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Updated: May 10, 2025
Traveling 'cross country, the country is likely to look different from the way it looked when you viewed it from the window of a railroad carriage. Of this much, though, I am sure: If I did not pass, through this little town of Montignies St.
The road was empty of natives empty, too, of German wagon trains; and these seemed to us curious things, because there had until then been hardly a minute of the day when we were not passing soldiers or meeting refugees. Almost without warning we came on this little village called Montignies St. Christophe.
Immediately after passing the ruined and deserted village of Montignies St. Christophe, we came at dusk to a place where a company of German infantrymen were in camp about a big graystone farmhouse. They were cooking supper over big trench fires and, as usual, they were singing. The light shone up into the faces of the cooks, bringing out in ruddy relief their florid skins and yellow beards.
We passed through it late in the afternoon this little Belgian town called Montignies St. Christophe just twenty-four hours behind a dust- colored German column. I am going to try now to tell how it looked to us. I am inclined to think I passed this way a year before, or a little less, though I cannot be quite certain as to that.
I rather imagine I tried to think up something funny to say about the shabby grandeur of the gendarme or the acid flavor of the cooking vinegar sold at the drinking place under the name of wine; for that time I was supposed to be writing humorous articles on European travel. But now something had happened to Montignies St.
We already had remarked this fact that in every desolated village cats were thick enough; but invariably the sharp-nosed, wolfish- looking Belgian dogs had disappeared along with their masters. And it was so in Montignies St. Christophe.
Without knowing certainly, we nevertheless imagined they were the dwellers of Montignies St. Christophe going back to the sorry shells that had been their homes.
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