CHAPTER XVII

WRECK AND RUIN

The word had been passed by the military authorities that the moving picture boys should be given every facility in obtaining views of everything that came within the scope of their mission, and this permission acted like a magic password wherever they went.

Chateau-Thierry itself was of the keenest interest to them, and they would have liked to trace out the course of the battles there and at Belleau Wood where the Americans had covered themselves with imperishable glory. But their time was limited, as they had to be back on the front lines within a week, and they kept themselves strictly to the work they had in hand.

The Huns had been driven back so quickly and unexpectedly from the town that they had not had time to treat it as badly as others they had held. It would have taken more time than they had to spare to mine and blow up the houses and public buildings. But they had revenged themselves for that by thoroughly wrecking the inside of the houses where they had been quartered.

“Just look at this!” exclaimed Blake as they entered a house that had evidently been occupied by a well-to-do family. “If this isn’t a complete job I never saw one.”

“I suppose this was a case of military necessity,” said Joe sarcastically, as he looked at the furniture smashed to bits and a handsome piano that had been hacked by axes.

“Military necessity!” snorted Blake.

“Even the kids’ toys haven’t been spared,” remarked Mac, as he set up the camera to take pictures of the nursery. “Look at these Teddy bears torn in two, the legs and arms pulled from the dolls, the doll’s cradles smashed. Poor little kiddies!”

From room to room they went, their hearts swelling with indignation.

Bayonets had been thrust through the works of costly clocks, covers and pages had been ripped from books and strewn about the floor, oil paintings had been slit with knives, vases, urns, crockery and glassware were shattered into fragments, curtains and tapestries had been torn into ribbons, ink had been poured over rugs and carpets, every mirror in the house had been smashed, mattresses had been cut open and their contents scattered about the rooms. It was a scene of utter and wanton ruin, and the boys grew hot with wrath.

“It is the same everywhere,” their French guide, who spoke passable English, declared; and as they went from house to house they found that he had spoken the truth.

“Gee, but it’s a relief to get out in the open air again!” exclaimed Blake, when they had finished their work for the day. “Those sights worked on me so that I felt as if I would cave in if I stayed there much longer.”

“I’m glad that we’ve got it on record though,” remarked Joe. “Tell that to people and they’d say that you were lying. But they can’t very well get away from the evidence of the films.”

The next morning they left the city and rolled out on the country roads. It had been one of the most beautiful sections of sunny France, but now it had been transformed into a desert. Every horse and cow had been killed or carried away, fences had been burned, and where farmhouses had stood were nothing but heaps of ashes and masonry. Farm implements had either been carried off, or when there had not been time for that, had been broken or thrown into the flames of the houses, where they lay in twisted shapes, a melancholy ruin.

From time to time they passed parties of refugees on the road, who had been driven from their homes by the approach of the Germans, but now that they had been defeated were returning again to what had been their homes. There were wagons piled with household goods, drawn sometimes by horses and again by men between the shafts. There were smaller vehicles drawn by dogs, and boys trundled wheelbarrows along. Men and women and little children trudged along beside the vehicles. Their faces were pinched and thin and preternaturally grave, for though they were at last returning to their homes, they had seen enough along the road to make them fear what those homes would be when they finally reached them.

“Poor things!” said Joe with pity. “Can you imagine how they’ll feel when they stand before the pile of ashes or of bricks that they used to call home?”

“They’ll have to begin life all over again,” observed Blake.

“And with nothing to do it with,” said Mac. “Gee, but those sights make you sore! Just look over there.”

He pointed to a spot a little way off the road. There stood a gaunt chimney that was almost the only thing left of what had been a house. On the hearth a woman was trying to heat a little water in a battered pan that she had picked up out of the wreckage. She was not old, but her form was emaciated, her eyes sunken, and her whole attitude one of utter hopelessness. A baby wrapped in an old shawl was lying on the grass near by, fretting feebly, while the mother with a few twigs that she had gathered was feeding the scanty fire and trying to coax the water to boil.

The sight was too much for the boys. In an instant they called to their chauffeur to stop. The other car, close behind, slowed down, too. The boys sprang from their car and with the help of their escort hurried over to the woman, with their arms full of supplies that they had drawn from their stores. Tea and coffee and bread and canned meats and jars and condensed milk were among them.

The woman saw them coming, and at first the sight of the unfamiliar uniforms made her shrink, and she rushed toward her baby as though to pick it up and flee. But the kindly look in the bright, eager faces of the newcomers reassured her, and when she saw them place the food on the ground near her and indicate by gestures that it was meant for her she burst into a fit of wild weeping.

While she tried to gain control of herself, the boys, to cover their own embarrassment, crowded around the baby and made much of it. Then when the mother was calmer, they tried to talk to her, but neither she nor they could understand each other. But her grateful looks and the way she raised her hands to heaven showed them that she was invoking blessings on them.

“And to think,” said Blake, as, seated in their cars, the party was once more speeding along the road, “that that same thing in one form or another is happening all through Northern France and in Belgium. Her husband was probably killed or is in the army and she comes back to find her home gone. What will she do? What can she get to eat? Where can she sleep?”

They found many more such calls on their help and sympathy, and they were thankful that they had twice as much in the way of supplies as they needed, thanks to the bountiful provision made by their employer who had, perhaps, had this in mind when he stocked their car so thoroughly.

They passed orchards that had once been filled with carefully cultivated trees that every year were heavy with fruit. Every tree had been cut down or sawn more than halfway through, so as to destroy it forever. In cases where the despoilers had been pressed for time, they had placed charges of dynamite in the forks of the tree and the explosion of this had split the trunk in two.

“It wasn’t enough to abuse humanity,” remarked Joe bitterly, “they even had to outrage nature.”

“They wanted to make France a beggar for the next fifty years,” commented Blake savagely.

They did not dare to drink any water secured along the way, for the wells had been contaminated and defiled. Even the dead had not been spared, for graves had been rifled and tombstones desecrated by coarse inscriptions.

In the towns, they found that the same remorseless devastation had been carried on. Mills had been stripped of all their costly machinery, which had been carried away into Germany and then the mills themselves blown up. The sanctity of churches had not protected them. The altar ornaments had been stolen and charges of dynamite put in the pillars of the structures and exploded. Works of art had not been spared. Statues in public squares had been carried away. Private houses had been utterly looted, and even the bells and door-knobs had been stolen.

Coal mines had been flooded so that they could not be gotten in working condition for many years to come. In a single city, ten thousand workingmen’s houses had been razed to the ground. Everywhere it was the same story--cold-blooded, heartless, deliberate destruction.

“Well,” said Blake a few days later, as they were nearing their old headquarters, “I’m glad that job is done.”

“Yes,” returned Joe, “and there isn’t any money that would tempt me to go through it again.”

“I’m glad the films gave out when they did,” added Macaroni. “I expect to have nightmares for the next year.”

They received a hearty welcome from Mr. Hadley, who was much gratified at the thoroughness with which they had done their work.

“You need a change now,” he said with a smile. “Perhaps you’ll be glad to get off the ground and up into the sky.”

“What do you mean?” asked Blake and Joe in one breath.

“I’ve arranged to have you go up in an aeroplane and take views of the enemy’s lines,” replied Mr. Hadley. “That is, of course, if you are willing.”

“Willing is our middle name!” exclaimed Joe.

“Same here,” agreed Blake. “The Huns have done mischief enough in the air, too, but at least we won’t be able to see the traces of it.”

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