Where the Sabots Clatter Again

Three roads wander down from the hills and come together; and at the point of meeting stands a crucifix. This large and dignified "Calvaire", though bearing the nicks of bullets and faded by weather, still sheds a sorrowful beauty that is perhaps the more impressive because of these marks of desecration. It forms the center of the tiny village, whose houses cluster close to the mourning image and then straggle thinly along the three roads. Not even the war which swept over in all its ferocity has robbed Vauchelles of its winding charm. Many houses have collapsed, but the village still retains its ancient outline of peaked roofs, and on all sides orderly piles of bricks, fresh plaster and new tar paper give an aspect of thrift and optimism. Vauchelles has met the challenge of devastation and is setting things aright.

Is the town asleep? The healing July sun softly warms the silent houses and their broken walls and closed doors. No one is in sight. Yet we have come with our camionette well laden with clothing for the inhabitants.