was no companionable morning chatter. We all
stared at the grey façade of the station. The
huge clock mocked us, pacing the minutes too
quickly. In the eyes of the soldiers smouldered
their doubt. Would they enter at that portal
once more? Would they look again upon the
familiar and the desirable ?
From the summit of the facade gazed back the stone figure of a woman. There would have been no mistaking it even if it hadn't been labelled. It was the figure of Strassburg. It had an appearance of summoning the staring and melancholy soldiers through that portal and on to the East for a violent and necessary redemption. Our compartment was filled with officers. Even my Quaker companion wore a uniform of the Red Cross. On that long train I was the only one in civilian clothing.
We glided quickly into the district entered by the Germans just before the battle of the Marne. About bridgeheads many buildings lay in ruins. We passed the once charming little town of Sermaize-les-Bains. Scarcely a wall showed more than two feet high.
An officer spoke.
“They say it was because the mayor of Sermaize failed to come out and greet the commander
