is
a patchwork of these shell holes. At every few rods a new line of old
trenches approaches the road and wanders away again. Barbed-wire
entanglements run up and down the gently sloping hillsides.

Presently we came out upon a perfectly level field. It was simply torn
by shell fire. Old half-filled trenches wandered aimlessly about, and
beyond, under a gentle slope, the little village of Courbessaux stood
in ruins. The commandant called my attention to a bit of woods in
front.

"The Germans had their machine guns there," said he. "We didn't know
it, and a French brigade charged across this field. It started at
8:15, and at 8:30 it had lost more than 3,000 out of 6,000. Then the
Germans came out of the woods in their turn, and our artillery, back
at Haraucourt, caught them and they lost 3,500 men in a quarter of an
hour." Along the roadside were innumerable graves. We looked at one.
It was marked: "Here 196 French." Twenty feet distant was another; it
was marked: "Here 196 Germans." In the field where we stood I was told
some 10,000 men are buried. They were buried hurriedly, and even now
when it rains arms and legs are exposed.

Two years had passed, almost two years, since this field had been
fought for. The Germans had taken it. They had approached Haraucourt,
but had not passed it. This was the centre and the most vital point in
the Lorraine battle. What Foch's troops had done about La Fere
Champenoise, those of Castelnau had done here. The German wave had
been broken, but at what cost? And now, after so many months, the
desolation of war remained. But yet it was not to endure. Beside the
very graves an old peasant was ploughing, guiding his plough and his
horses carefully among the tombs. Four miles away more trenches faced
each other and the battle went on audibly, but behind this line, in
this very field where so many had died, life was beginning.

Later we drove south, passing within the lines the Germans had held in
their great advance, we travelled through Luneville, which they had
taken and left unharmed, save as shell fire had wrecked an eastern
suburb. We visited Gerbeviller, where in an excess of rage the Germans
had burned every structure in the town. I have never seen such a
headquarters of desolation. Everything that had a shape, that had a
semblance of beauty or of use, lies in complete ruin, detached houses,
a chateau, the blocks in the village, all in ashes. Save for Sermaize,
Gerbeviller is th