In the fields where the corn is standing, the tiny crosses marking the last resting places of the men are entirely hidden, but where the grain has been gathered the graves, stand out distinctly marked not only by a cross, but also by the tall bunches of corn which have been left growing on these small patches of holy ground.  It has always been said that France has two harvests each year.  Certainly in the fields of the Marne there is not only the harvest of bread; there is also springing up the harvest of security and peace.

The peasants as they point out the graves always add:  “We of the people know that those men sacrificed their lives that our children might live.  Those who have died in vain for an unjust cause may well envy the men of France who have poured out their blood for the benefit of humanity.”

Looking on the crosses on the battlefield of the Marne, I realised to the fullest extent the sacrifices, borne with such bravery, of the women of France.  I thought of the picture I had seen in Paris of a group of mothers standing at the foot of Calvary, looking out over the fields of small black crosses, lifting their hands to Heaven, with the words:  “We also, God, have given our sons for the peace of the world.”

At Montmirail the real activity of the war zone first became apparent.  We drew the car to the side of the road and waited whilst a long procession of empty munition wagons passed on the way back from the munition parks near the fighting line.  There was a smile on the face of every one of the drivers.  Each of them had the satisfaction of knowing that there was no chance of his returning with an empty wagon, as there is no lack of provisions to feed the hungriest of the “75’s” or any of her larger sisters.

The fact that it is known that there is an ample supply of munitions plays an important part in the “morale” of the troops.  The average Poilu has no sympathy with the man who grumbles at the number of hours he may have to spend in the factory.  We heard the tale of a munition worker who was complaining in a cafe at having to work so hard.  A Poilu who was en permission, and who was sitting at the next table, turned to him saying:  “You have no right to grumble.  You receive ten to twelve francs a day for making shells and we poor devils get five sous a day for stopping them!”

Recruiting Rat-Catchers

We lunched in the small but hospitable village of Sezannes in company with a most charming invalided officer, who informed us that he was the principal in that district of the S.D.R.  R.D. (Service de Recherche des Rattiers) (the Principal Recruiting Officer for Rat-Catchers).  In other words, he is spending his time endeavouring to persuade suitable bow-wows to enlist in the service of their country.  Likely dogs are trained until they do not bark, and become entirely accustomed to the sound of firing; they are then pronounced “aptes a faire campagne” or “fit for service,” receive their livret militaire, or certificates—­for not every chance dog is allowed in the trenches—­and are despatched to the trenches on a rat-hunting campaign.