To my overstrained imagination it seemed that the men had
the vision of death in their eyes.
Presently we spotted a lorry-driver who had, what George Robey would
call, "a kind and generous face." We took advantage of him, for once
having persuaded him to give us a lift, we froze onto him and made him
cart us about the country all day. We kept him kind and generous, I
regret to say, by buying him wine at far too many estaminets.
Towards evening the thunder of the guns had swelled into an ominous
roar. We passed through villages disfigured by shell-fire. Civilians
became more rare and more aged. Cattle disappeared utterly from the
landscape; fields were furrowed with abandoned trenches, in front of
which hung entanglements of wire. Mounted orderlies splashed along
sullen roads at an impatient trot. Here and there we came across
improvised bivouacs of infantry. Far away against the horizon towards
which we travelled, Hun flares and rockets were going up. Hopeless
stoicism, unutterable desolation--that was my first impression.
The landscape was getting increasingly muddy--it became a sea of
mud. Despatch-riders on motor-bikes travelled warily, with their feet
dragging to save themselves from falling. Everything was splashed
with filth and corruption; one marvelled at the cleanness of the
sky. Trees were blasted, and seemed to be sinking out of sight in this
war-created Slough of Despond. We came to the brow of a hill; in the
valley was something that I recognised.
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