But here in a single day, perhaps in a moment with one discharge from a battery, all the little things that one family cared for, their house, their garden; and the garden paths, and then the village and the road through the village, and the old landmarks that the old people remembered, and countless treasured things, were all turned into rubbish.

And these things that one did not contemplate, have happened for hundreds of miles, with such disaster vast plains and hills are covered, because of the German war.

Deep wells, old cellars, battered trenches and dug-outs, lie in the rubbish and weeds under the intricate wreckage of peace and war.  It will be a bad place years hence for wanderers lost at night.

When the village went, trenches came; and, in the same storm that had crumbled the village, the trenches withered too; shells still thump on to the north, but peace and war alike have deserted the village.  Grass has begun to return over torn earth on edges of trenches.  Abundant wire rusts away by its twisted stakes of steel.  Not a path of old, not a lane nor a doorway there, but is barred and cut off by wire; and the wire in its turn has been cut by shells and lies in ungathered swathes.  A pair of wheels moulders amongst weeds, and may be of peace or of war, it is too broken down for anyone to say.  A great bar of iron lies cracked across as though one of the elder giants had handled it carelessly.  Another mound near by, with an old green beam sticking out of it, was also once a house.  A trench runs by it.  A German bomb with its wooden handle, some bottles, a bucket, a petrol tin and some bricks and stones, lie in the trench.  A young elder tree grows amongst them.  And over all the ruin and rubbish Nature, with all her wealth and luxury, comes back to her old inheritance, holding again the land that she held so long, before the houses came.

A garden gate of iron has been flung across a wall.  Then a deep cellar into which a whole house seems to have slanted down.  In the midst of all this is an orchard.  A huge shell has uprooted, but not killed, an apple-tree; another apple-tree stands stone dead on the edge of a crater:  most of the trees are dead.  British aeroplanes drone over continually.  A great gun goes by towards Bapaume, dragged by a slow engine with caterpillar wheels.  The gun is all blotched green and yellow.  Four or five men are seated on the huge barrel alone.

Dark old steps near the orchard run down into a dug-out, with a cartridge-case tied to a piece of wood beside it to beat when the gas came.  A telephone wire lies listlessly by the opening.  A patch of Michaelmas daisies, deep mauve and pale mauve, and a bright yellow flower beside them, show where a garden used to stand near by.  Above the dug-out a patch of jagged earth shows in three clear layers under the weeds:  four inches of grey road metal, imported, for all this country is chalk and clay; two inches of flint below