The last time I had seen it
was in an etching in a shop window in Newark, New Jersey. It was a
town, from the midst of whose battered ruins a splintered tower soared
against the sky. Leaning far out from the tower, so that it seemed she
must drop, was a statue of the Virgin with the Christ in her arms. It
was a superstition with the French, I remembered, that so long as she
did not fall, things would go well with the Allies. As we watched, a
shell screamed over the gaping roofs and a column of smoke went up.
Gehenna, being blessed by the infant Jesus--that was what I saw.
As we entered the streets, Tommies more polluted than miners crept out
from the skeletons of houses. They leant listlessly against sagging
doorways to watch us pass. If we asked for information as to where our
division was, they shook their heads stupidly, too indifferent with
weariness to reply. We found the Town Mayor; all that he could tell us
was that our division wasn't here yet, but was expected any
day--probably it was still on the line of march. Our lorry-driver was
growing impatient. We wrote him out a note which would explain his
wanderings, got him to deposit us near a Y. M. C. A. tent, and bade
him an uncordial "Good-bye." For the next three nights we slept by our
wits and got our food by foraging.
There was a Headquarters near by whose battalion was in the line. I
struck up a liaison with its officers, and at times went into the
crowded tent, which was their mess, to get warm.
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