And so that was why the Hun spared Noyon.  But if he spared Noyon, he spared little else.[2] Every village between here and the present front line has been levelled; every fruit-tree cut down.  The wilful wickedness and pettiness of the crime stir one’s heart to pity and his soul to white-hot anger.  The people who did this must make payment in more than money; to settle such a debt blood is required.  American soldiers who came to Europe to do a job and with no decided detestation of the Hun, are being taught by such landscapes.  They know now why they came.  The wounds of France are educating them.

[Footnote 2:  Goodness knows where the “present Front-line” may be by the time this book is published.  I visited Noyon in February, 1918, just before the big Hun offensive commenced.]

There has been a scheme proposed in America under which certain individual cities and towns in the States shall make themselves responsible for the re-building of certain individual cities and towns in the devastated areas.  The scheme is noble; it has only one drawback, namely that it specialises effort and tends to ignore the immensity of the problem as a whole.  I visited one of these towns—­it is a town for which Philadelphia has made itself responsible.  I wish the people of Philadelphia might get a glimpse of the task they have undertaken.  There is a church-spire still standing; that is about all.  The rest is a pile of bricks.  In the midst of this havoc some Philadelphia ladies are living, one of whom is a nurse.  They run a dispensary for the people who keep house for the most part in cellars and holes in the ground.  A doctor visits them to hold a clinic ever so often.  They have a little warehouse, in which they keep the necessities for immediate relief work.  They have a rest hut for soldiers.  They employ whatever civilian labour they can hire for the roofing of some of the least damaged cottages; for this temporary reconstruction they provide the materials.  When I was there, the place was well within range of enemy shell-fire.  The approach had to be made by way of camouflaged roads.  The sole anxiety of these brave women was that on account of their nearness to the front-line, the military might compel them to move back.  In order to safeguard themselves against this and to create a good impression, they were making a strong point of entertaining whatever officers were billeted in this vicinity.  Their effort to remain in this rural Gomorrah was as courageous as it was pathetic.  “The people need us,” they said, and then, “you don’t think we’ll be moved back, do you?” I thought they would, and I didn’t think that the grateful officers would be able to prevent it—­they were subalterns and captains for the most part.  “But we once had a major to tea,” they said.  “A major!” I exclaimed, trying to look impressed, “Oh well, that makes a difference!”