Near and far lay stiffened figures in the German iron gray, and, in some places, whole groups of them, yet unburied. Furrows all along the roadside marked fresh graves. At one place, evidently, a corps of bicyclists had been caught by a sudden storm of shell and decimated, the twisted and broken bicycle frames having been dragged into the ditch, so as not to interfere with traffic.
At one place, Horace had a fearful fright.
Running through a wood at low speed, he came out on a small open stretch of garden. In one corner, near a shattered pile of brick, was a half-overturned but still recognizable grand piano, and crouched half behind and half on it, the sun throwing his iron-gray uniform in strong contrast to the red wood and the light glinting on his rifle-barrel, was a German soldier, a sniper.
It was too late to turn.
The boy jumped the cycle to high-speed, thinking thus to dodge the aim. As he skimmed by, he cast a backward look at the soldier.
He had not moved.
The gray uniform still lay crouched behind and across the piano, and the hands still rigidly held the rifle, but there were no eyes in the sockets of the dead man. They had been pecked out by the crows.
Many fields in France will be haunted by ghosts when the war is over.
The road was greasy and covered with débris, requiring slow riding. It was not wise to look too closely at the piles along the way.
Overhead the September sun shone brightly, here and there a clump of wild-flowers which had escaped destruction waved in the wind, the arching trees were green, for, over this battlefield mainly shrapnel and rifle-fire had been used and no high-explosive shell with looping trajectory had stripped the branches. On through the beech-forest to the desolation beyond and Horace, looking down, saw the road a mere tangle of beams, stones and scrap-iron. He got off, to lead his wheel, and saw, under his foot—a paving stone.