distance. And it is out of this emptiness that the
feeling of depression steals. There were with me
officers and soldiers hardened to the filth and corruption of war. Some of us had seen devastation
more complete and no less excusable than this.
Yet no one failed to respond to that sense of suffering which seemed to have survived its physical
source. It is, of course, impossible to say how
far our knowledge of what had happened here
gave birth to such thoughts. It is merely significant that we all experienced them. One visualised
rows of bandaged and groaning men, stretched
on the straw or crawling about with awkward,
incoherent motions, like mutilated insects. The
vaulting seemed to retain the echoes of cries and
curses. Openings showed where the Germans
had sent incendiary shells to burn their own
wounded
Such anguish leaves something behind it.
We went about softly—almost on tip-toe. Through the emptiness we experienced a sense of obstacles. We walked carefully so as not to stumble over the shadows that remained.
In the Place again we had a moment to appreciate the shattered surroundings of the cathedral. The miracle of the preservation of the statue of Joan of Arc was more impressive. Within the
