gh its chimney is
shattered and its coal waggons are scraps of wood and iron on broken
rails. There are many graves by the church, graves of our boys,
civilians' graves, children's graves, all victims of war. Children are
there still, merry little kids with red lips and laughing eyes.

One day, when staying in the village, I met one, a dainty little dot,
with golden hair and laughing eyes, a pink ribbon round a tress that
hung roguishly over her left cheek. She smiled at me as she passed
where I sat on the roadside under the poplars, her face was an angel's
set in a disarray of gold. In her hand she carried an empty jug,
almost as big as herself and she was going to her home, one of the
inhabited houses nearest the fighting line. The day had been a very
quiet one and the village took an opportunity to bask in the sun. I
watched her go up the road tripping lightly on the grass, swinging her
big jug. Life was a garland of flowers for her, it was good to watch
her to see her trip along; the sight made me happy. What caused the
German gunner, a simple woodman and a father himself perhaps, (p. 259)
to fire at that moment? What demon guided the shell? Who can say? The
shell dropped on the roadway just where the child was; I saw the
explosion and dropped flat to avoid the splinters, when I looked again
there was no child, no jug, where she had been was a heap of stones on
the grass and dark curls of smoke rising up from it. I hastened
indoors; the enemy were shelling the village again.

Our billet is a village with shell-scarred trees lining its streets,
and grass peeping over its fallen masonry, a few inn signs still swing
and look like corpses hanging; at night they creak as if in agony.
This place was taken from the Germans by the French, from the French
by the Germans and changed hands several times afterwards. The streets
saw many desperate hand to hand encounters; they are clean now but the
village stinks, men were buried there by cannon, they lie in the
cellars with the wine barrels, bones, skulls, fleshless hands sticking
up over the bricks; the grass has been busy in its endeavour to cloak
up the horror, but it will take nature many years to hide the ravages
of war.

In another small village three kilometres from the firing line I have
seen the street so thick with flies that it was impossible to see (p. 260)
the cobbles underneath. There we could get English papers the morning
after publication: for penny pa