“To destroy the relics of the past is, even in small things, a kind of amputation, a self-mutilation not so much of limbs as of the memory and the imagination.” These words, by historian Donald Cameron Watt, were written about World War II, but they remain valid for any conflagration. Too often the destruction of cultural heritage is weighed against the loss of life: we’re discouraged from mourning lost statues, or churches, or town halls, because they are, we’re told, replaceable. Yet the eradication of historic property radically shifts our sense of being part of a greater community, and severs our connection to a past that should be informing who we are today.
The French towns of Armentières, Lens, and La Bassée, all sites of industry near the Flemish border, have seen more than their fair share of destruction: La Bassée was first razed to the ground in 880, and a wholly unsubstantiated legend arose that the place was named “La Bassée,” potentially a corruption of “lowland,” because its tall monuments had been levelled so often. By the time World War I ended, every church and public building in Armentières was flattened, and 4,800 houses turned to powder. As can be seen in this haunting film, the same was also true of Lens and La Bassée, as well as the surrounding countryside; the image of a lone blasted tree is a powerful testimony to the total annihilation.
After a brief occupation by the German army, Armentières came under British control in October 1914, consequently becoming a frequent target of enemy guns; the civilian population were evacuated in 1917 after poison gas made it too dangerous. In April 1918 it was retaken by the Germans, who finally abandoned the city in October, destroying anything left standing. The damage to Lens initially came from the other side: under German control in 1914, the town was bombarded by the British, who turned the magnificent church of St. Léger into rubble. The retreating army sabotaged what remained, and by the time journalist Albert Londres arrived after liberation he wrote that one couldn’t even be moved: nothing was recognizable. La Bassée, the site of an especially bloody battle in October 1914, was similarly destroyed. In 1934, returning British soldiers Bernard Newman and Harold Arpthorp wrote a moving poem, “The Road to La Bassée,” reflecting their amazement that life had returned to semi-normality after such complete destruction: “Yes, I wondered what they’d think of it, those mates of mine who died. / Of those buses rattling over the old pave close beside. / ‘Carry on! That’s why we died!’ I could almost hear them say, / ‘To keep those buses always running from Bethune to La Bassée!’”

Jay Weissberg