Every day for two months, February and March, sometimes when the roads
were hub-deep with mud, and sometimes when the roads were a glare of
ice and snow and driving the big truck was dangerous work, we passed
the crucifix.
It was the guide-post where four roads forked. One road went up to the
old monastery, where we had, in one corner, a canteen. Another road
led down toward divisional headquarters. Another road led into Toul,
and a fourth led directly toward the German lines, over which, if we
had driven far enough, as we started to do one night in the dark, we
could have gone straight to Berlin.
The first night that I went "down the line" alone with a truck-load I
was trembling inside about directions. The divisional man said: "Go
straight out the east gate of the city, down the road until you come to
the cross at the forks of the road. Take the turn to the left."
But even with these directions I was not certain. I was frankly
afraid, for I knew that a wrong turn would take me into German lines.
I did not like that prospect at all.
I drove the big car cautiously through the night. There were no
lights, and at best it was not easy driving. This night was
impenetrably dark. When I came to the cross-roads I stopped the
machine and climbed down. I wanted to make sure of the directions, and
they were printed in French on the sign-board that was near the
crucifix about which he had told me.
I got my directions all right, and then, moved by curiosity, flashed my
pocket-light on the figure of the bronze Christ on the crucifix there
at the crossroads guide-post. There was an inscription. Laboriously
finding each small letter with my flash in the darkness, my engine
panting off to the side of the road, I spelled it all out:
"Traveller, hast thou ever seen so great a grief as mine?"
Off in the near distance the star-shells were lighting up No Man's
Land. "Traveller, hast thou ever seen so great a grief as mine?" they
seemed to say to me.