By now all the remaining windows have been boarded up and the
blown-out doors barred against prying eyes. Here we are at an old
estaminet called "Aux Coeurs joyeux." There's hardly anything but the
sign left. At the cross-roads in the centre of the town is the church,
so dismal. No roof, pillars broken and lying about the floor amongst
debris of broken images, chairs, and muddy rubble.

[Sidenote: PLOEGSTEERT]

As I am coming out I turn over the hand of an image, and underneath it
what the deuce is this? Why, a fragment of an old picture, torn and
decaying away. What shall I do? Leave it to rot? Give it to ... Yes,
exactly ... to whom? And would anyone thank me for it? Just a head of
St. John, very battered and faded. It's a fragment about a foot square,
and through all the mud one can see something like this: A head of St.
John in the corner; rays of light (two very thin small rays) shining on
him, and a look of great suffering on his face. The background a sort of
dull ochre. Evidently once a large composition. There are two books, one
with EVAN, and the other with, I think, BIBLIA SACRA,
written on it. It is quite worthless except from a sentimental point of
view.

The exposure and the heat of the explosions have sadly cracked and
peeled the paint, but it seems vaguely symbolical. Near here I picked up
some minute bits of green glass.

However, there was a notice: "It is dangerous to loiter here." So I tore
myself away, and we remounted. The Boche can't see into the town
because of the remaining buildings, but the whole place is utterly
empty--not a dog even.

Soon the road to the next village _is_ exposed to the Boche's view.
Therefore canvas screens about 20 feet high have been erected, so that,
if necessary, troops, and even lorries, can hurry by. It is most
curious. "But for that thin bit of canvas, my good Swallow, you would
get something into your tummy you wouldn't like," I remarked. At that
moment the sun came out. We were keeping to the side of the road where
it is soft going. Suddenly Swallow leaped like a stag into the middle of
the road all over the _pave_. Panic terror. He had seen the shadow of a
starling flit across his path!

Jezebel was tittuping along behind, thinking only of her next feed. I
cannot get her to take any interest in these thrilling spots. Sometimes
a soldier or two would emerge from a cellar, the entrance to which would
be piled up with sand-bags. And once or twice bang! bang!