one day toward the end of march, 1917, our battalion was in reserve in huts and tents at bois des alleux, a mile or so back of mt. st. eloy, so i took advantage of a fine afternoon to ride about the country. making a detour through fields to avoid being stopped by some officious transport control, i came to the route nationale running from bethune to arras.
to my surprise it looked like the strand on a busy day, for it was full of marching troops, transport wagons, hurrying motor cars with staff officers, and double-decked motor busses painted gray, full of tommies, gay and happy, going to a railhead to enjoy a well-earned leave. one could not but wonder in what part of london these motor busses used to carry their passengers, and think how strange it was to see them now hurrying along a french road within shell fire of the germans. as i rode along the well-paved route, our trench lines could be seen in the nearby fields, and the picturesque towers of mt. st. eloy were on my left, seen through the nets stretched from tree to tree to hide the traffic from the watchful eyes of the german observers.
riding toward arras, eight kilometers away, i came up with an english officer riding in the same direction. when i joined him he was at first, as all english officers are, a little loath to be joined by a stranger, though the latter wears the same uniform. but gradually he thawed and became the likable, courteous chap that the english officer nearly always becomes on closer acquaintance. he informed me that one required a pass to enter arras, but as he had one and was going in to see his commanding officer, he offered to take me in as the medical officer of his battalion. availing myself of this brotherly offer, i rode with him along the net-guarded road till we came to the outskirts of arras where a sentry allowed me to enter with him. we put up our horses at the old french cavalry barracks, now occupied by british—not canadian—troops, and then we started out to search for his c.o.
we came first to what was once the attractive boulevard carnot, now "barbwire square," as it was nearly filled with this material to keep the soldiers out of it to prevent them from being hit by the german shells which landed there daily, either from the enemy lines only 100 yards away, or from hostile aeroplanes. the huns had the range of this street to a nicety. as we walked along the street shells bursting a couple of blocks away threw pieces of rock so near our heads that we were glad when we reached the end of it.
we wandered about the streets, deserted by nearly all civilians except an old man here and there walking about with bowed head, or an old woman long past the days of her beauty being spoiled by the splinters of a shell. except in a shop where i coaxed a young woman to sell me a souvenir spoon, in two hours i saw only one young woman in the streets. she was hurrying along with a parcel under her arm, paying no heed to the sharp, cutting explosions of our 18-pounders nearby or to the explosions of the german shells a few blocks away. she looked for all the world like a young housewife returning home after a morning's shopping.
the houses that lined the streets were nearly all closed. all of them showed marks of shell fire, some being completely demolished, others having only the rear walls standing with parts of the sides pointing outward like arms stretching forth for their loved ones. the immense station of the chemin de fer du nord was a mass of ruins. the stone cathedral was represented by the lower part of the tower, and a brass bell lying on the pavement, the bell that had in times of peace so often called the faithful to prayer. the avenue pasteur—france is a country that recognizes its scientists—showed few complete buildings, and ironically one noted the ruin that german shells had made of the avenue strassbourg.
here and there a stone barricade had been built, loopholes being left for machine-guns, to prevent a possible german advance. notices told all to keep near the walls and away from the open streets to avoid shell fire. estaminets, cafés, épiceries, and restaurants were all damaged and closed. joyful nights and gay days were things of the past in this shadow of a prosperous city. à la mode parisienne, the sign over a ladies' suit store, was all that remained of the center of fashion of the women of arras.
altogether arras, which had been a well-built and modern city of 25,000 people, had become a deserted village. what shutters remained were closed and riddled with shrapnel, and the place had a sad, forbidding air, as if the inhabitants had flown because of some horrible plague. it reminded one of the ruins of pompeii. in one square stood the pedestal only of a monument erected, it said, in 1910, "in honor of the sons of arras who had died for their native land." when the monument is rebuilt the dead heroes in whose honor it was erected will have been joined by many comrades.
i passed out of the walls, depressed by the unhappy wreck of a once prosperous city destroyed by the highly refined methods of warfare developed by twentieth century german kultur.
