March 22.

The Hun rearguards are now well beyond ——. I knew the place so intimately from photographs, and from high up in the air, that a view of it from terra-firma promised to be quite interesting.

So with great eagerness, some sandwiches, and the faithful sketchbook, I sallied forth. Harry came, too. A glorious day of brilliant sun and brief snowstorms.

From the aerodrome through all this devastated country, past wrecked villages, orchards laid waste, dug-out camps, bivouac camps, R.E. dumps, light railways, battered trollies lying on their sides, and all the ugly confusion of old wire rusted a red-hot colour, bits of corrugated iron, bits of netting screens, more wire, dead horses, dead men in all stages of decomposition, legs, hands, heads scattered anywhere, dead trees, mud, broken rifles, gas-bags, tin helmets, bully-beef tins, derelict trenches, derelict telephone wires, grenades, aerial torpedoes, all the toys of war, broken and useless. Tommy, the dear hairies, and the R.E. dumps, to remind you what vast stores of everything are still being accumulated.

The ground becomes more and more like boiling porridge as you approach no-man's-land. Of no-man's-land itself, perhaps, the less said the better. No-beast's-land—call it that rather. And yet men have been very brave, very tender, in no-man's-land. Next we come to those Hun trenches that I have peered at from a distance so long and mapped so often. It all seems rather futile now.

Past the support trenches. Past the second line. Damn it! how much larger and deeper that old emplacement is than I thought! The country is less pitted, too. Of course, it hasn't been fought over like our back areas. Why; here are trees scarcely knocked about at all. A recognizable field there. How real that stream looks! And, oh Jemima! a blue tit.

A little distance farther. Over that gentle rise, and there behold ——. Surely one of the loveliest towns in France, on its low hill surrounded by the quiet waters of the Somme. From a distance it looks all right; though somehow, the smoke still ascending from it doesn't look natural.

As you approach you realize that what looks so charming is just empty, shelled, charred, and broken. The Huns have destroyed every single house, all the bridges, and the cathedral, too. The cathedral that once crowned the town now stands a pale crushed ghost in the deserted market-place.

Some of the streets are almost amusing. Imagine Rye with the pretty alleys so encumbered and piled up with roofs, sofas, the contents of wardrobes, dormer-windows, smashed mirrors, rubble, and dust, that it's quite impossible to proceed. Very well, that's ——.

Go into the houses, and there it's just as it is in the streets. Everything crushed to atoms. Images of saints have been hurled out on to garbage-heaps, and in the cathedral huge pillars are lying about in clumsy confusion amongst chairs, organ pipes, and gilded flowers.

On a huge notice board in the Grande Place the Hun has written:

Nicht argern: nur wundern!

(Don't argue: only wonder! We the Huns did this. Why discuss what we have done? We have destroyed your city. Gape and stare, stupid fools! What does it matter to us? We took your precious town from you, because we wanted it. Now we don't want it any more. Here it is back again. With our love.) Some merry soldier wrote that up, I suppose. It was a pity.

There were French officers in —— to-day. I spoke to one. He answered with a quiet, simple bitterness and determination that would have turned even a Hohenzollern pale, I think. Unhappy Emperor! he must be feeling decidedly uneasy nowadays.

Another odd sight was a tub full of water, with a little dog trying to get out. But the little dog was dead. A crump evidently landed somewhere near, and just petrified him, as it were. You often see men like that, struck dead in the middle of some act. Men are usually turned a dull purplish or greenish black. So was this little dog. We ate a delicious lunch on the battlements, our legs dangling 50 feet above the reedy water. Lots of moorhen and coot swimming about.

The sun was warm. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. What a heavenly world it is!

April 6.

After a hectic day comes this chance of writing to you. Eleven-thirty p.m.

Would you like to hear about night flying? I didn't go, but I sketched the others going. And these are some notes. A bombing raid. It had been ordered in the morning. A raid on ——. After a cheery dinner we trooped out, singing foolish songs. The hangars a few hundred yards away across the mud. They looked huge and eerie, looming up from the dark ground, all stately in the moonlight. The moon had a halo, but was very bright, bright enough to sketch by.

Six flares were flickering at intervals round the aerodrome. A vivid orange colour against the dim blue sky. The horizon was greyer, and little flames flashed intermittently from it. There were the aeroplanes waiting.

It was very cold. Soon the mechanics were starting the machines. The usual loud spurting and fizzing till presently the first machine begins to move. A big semi-luminous beetle lurching forward; then faster and faster and away, lifting up, up, up into the night. Only the lights visible now, but you can hear the hum of the engines a long way off. Other machines follow. The sky is full of twinkling fairies. They circle about for a bit, and then all head towards the east. Gradually the humming dies away in the distance. Look out for yourselves, you sleeping Huns!

A long while afterwards the humming again.

The first aeroplane is coming home. There he is. Gradually lower and nearer. The machine descends smoothly on to the ground, turns and "taxis," spitting angrily towards the hangar where it lives. Muffled figures get out, and the mechanics take in the machine tail first to its home. What? oh yes, quite successful. Smashed the place to blazes. Anyone got a cigarette? Other machines begin coming in. It's such a clear night that we still stand about in groups waiting for the last one to arrive. Damn it all! where can old Rupert have got to? We'll just wait till he comes back, and then bundle off to bed. Anxious? Good Lord, no! What about?

Suddenly a small sharp flash high up in the night. Another and another. The Huns! They are coming. Archie is shelling them. Now another Archie poops off nearer here. Quick! Where's the orderly officer?

In a couple of minutes all is dark. Gradually the drone of the Huns, high up in the air, becomes audible. No. They seem to be steering more towards ——. Searchlights from three different directions grope slowly to and fro. Where the devil are the Huns? The searchlights cannot find them. They must be cruising somewhere up above those thin cirrus clouds. Are they going to drop bombs on us? No, their direction is too far south. The searchlights cannot find them.

No sign of Rupert yet. Probably he has landed at another aerodrome. Dear old Rupert. One of the very best in this world. He'll be all right. Come on. It's too cold. Let's turn in.

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