deserted tank, still camouflaged, and here and there the silhouette of
a blasted tree against the lowering sky. These dead trees of the battle
line! Sometimes, with their bony limbs flung forth in gnarled unnatural
gestures, they remind me of frantic skeletons suddenly petrified in
their dance of death. They are frenzied, and unutterably tragic. They
seem to move; yet they are so dead. And I imagine their denuded tortured
arms reaching toward unanswering Heaven in an agony of protest against
the fate that has gripped all nature.

We entered a torn and tangled forest. The road was narrow and overgrown,
and several times I had to dodge hand grenades that lay in the grassy
ruts. The Ford ploughed bravely through deep mud, skidded, recovered,
fell into holes, and kept on. My attention was so focused upon driving
that I saw little else but the road ahead, though once at an exclamation
from Mademoiselle Froissart, out of the corner of my eye I saw a machine
gun mounted and apparently intact. The motor was toiling, but in my soul
I blessed its regular noise that told me all was well. Leaving the wood
we came to what appeared to be a large rough clearing. There were no
trees--only bumps of earth covered with tall weeds. To our surprise we
caught sight of the jaunty blue figure of a poilu, and then a band of
slouching green-coated prisoners who were digging in their heavy
leisurely manner. Mademoiselle Froissart inquired for the village of
Evricourt.

"_Mais c'est ici, Madame_," replied the soldier with a grin.

"Here!" We stared. There was nothing by which one could have told that
this was the site of a town, except an occasional bit of brick that
showed beneath the weeds. All the Germans had stopped work to look at
these two women who had so unexpectedly penetrated to this God-forsaken