I managed to get a chance to talk with one of these women, and she was so interesting. They are certainly doing a good thing, staying there. They live in the most simple way, sleeping outdoors in the garden, wearing khaki shirts and skirts. They are the only women in the town. Their life is gay in some ways. A French poilu on his four days’ leave is more of a kid than anything I ever laid eyes on. One woman told me she did not know when they ever rested, for they kept up the noise and fun all day and all night too.

After a very nice luncheon, which we had brought with us, for one cannot get food in the military zone, we went on. We were aiming for Chauny, or, at least, we all hoped that we were, for Mr. Irwin told us that was as near the front as any women would be allowed to get. The country by this time was entirely ruined and very military-looking,—that is to say, all criss-crossed with trenches, entanglements, and dug-outs. We kept meeting high-powered cars going at a frightful speed,—mostly closed ones,—with officers in them. I can tell you that driving was no fun. I had to keep close to the other car which went at about thirty miles an hour, making a frightful amount of dust, but I did not dare slow down or lose sight of them, for I hate to think what would happen to a party of women found in the zone des armÉes, traveling about without the proper escort. I do not believe that any papers would be of the slightest use. As a matter of fact, the papers were all made out wrong, and the one we did possess said that our party consisted of Mrs. Hapgood (in the other car), Mr. Williams (ditto), and Miss Upjohn and Mr. Pelletier, the chauffeur. How I was to pose as a man chauffeur I do not know.

We went along smoothly until we began meeting a great number of trucks, gun-carriages, and soldiers. This made me think that we must be near the actual fighting, and I was crazy to stop for a minute and listen for the guns, but I did not dare to. Then we met a very nice-looking chasseur on a bicycle, who held on to the side of the car and gave us all the information we wanted. First place, he told us that we were off the regular road for Chauny, and that we were almost at Pierrefond de Soucy, which town was four kilometres from the actual front! This thrilled us, as you may imagine. Then we were held up by a guard, who talked at great length with the first car, and after finally letting them go on, stopped us and said that we could not go for five minutes, that we must keep out of sight of the first car, never stop under any conditions until we passed the next sentinel, and that he had no business to let us go on this road at all, as the Germans could see us on an ordinary day, but it being foggy he would let us by! For the first time I really felt as if there were some danger. As a matter of fact, it was practically nil, for the Germans are very methodical in their way of fighting, and do not fire on certain roads except at certain times. However, our chasseur friend told us that the woods we could see beyond the field on the right were French, but that the Germans were on the hill beyond. That made them seem pretty near. We just scurried through that town and the next. The road was very carefully screened on one side, with burlap and trees and wire covered with grass. There were some guns ready for action at the corners of the roads, and many signs saying that autos should not use this road except after dark. The woods were full of soldiers, who waved and shouted at us. I found that they all saluted our car, as they took it for granted that we must have an officer with us like the front car, so I began saluting back, and it seemed to please them terribly. By the end of the last day, I got so that I could give a very military salute without any trouble, which I consider quite a feat, for the driving was hard,—the speed and the bad roads combined with the very constant and real danger of the officers’ cars which we met, and which, of course, would simply run through you if you did not give way.

The beautiful great shade trees which line either side of the roads have all been cut down by the Germans before their retreat. Also the fruit trees. In some places they did not evidently have the time to really cut down the trees, so they just ringed them—cut deep circles in them so that they will die. I noticed that in some of the villages the farmers had evidently tried to save these few remaining ones, and have bandaged them up. Mother probably knows whether there is any hope for them to pull through. The effect of miles and miles of flat roads with simply the stumps of what were once beautiful trees is ghastly, and I think of all the things that the Germans have done, perhaps this is the worst, and the thing which the people of that district will never forgive. They say it takes a tree thirty years to really bear, and the generation now living will never see their orchards bearing again.

In some places the Boches cut the trees so that they split when they fell (always across the roads, of course), and now there remain nothing but rows of great white, livid stumps which shine in the sunlight, and look so very ghastly, and make one realize even more that this modern warfare is not a sport. I took several pictures of the trees, but I do not imagine that I got the effect. It is, without doubt, one of the most impressive and oppressive things that one sees; every one who comes back says the same thing. From a military point of view, cutting the shade trees across the roads was not of great value and must have taken a great deal of time, and the apple and other fruit trees seems to be pure desire to destroy. Although one thing I noticed, the young fruit trees were almost always spared, and this fact carries out the German theory that they destroyed only trees which could be used for shelters for guns or men. The trees on the side of the road are without doubt invaluable in the making of screens to hide the road when under fire, but, even with all these facts in one’s mind, and trying to be fair, one is infuriated to think that these trees, so many, many years old, should be sacrificed.

Once again one was impressed by the fact that a nation, or, I suppose one should say, two nations, who were keeping the whole world at bay, if not actually beating the whole world, could have time to do all the things with the attention to details which one finds in everything that the Germans touched. Take, for example, the fact that in the whole district which we covered—about thirty miles square surely—there is not a single bridge left. The present ones are every one military ones, more or less temporary. That is a true and exact statement—not a single bridge. The same is true of telephone and telegraph poles—not one remains. Also there is not a stick of furniture of any sort, except things too big to be carted away, such as pulpits and big tables, which are hacked to pieces and are of no value now. There is not any furniture left in any house in any one of these villages. Germany must simply be full of French furniture! I can’t think what they want it for, and what they plan to do with it, but, at any rate, they have taken it. In the houses they have blown up, if they have not removed it one could at least find the remains of it,—pieces of legs or something,—but there is no sign whatsoever, and I looked myself in many, many houses. How did they have the men and the time to do it all? Take also a little fact, but one so very characteristic of them. When an army takes possession of a village, one of the first things it does is to number all the houses and mark them on the outside as to how many horses, men, and officers they will hold. The French do this in paint in more or less neat figures on the side of the house, but the Germans chiseled the numbers in the majority of cases over the house door! A little thing, but taking time just the same.

I think that before I got off on that ramble I was telling you about arriving at Chauny. This town is pretty newly destroyed, and very completely so. It was evidently a manufacturing town, and the factories are now only a mass of twisted iron and steel. The rest of the village is literally ruined. I doubt if there is a house in the whole town that has two walls standing. We did not see it, if there is one. The completeness of the destruction is what impressed me. Nothing, nothing, left at all. It seems to me it will take generations to ever get that one town in shape again, and, of course, this is only one of many. As it is still under fire, we were scooted through, and were not allowed to get out, or take any pictures, for which I am sorry. From here we went via Guivry and Guisarde, two very much destroyed towns, to Champier, where we stopped and looked at a church which was ruined, and also saw for the first time graves which had been opened and emptied! This seems like a good story, I have no doubt. What in the world the German army wants with the contents of French graveyards I do not know, but I do know that they have opened and pillaged great numbers of the graves. At first it seemed to me that the sarcophagus might have been split open by the shock caused by the explosion of the church and other near buildings, for there must be a jolly shock when a church falls down in pieces, but I saw many graveyards which were not in the churchyard and which were also desecrated. I was interested to see the depth of the older graves. They were all brick-lined, and surely eight feet deep. This destroying graves has also had a very infuriating effect on the people in the district, particularly as there are such awful stories afoot about the Germans using their dead for all sorts of horrible purposes.

Roye was the next town. Here the Germans played a sort of dreadful joke on the inhabitants. They have left the outsides of the houses in fairly good shape compared with the other villages, but have destroyed the interiors perhaps even more completely than ever. One house on the road into Roye looks as if a giant had cut it in two. The section which remains standing is partially furnished; for instance, in the third story there is a desk and chair, and a bust on a shelf against the wall! Think of that bust staying there through all the shock which must have resulted in the building being blown up. We saw several queer freak sights like that. Among other things which made one feel that the innocent, peaceful inhabitants of these villages are the ones who are bearing the greater part of the war was a soldier home on permission, who had just got the key to his house from the Mairie, for they do not let people go into their houses until they have been inspected, as I told you that the Germans leave everything loaded. So this man went into his house and shop for the first time, and we all trailed in after him. The shop was once a good-sized store for ammunition and fishing-tackle, and that sort of stuff,—shelves running right up to the ceiling, with glass doors. Every one of the shelves was emptied on the floor and then exploded, every pane of glass was shattered in every door to every cupboard. This again is an exact statement. Now to take the goods off all those shelves, to smash every pane of glass, to burn and destroy everything that was not movable in that store, counters and such, must have taken time, and they did the same thing in every single store! Upstairs the same story—no furniture, walls mutilated, and windows gone. All metal things gone also, except lead, which they did not evidently care about. The French army gathers together the bits of gutter-pipes and lead plates which were on the roofs, and uses them again, but the Germans preferred brass and steel. The soldier did not say much. He told us, in grunts and shrugs mostly, that his wife and five children were lost, evacuated, and he had not heard from them for a long time. He kept saying, “What is there for me to do?” And none of us could answer him. The officer told him that the township would have the store cleaned out for him, if he asked them to. They use the prisoners for this, and it must be very irritating to the Boches to have to clean up their own handiwork! Also they send them into the houses first to try and find any loaded bombs, placed thoughtfully in clocks, or under doors and such places.

After looking about the town some more, we came on to Suzoy, where we stopped again to see the Boche drawings in the Mairie. It seems that they used that building for their staff headquarters during their prolonged stay there, and so decorated the walls a bit after their own taste. They did this in many places, but in most of the towns the natives have been so infuriated by the drawings that they have already destroyed them, but this village has saved theirs and shows them to you with pride. I could not help thinking of the Cook’s tourists who will be shown them later on, I suppose. The chief and most important one of these drawings covers the entire end wall of the big hall. The side walls have medallions of the various crowned heads of Europe, more or less terrible caricatures. The big picture shows two fat naked German devils, with broad grins, and horns sticking out of their heads, and with long, pointed, forked tails, sitting in hell and watching and superintending the frying of the crowned heads of their enemies. The kings and presidents are all dangling on peacock feathers, trying not to slip into the fire, but all are sliding towards their doom. In the center, in the hottest part,—in fact, right in the flame,—are two figures, one, King George, I should imagine, and the other a neat little Highlander in his kilts. This is interesting in view of all the stories one hears about the Germans being more afraid of and hating the Scotch regiments more than any others, is it not? The pictures are well drawn, but are hideous, and you can imagine their effect on a French villager! There were also some excellent black-and-white charcoal sketches, which were really beautifully done, showing what happened in villages where the Germans were sniped at. A real artist must have done these last pictures. The most interesting thing in the village was a rough grave in the churchyard with a green board for a tombstone, bearing the following:—

The story is that the officer, who ordered the destruction of the church just before their departure, was found half buried in the churchyard, the next morning (after the destruction), presumably killed by a French obus, but, to my way of thinking, more likely sniped by an irate villager. Anyway, the story is good, and the few remaining villagers like to tell it, and do it well.

All the time that I was on this trip I think the thing that gave me the sincerest sympathy with the people was the thought which was constantly in my mind: “Suppose this was Marion; suppose this was our house, our garden, etc.”

Another rather amusing incident in Suzoy was an old lady, who appeared from somewhere, and insisted upon telling us her story. The thing that was uppermost in her mind, and the thing which she has personally against the Kaiser,—more than the destruction of her home, the total loss of possessions, the killing of one of her children by an obus,—all these are of slight consequence beside the awful fact that the German commander took with him when he left every solitary key in the whole village! “And how do you expect me to get along—this is too much, too much.” If you know how the French love to lock up anything and everything, you can imagine what a tragedy this was!

Lassigny was the next village, and was in some ways the most totally destroyed one which we saw. There is nothing left at all. We went through it quickly, and returned to Noyon, where we left our officer with many thanks, and turned towards CompiÈgne, where we arrived at about 9 p.m., tired out, or, at any rate, I was dead. We had a good dinner, and I turned in very soon after. I had seen so many battlefields, so much destruction and so many novel sights, that I was afraid I would not sleep, but I did. Maybe the wine which we had at dinner made me sleep, but, anyway, I only came to at 7.30 the next a.m. I had some coffee and went down to find that the car was wet, and that the cap on the front wheel was cut open, and the grease running out. This meant something was wrong with the bearings, I knew, but, as CompiÈgne is about as convenient as the Desert of Sahara when it comes to getting hold of Ford parts, I decided to let well enough alone, and so tied it up with wire as best I could. King Edward showed a great longing to investigate, but I would not let him! As long as a Ford will run, let it run, is my motto—particularly when seventy-five kilometres from the nearest Maison Ford.

We all went at nine sharp to the famous Carrel Hospital, and were given an hour and a half lecture with colored slides of his system of irrigation. This was interesting, but I fear one member of the party felt that she would rather be out looking at things and battlefields than at slides of human beings, torn to pieces and then all nicely mended. After the talk, Dr. C. joined us, and took us through two wards. We watched some dressings which were gory and quite interesting. He assured us that he did not hurt the patient, but there was a difference of opinion on that subject, for the poilus yelled nobly most of the time. I talked with one man particularly. He attracted me, for he was so young-looking and was sitting up in bed with his leg on a pulley out in front of him, and in the most detached position I have ever seen. It did not seem to be part of him at all. He was reading a choice book called “La Douleur de l’Amour.” I asked him if he didn’t have a pain worse than love, and he allowed that he thought yes. He was a nice soul, and I am sending him some magazines to while away the time, for he will remain, even in this hospital where they are so quick, for several months. One nice old wizened-looking man said that he had been in five hospitals, had seven operations, and now was here with his right arm and left leg suspended. I asked him how he stood it, and he said that he would stand anything rather than go back to the trenches again, and live in water for two months at a time. A queer choice? We came away at about half-past eleven, after having had a long talk with Dr. C., who said the same thing that I have heard from so many sides. I asked why, if his system of irrigation could so reduce amputation, mortality, and suffering, didn’t the other French hospitals adopt it. He said that it was a new thing, and that they would not, because they are not used to the idea, and they prefer to keep on in the same old way, cutting off the limb if poisoning sets in, and so sending out a tremendous number of needlessly crippled men. How awful that does seem! I do hope that America is going to be sensible and profit by all the mistakes that the Allies have made so far.

From here we went in the direction of Soissons, and, much to our surprise, were able to persuade the guard at the outskirts of the town to let us enter, for women are not really meant to be admitted, as the city is still under fire. In some ways, this was the most interesting thing we saw. The cathedral was a wonderful and saddening sight. I would give a great deal to be able to attend a service in it some night. They are still holding them in the ruins, and, with the sound of the guns, which is very distinct, and with all the uniforms, a service held in the ruined cathedral, with the windows all shattered, the roof mostly gone, and the outer walls all pitted and scarred, must be impressive. I could not get a good picture of the towers, or rather the one remaining one, but I shall have a copy of Sydney Fairbanks’s, which is taken from a neighboring roof, and is excellent. They say that there is not a house in Soissons which has not been hit, and I can believe it. There are quite a few inhabitants left still, and they say they are going to stay until the last gasp.

We could only stay for a short time, for we were due for lunch at the American Escadrille, Flying Corps, which has its headquarters at Chaudon, south of Soissons. I had hoped that this would be the corps which I knew, but was not too sure, for the last time we had seen Harold Willis he was at Ham. However, you can imagine whether I was pleased to see, when we drove up to the camp, all the people whom I knew: Walter Lovell and Stephen Bigelow and Harold Willis. I, being the only thing this side of thirty in the party, naturally had a time! We had a swell luncheon, and afterwards saw everything there was to see. It is lucky for your peace of mind, Daddy, that they have only single passenger machines now, for nothing would have stopped me if they could have taken me up. I never was so thrilled by anything—to see them fly in circles, and upside down, and every which way, was too wonderful. Harold told me all about the engine, and how to work it, and I even got inside his machine and tried the whole thing. I hate to say it, but I am going to have a fly some day before I die, and, if I have a rich husband, I shall have flying machines, not jewels, for my hobby. I saw the most wonderful pictures, and, oh, hundreds of things. They have two lion cubs for mascots, and the best-looking dogs you ever saw—one German sheep dog is so intelligent it is hard to believe that he can’t speak. You simply tell him anything and he does it. He belongs to the captain. After spending as long a time there as we could, we came home via La Ferte Millon and Meaux, taking in the old battlefield of the Marne, and seeing Miss Aldrich’s House on the Marne. It was hard to believe that this district was once as much fought over as that which we saw first—it is so grown up now. For one thing, they did not use barbed-wire entanglements half as much as they do now. I cannot get over the miles and miles and miles of fields we saw, all criss-crossed with wire. I keep wondering who is going to take it all up when the war is over.

We arrived in Paris at about eight o’clock, and it was a tired but thrilled Marje who came home to Rootie.

Lots and lots of love from your loving and very sleepy daughter,