Then I remembered that the Germans had
always been active in the champagne industry, that
many had been employed in the vineyards and the
factories of Rheims. Still it seemed beyond
belief.
"This ruined city was their home," I said.
"These houses must have belonged to their friends."
He nodded.
"It is hard to handle them," he said. "They are very clever at reporting damage and offering ranges.
It will continue to be so until there is not one of these people left in Rheims. Yesterday two of them were shot."
The sound of guns was very loud. He gestured sadly at the ruins.
"Still the bombardment goes on."
And I recalled the authoritative statement of the intelligence officer in London that every German, no matter where he lived, believed himself a divinely appointed agent of his government. And I looked at the ruins, wondering.
During my trip to the war zone of Lorraine I found this give and take of intelligence more pronounced than anywhere else. I have written of the material agony. In addition I was arrested by a mental distress, born of a situation not unlike
