There was a hitch somewhere. The demand for
shell-dressings exceeded the supply. So I got on my horse one Sunday
and, with my groom accompanying me, rode into the back-country to see
if I couldn't pick some up at various Field Dressing Stations and
Collecting Points.
In the course of my wanderings I came to a cathedral city. It was a
city which was and still is beautiful, despite the constant
bombardments. The Huns had just finished hurling a few more tons of
explosives into it as I and my groom entered. The streets were
deserted; it might have been a city of the dead. There was no sound,
except the ringing iron of our horses' shoes on the cobble pavement.
Here and there we came to what looked like a barricade which barred
our progress; actually it was the piled-up walls and rubbish of
buildings which had collapsed. From cellars, now and then, faces of
women, children and ancient men peered out--they were sharp and
pointed like rats. One's imagination went back five hundred
years--everything seemed mediaeval, short-lived and brutal. This might
have been Limoges after the Black Prince had finished massacring its
citizens; or it might have been Paris, when the wolves came down and
Francois Villon tried to find a lodging for the night.
I turned up through narrow alleys where grass was growing and found
myself, almost by accident, in a garden. It was a green and spacious
garden, with fifteen-foot walls about it and flowers which scattered
themselves broadcast in neglected riot.
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