" August, 1916.
Picture to yourself a deep, wide railway cutting spanned by a great ruinous arch. The bottom is half flooded, and the water lies there in stagnant pools, with here and there the end of a twisted rail raised into the air. On either side of the cutting are heaps of debris—all that remains of former farms, clusters of broken, blackened stumps—all that remains of former copses. The soil is everywhere ploughed up by shells into heaps and holes. Away in the distance are still green trees and fields, glimpses of a great lake, and, half framed in a rainbow, which is also reflected in the pools at the bottom of the cutting, is a tall ruined tower, noble and ancient. The sun catches it, and it is all glistening and white, like the white spirit of a martyr raising his innocent hands to God in protest against outrage and mutilation, or like a spire of the heavenly city seen from the valley of desolation. That is where I was this morning, and where I shall be again very soon. At the moment I am in a small and somewhat louse- ridden dug-out, resting. My door opens on to one of the main thoroughfares of the neighbourhood, which is about a foot and a half wide and very. muddy."
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