Harrisburg telegraph. [volume] (Harrisburg, Pa.) 1879-1948, 1919-02-28
STILL WORK FOR
ARMY IN FRANCE
Men Anxious TO Get Home, but
Restoration Work Is
Enormous

THE AWFUL PLIGHT OF PERNANT
Homes, Churches. even it's Graves
Destroyed. its Fields Sown with
Cnexploded Shells-Not even a
candle for light and No Water
Fit for Drinking.
Inc Fate of French Village
described by Mary Master Needham
whose Husband, Famous American
Writer, was Killed While Flying
in France.
Paris. France.-"Now that the war
is over when are You going home?"
an American army officer asked me
today.
Going homer" I echoed and the
surprise in my voice evidently struck
him as strange
Why. yes he said. I'VE have done
our part. I'm glad TO be going back to
America, and to my business" (He is
business executive of unusual energy
and insight).
But pleace remember" 1 replied.
that while the army has about finished
its task, the civil life of devasted dis
tricts in France yet remains to be re-
stored"
That is the affair of France, not
ours he answered.
Not at ALL" was my response. THE
end of fighting increases. instead of
iessening the task of the American
Committee for Devasted France. We
are no longer limited by German occu-
patton, we can do much more than
relieve refugees and give temporary aid
unless America helps these returned
refugees to gather up the scattered
threads of life and begin anew with
new heart and strength. we will have
failed to understand what the war has
meant TO France,-failed to convey to
these people the understanding and
sympathy of our own great democracy
for the nation that has suffered so
severely"
My officer was dubious. His duties
in Paris kept him out of touch with the
devasted region. He could not quite
see why America should be concerned
in the work OF restoration. So l told
him:
Last week I went into the little Wilt
age of Pernant, ten miles from Sissons.
Here. before the war, 260 people dwelt
in the homes of their forefathers,
worshipped in the quaint twelfth CEN
tury Gothic church. and. when they died,
were gathered to their own in the little
churchyard where for generations their
dead had been laid TO the last. long
rest. They weren't rich. they weren't
poor. They were industrious, happy,
frugal, content with their lot.
War broke. From their sunny fields
the men of the village went to the
trenches many never TO return. Then
came the Germans, and all the horrors
of the occupation that oppressed the
aged. the women and the children so
unspeakably. French armies swept
over the village. Last of all came the
Americans. There is a new cemetery
in the little village today, and in it lie
161 gallant heroes of our Second Di-
vision
The Villagers-those that remained,
were driven out by the tide of bat
tie. Where did they go God Knows
by muddy lanes, by foul and other
crowded freight cars, by lonely roads.
TO other villages. where other refugees
were crowded in throngs. They left
their homes, their beds, their chairs,
and stoves. and pictures. their cows. and
sheep. and chickens, their dear old
church. the graves of their loved ones.
Today they are returned,-and to what?
Two tottering walls are left of their
thousand d-year-venerated church, their
cosy gray houses are jumbled heaps of
ruihs entombing their household goods,
the quiet Gods acre where sleep their
cherished dead hes been upheaved by
high explosive shells. and the bones of
their ancestors lie strewn to the four
winds. even the very fields from which
they must wrest their living in years to
come are sown thick with uneXploded
shells and bombs, a deadly menace go
the tiller. But this is their France,
these are their homes.
We Americans thank God that the
war was not fought on our soil. But
France did not chose TO be the battle
ground. Still less did these simple
villagers desire that war should rage
among and over their homes. What do
you suppose are their feelings today?
When we arrived the place seemed
uninhabited. We honked our automo-
bile horn They came out,-literally
out of the ground, out of their ruined
cellars, out of rude shelters in shattered
outhouses And of the 260 who lived
happily in the village in 1914, there
greeted us Just thirty-seven women, and
old men few children
A woman of forty-eight the
shadow OF what had been a woman of
unusual vigor and frame,-was their
spokesman
L
plied Sometimes one of us goes to
Sissons. but few shops are open there.
we have no horse, no wagon, no wheel
harrow. 1t is ten miles there, ten back.
How much do you think we can carry
in our arms? Our men haven't come
hack. and when they do-well We
haven't even tools to till the ground,
none TO mend our houses. We haven't
even water to drink, the Boche smashed
the nump and we cannot get another"
"Rut YOU must have water" said /.
"Sae that pond?" she added. / did,
green and Shiny.
"That or nothing" said the woman.
I'VE boil it, when we can get fire.
when we cant,-we run the risk of
d;saase A great many sikduers died
here you know.
Worst of ALL" cher voice broke)
U,,.o have no candles. Do you know
what II means TO lie in the dark hour
q fter hour with nothing but our mem
nrjes of the horrors we have known
II 10 like dying over again every night.
NO one bothers about us. You are
the very first TO come to US.
Tbis village of Pernant which l des-
o.,had 10 nv friend is no isolated in
stance There are hundreds like it in
the region of France which the war has
Sa,,asted The fighting may be over,
49, tha horror of the war are not ended.
Thev will not be for long, long time
Erance needs our help, and we must
rive that help. Time is the obstacle to
ba everyone These poor people must
,,ot wait in vain for assistance that
ccn,es at last too late to be OF use to