[Illustration]
_First Impressions_
After a few more short delays (inseparable from times and states of
war), the Section at last found itself within a mile of one of the most
stubbornly contested points of the line. In a little town not far from
the front they came in swift progression into hard work, bombardment,
and appreciation by the army.
[Illustration: WITHIN SIGHT OF THE GERMAN TRENCHES
(On the hill in the background)]
Pont-à-Mousson is in a district in which low hills, many of them
covered with thick woods, lie along the valley of the Moselle. Down
towards the river, on both banks and at right angles to it, stretch
the interminable lines of trenches, east and west; batteries of
guns crown the adjacent hills for two or three miles back from the
trenches, alike in the enemy's country and that of the French; and
intermittently, day and night, these batteries defy and seek to destroy
each other, the valleys echoing with the roar of their guns and the
sharp scream of shells high overhead. Back of the trenches for several
miles every village is full of soldiers resting or in reserve; the
roads are filled with marching troops, horses, mule trains, baggage
wagons, guns and ammunition carts. At every crossroad stand sentries
with bayonets. After sunset the whole country is dark, no lights
being permitted, but the roads are more crowded than by day, as it is
under cover of night that troops and guns are generally moved. The
whole country near to the active lines is one great theatre of war.
Everywhere are sights and sounds forbidding a moment's forgetfulness of
the fact. Yet--and it is one of the most curious and touching things
one sees--the peasant life goes on but little changed. Old men dig in
their gardens, women gather and sell their vegetables, girls stand in
the evenings at their cottage doors, children run about and play in the
streets. Often, not more than two miles away, a desperate attack may
be in progress. Between the concussions of the cannon throwing their
missiles from the hills over the village can be heard the rattle of
rifle-fire and the dull _pop-pop-pop_ of the _mitrailleuses_. In an
hour or two, scores, maybe hundreds, of wounded men, or lines of
prisoners, will file through the village, and at any moment shells may
burst over the street, killing soldiers or women indifferently, but the
old man still digs in his garden, the girl still gossips at the door.