qually are
scattered dirtily in the mud, and common weeds overpower them; it is
not ruin but rubbish that covers the ground here and spreads its
untidy flood for hundreds and hundreds of miles.

A band plays in Arras, to the north and east the shells go thumping
on.

The very origins of things are in doubt, so much is jumbled together.
It is as hard to make out just where the trenches ran, and which was
No-Man's-Land, as it is to tell the houses from garden and orchard
and road: the rubbish covers all. It is as though the ancient forces
of Chaos had come back from the abyss to fight against order and man,
and Chaos had won. So lies this village of France.

As I left it a rat, with something in its mouth, holding its head
high, ran right across the village.

The Real Thing

Once at manoeuvres as the Prussian Crown Prince charged at the head
of his regiment, as sabres gleamed, plumes streamed, and hooves
thundered behind him, he is reported to have said to one that
galloped near him: "Ah, if only this were the real thing!"

One need not doubt that the report is true. So a young man might feel
as he led his regiment of cavalry, for the scene would fire the
blood; all those young men and fine uniforms and good horses, all
coming on behind, everything streaming that could float on the air,
everything jingling then which could ever make a sound, a bright sky
no doubt over the uniforms, a good fresh wind for men and horses to
gulp; and behind, the clinking and jingling, the long roll of hooves
thundering. Such a scene might well stir emotions to sigh for the
splendours of battle.

This is one side of war. Mutilation and death are another; misery,
cold and dirt; pain, and the intense loneliness of men left behind by
armies, with much to think of; no hope, and a day or two to live. But
we understand that glory covers that.

There is yet a third side.

I came to Albert when the fight was far from it: only at night you
saw any signs of war, when clouds flashed now and then and curious
rockets peered. Albert robbed of peace was deserted even by war.

I will not say that Albert was devastated or desolate, for these long
words have different interpretations and may easily be exaggerated. A
German agent might say to you, "Devastated is rather a strong word,
and desolate is a matter of opinion." And so you might never know
what Albert is like.

I will tell you what I saw.

Albert was a large town. I will not wr