bedstead buried to the knobs in debris, skeletons of birds in a cage
hanging under an eave. The entire place is in the zone of fire,
and it has been tremendously bombarded throughout the war.
Nevertheless, some houses still stand, and seventeen civilians--
seven men and ten women--insist on remaining there. I talked to
one fat old woman, who contended that there was no danger. A few
minutes later a shell fell within a hundred yards of her, and it might
just as well have fallen on the top of her coiffe, to prove finally to her
the noble reasonableness of war and the reality of the German
necessity for expansion.

The village church was laid low. In the roof two thin arches of the
groining remain, marvellously. One remembers this freak of
balance--and a few poor flowers on the altar. Mass is celebrated in
that church every Sunday morning. We spoke with the cure, an
extremely emaciated priest of middle age; he wore the Legion of
Honour. We took to the trenches again, having in the interval been
protected by several acres of ruined masonry. About this point
geography seemed to end for me. I was in a maze of burrowing,
from which the hot sun could be felt but not seen. I saw stencilled
signs, such as "Tranchee de repli," and signs containing numbers. I
saw a sign over a door: "Guetteur de jour et de nuit"--watcher by
day and by night.

"Anybody in there?"

"Certainly."

The door was opened. In the gloom a pale man stood rather like a
ghost, almost as disconcerting as a ghost, watching. He ignored us,