I never see a hand grenade without thinking how difficult it is just now to be a hero in France.  Every man is really a hero, and the men who have medals are almost ashamed, since they know that nearly all their comrades merit them.  It is especially difficult to be a hero in one’s own family.  One of the men in our hospital at Royaumont had been in the trenches during an attack.  A grenade thrown by one of the French soldiers struck the parapet and rebounded amongst the men.  With that rapidity of thought which is part of the French character, Jules sat on the grenade and extinguished it.  For this act of bravery he was decorated by the French Government and wrote home to tell his wife.  I found him sitting up in bed, gloomily reading her reply, and I inquired why he looked so glum.  “Well, mademoiselle,” he replied, “I wrote to my wife to tell her of my new honour; and see what she says:  ’My dear Jules, we are not surprised you got a medal for sitting on a hand grenade; we have never known you to do anything else but sit down at home!’”

It was at Fere Champinoise that we passed through the first village which had been entirely destroyed by the retreating Germans.  Only half the church was standing, but services are still held there every Sunday.  Very little attempt has been made to rebuild the ruined houses.  Were I one of the villagers, I would prefer to raze to the ground all that remained of the desecrated homesteads and build afresh new dwellings; happy in the knowledge that with the victory of the Allies would start a period of absolute security, prosperity, and peace.

It was on the same day that we had the privilege of beholding some of the 400-cm. guns of France, all prepared and ready to travel at a minute’s notice along the railway lines to the section where they might be needed.  Some idea of their size may be obtained from the fact that there were ten axles to the base on which they travel.  They were all disguised by the system of camouflage employed by the French Army, and at a very short distance they blend with the landscape and become almost invisible.  Each gun bears a different name, “Alsace,” “Lorraine,” etc., and with that strange irony and cynical wit of the French trooper, at the request of the men of one battery, one huge gun has been christened “Mosquito,” “because it stings.”

The French often use a bitter and biting humour in speaking of the enemy.  For instance, amongst the many pets of the men, the strangest I saw was a small hawk sitting on the wrist of a soldier who had trained him.  The bird was the personification of evil.  If anyone approached, he snapped at them and endeavoured to bite them.  I asked the man why he kept him, and he replied that they had quite good sport in the trenches when they allowed the hawk to hunt small birds and field-mice.  Then, his expression changing from jovial good-humour to grimness, he added:  “You know, I call him ‘Zepp,’ because he kills the little ones” ("parcequ’il tue les tous petits").