with her, and discover that th

ll-known old story of the French stocking which paid the war indemnity of 1870. They have no confidence i

ly be likely to leave her house, no matter how many times she was ordered out, until shells began to fall about her. Even then, as she wa

ut into the plain, an

he line of the great

ber 6

not gone far when, right at the edge of the road, we came upon an isolated mound, with a r

uffeur to stop, and

eir lives. As we advanced they became more numerous, until we reached a point where, as far as we could see, in every direction, floated the little tricolore flags, like fine flowe

again there would be one, usually partly burned, almost enci

ir simple death has made holy, the duty well done, the dread over, each one just where he fell defending his mother-land, enshrined forever in the loving memory of the land he had save

h of September. You know what the humble village burying-grounds are like. Its wall is about six feet high, of plaster and stone, with an entrance on the road to the village. To the west and northwest the walls are on the top of a bank, high above the crossroads. I

had been several times stormed by artillery, the Zouaves made one of the most brilliant bayonet charges of the day, dashing up the steep banks and through the bree

buried here-nearly all of the regiment of Zouaves, which was almost wiped out in the

one of the handsomest roads of the department. Many of these huge trees have been snapped off by

abused by the Germans. Its aged priest and many other old men we

and of the regiment which began the battle at Villeroy-the 276th-are buried. But the weather had changed,

ok at the old mills-and put up a paean of praise that the

my house stands,-I could just see it as we crawled across the bridge at the Iles

n to life. Fate so often shakes its fist in my face, only to withhold the bl

elieve it never will-it has left no ugly traces. The fields are cleaned, the roads are repaired. Rain has fallen on ruins and washed off all the marks of smoke. Even on the road to Vareddes the thrifty French have already carried away and fagotted the wrecked

had not got it. I had brought back instead an i

that pilgrimage, it will be even more beautiful.