The story of the town of D——­, in Brittany, is very typical of what the war has brought into many isolated communities.

D——­ is a little town of two thousand inhabitants, with a thirteenth-century church, with mediaeval houses with quaint stone porticoes and outside staircases.  There is one street, shaped like a sickle, with a handle that is the station road.

War was declared and the men of D——­ went away.  The women and children brought in the harvest, and waited for news.  What little came was discouraging.

One day in August one of the rare trains stopped at the station, and an inspector got off and walked up the sickle-handle to the schoolhouse.  He looked about and made the comment that it would hold eighty beds.  Whereupon he went away, and D——­ waited for news and gathered the harvest.

On the fifth of September, 1914, the terrific battle of the Marne commenced.  The French strategic retreat was at an end, and with her allies France resumed the offensive.  What happened in the little village of D——?

And remember that D——­ is only one of hundreds of tiny interior towns.  D——­ has never heard of the Red Cross, but D——­ venerated, in its thirteenth-century church, the Cross of Christ.

This is what happened: 

One day in the first week of September a train drew up at the box-like station, a heterogeneous train—­coaches, luggage vans, cattle and horse cars.  The doors opened, and the work of emptying the cars began.  The women and children, aghast and bewildered, ran down the sickle-handle road and watched.  Four hundred wounded men were taken out of the cars, laid prone on the station platform, and the train went on.

There were no surgeons in D——­, but there was a chemist who knew something of medicine and who, for one reason or another, had not been called to the ranks.  There were no horses to draw carts.  There was nothing.

The chemist was a man of action.  Very soon the sickle and the old church saw a curious sight.  They saw women and children, a procession, pushing wounded men to the school in the hand carts that country people use for milk cans and produce.  They saw brawny peasant women carrying chairs in which sat injured men with lolling heads and sunken eyes.

Bales of straw were brought into the school.  Tender, if unaccustomed, hands washed fearful wounds, but there were no dressings, no bandages.

Any one who knows the French peasant and his poverty will realise the plight of the little town.  The peasant has no reserves of supplies.  Life is reduced to its simplest elements.  There is nothing that is not in use.

D——­ solved part of its problem by giving up its own wooden beds to the soldiers.  It tore up its small stock of linen, its towels, its dusters; but the problem of food remained.

There was a tiny stove, on which the three or four teachers of the school had been accustomed to cook their midday meal.  There was no coal, only wood, and green wood at that.  All day, and all day now, D——­ cooks the pot-a-feu for the wounded on that tiny stove. Pot-a-feu is good diet for convalescents, but the “light diets” must have eggs, broth, whatever can be found.