Soon we perceived a church steeple far away. It brought some relief to the feeling of oppression and despair which had begun to burden us. We struck the road once again.
We passed houses of which the scarred walls were still standing, but with their bare, splintered rafters, empty windows, and riddled doors they looked more gloomy and forlorn than complete ruins. There were more concrete shelters and then some rusty iron cranes and the site of a "Munitionslager" from which every shell had been removed. We approached a small town. Many of the houses were intact except for scattered tiles and broken windows. The stately church was full of huge holes. All the streets were deserted.
Beyond the town, on either side of the road, was a series of dumps, collecting stations, R.E. parks, workshops, and woodyards—Mastenlager, Pi-Park, Gruppenwegebaustofflager, Pferdesammelstelle, and others. Then a German military cemetery, beautifully kept and planted all over with shrubs and flowers. We had never seen a military cemetery like it before.
A bend of the road, as it topped a gentle slope, revealed an expanse of smooth green fields dotted with groups of trees. It did our eyes good to see trees that were alive and unharmed. Their foliage was autumn-tinted—until now we had hardly realized that autumn was with us. A placid river flowed through the meadows. On the far shore was a town, beyond it a hill crowned by a fine château.
As we walked on, the scattered houses drew closer and closer together until they formed continuous rows. A civilian passed by, pushing a wheelbarrow that clattered over the cobbles. Then there followed a woman with a bundle on her back.
There was something peculiar about the houses. They were not damaged in the same way as the others we had seen. They were all roofless and floorless, but the walls were unharmed except for occasional holes and scars. Then we suddenly realized that the Germans had stripped the entire street of all woodwork—of floor-boards, of beams and rafters, of doors and window-frames, leaving only the bare, empty shells of brick.
We turned a corner and entered another street in which the houses had not been rifled. Several were occupied by civilians.
Before us, in an open field, lay our camp. Scribbled in chalk on a piece of board nailed across a broken window were the words:
Peace is expected every hour.
"Der Friede wird stündlich erwartet."*