Yet, how calm, how wonderful they
were in their utter helplessness. Rain began to fall as we were
removing the patients. Gradually the dreadful light faded from
the sky and the flames that had began to eat their way in the
walls of the nearest buildings were extinguished. Only the
operating room was burned to the ground.
As we moved among the patients, doing what little we could to
ease the pain and quiet the fears of those dear, noble boys, a
hand from one of the cots seized oars in a clinging firm embrace
and we recognized the voice of Lieut. Lady as he said, "I am so
glad you are with me tonight."
When that eventful day of the 11th of November came and the
bells from Regret and Verdun rang out the glorious news of the
armistice, how the hearts of all the boys in the wards were
stirred! It was a beautiful day resembling our American Indian
Summer, when we threw open the doors and windows to admit the
glorious message. It seemed that the prayers of not only France,
but of the world, were being said and the theme that ran through
them all was: "How beautiful are the feet of Him upon the
mountains that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace."
And chiming in with the music of the bells, the clear voice of
Lieut. Lady was heard, as he exclaimed, "I hope and pray God
that this will be the end of all wars." Let us sincerely hope
that the noble sacrifice of such men as this shall not have been
in vain. To many the bells that morning meant peace, home and
love, but alas, to others they had a sadder meaning!
When spring came again to the shell-torn fields near Verdun, we
saw how Nature in places was reclothing the meadows in their
mantles of green and around the ruined, tenantless homes along
the Meuse, how the primrose and violet were covering up the
scars made by unnumbered shells. The air was filled with the
joyous notes of the lark, and the linnet and the black-cap
warbled among the hedgerows. Here where once had dwelt the
peasant, the cuckoo called from the evergreens and nightingales
made the evening breeze vocal with their rapturous notes. This
wealth of flowers and song only served to call up bitter
memories for, alas! how many brave hearts lay sleeping in that
vast abode of the dead, all unmindful of the beauty of flower or
joy of song about them.
Slowly we made our way from the flower gardens to the French
cemetery, where thousands of valiant Poilus who had said: "they
shall not pass" were sleeping. We saw where the hand of
affection had planted the fleur-de-lis or hung beautiful bead-
wrought wreaths upon the crosses until this abode of the dead
resembled a vast flower garden.
