We get so few papers here, and only two days old at that, but no one seems much the worse for it.

[Sidenote:  NEUVE EGLISE]

Only one solitary man with lice so far.  The man has been sent away, and is, I hear, to be given sulphur baths and scrubbed with a scrubbing brush.

Oh, I was going to say just now—­re reconnoitring—­that we were doing all the ground about a village where there is a church even more smashed than the St. John place.  It is on a hill, and all the village is Sahara.  The church remains with the remnants of four outside walls and the tower.  Fritz does not destroy the tower, as it is a good spot for him to range on to.  And outside the tower, right up at the top, is the bronze minute-hand of the old clock.  The rest of the clock-face has been blown into the middle of the church, and lies there nearly complete amidst a crumbled heap of pillars and mortar and chair-legs and pulpit fragments.  One notice on a house amused me so, and the troop too.  It says, “Do not touch this house.”  The reason being rather obvious.  For if you did touch the house, it would certainly fall on to your head.  The next shell will bring it down, even if it’s a couple of hundred yards away, merely by the vibration.  We find shell holes so useful for watering the horses.  They seem to retain water in a most curious way.

July 19.

On the move again.  A four days’ trek.  Not more than twenty miles a day, in order to keep the horses “in the pink.”  They are certainly very fit now, and a gentle twenty miles a day just keeps them nicely exercised.  But twenty miles at a walk is not overexciting.  Still, it is interesting to be covering the ground.  We already know quite a lot of the back of the front.  Last night we arrived in a cool lull after showers.  From quiet and uneventful stretches of hedgeless corn-fields, intersected by long straight roads, lined sometimes with poplars, but more often with lopped wych-elms or willows, we descended rather suddenly into a little wooded valley where a village sits by the trouty stream.  After watering the horses at the stream, we filed by squadrons into various fields and picketed down for the night.  Some of us in a small but clean estaminet, others in barns.

A very peaceful trek, quite different from the dazzling swoop that was threatened.

July 20.

Am I telling you about the things you want to hear?  Usually I think I’ve talked mostly about our surroundings, doings, and only to a very small extent about our thoughts.  But, truth to relate, we think so little that there is not much in that line to record.  On this job you just can’t think.  And a good thing too, perhaps.

[Sidenote:  FLESSELLES]

However, here we are, and here I expect we shall remain for, say, a week.  The horses are all right out in the open.  The men are in barns.  But we are in cottages—­real, almost English-looking cottages.  Edward and I share a room in one, and the others are dotted about the village.  Now, this is the cottage: