I conclude this chapter writing in a tent pitched in a fair-sized garden: every fruit tree has been felled, apple and cherry trees lie sawn off two feet or so from the ground. Even so they are covered with blossom. The state of the village—between Péronne and St. Quentin—can be left to the imagination almost: a confused collection of grey slate roofs, burnt timber, loose bricks, and chunks of masonry. The night is dark, but in the distance the sky is red. The Huns have fired the cathedral at St. Quentin!
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