They entered the war
to defend rather than to destroy. They literally put behind them
houses, brethren, sisters, father, mother, wife, children, lands for
the Kingdom of Heaven's sake, though they would be the last to express
themselves in that fashion.
At a cross-road at the bottom of a hill, on the way to a gun-position
we once had, stood a Calvary--one of those wayside altars, so
frequently met in France, with pollarded trees surrounding it and an
image of Christ in His agony. Pious peasants on their journey to
market or as they worked in the fields, had been accustomed to raise
their eyes to it and cross themselves. It had comforted them with the
knowledge of protection. The road leading back from it and up the
hill was gleaming white--a direct enfilade for the Hun, and always
under observation. He kept guns trained on it; at odd intervals, any
hour during the day or night, he would sweep it with shell-fire. The
woods in the vicinity were blasted and blackened. It was the season
for leaves and flowers, but there was no greenness. Whatever of
vegetation had not been uprooted and buried, had been poisoned by
gas. The atmosphere was vile with the odour of decaying flesh. In the
early morning, if you passed by the Calvary, there was always some
fresh tragedy. The newly dead lay sprawled out against its steps, as
though they had dragged themselves there in their last moments. If you
looked along the road, all the glazed eyes seemed to stare towards
it.
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