Imagery:
He was a tough-looking youth of twenty-five or six, with reddish-yellow hair and powerful shoulders. His peaked leather cap was pulled fiercely over one eye. He was standing in profile to me, his chin on his breast, gazing with a puzzled frown at a map which one of the officers had open on the table. Something in his face deeply moved me. It was the face of a man who would commit murder and throw away his life for a friend — the kind efface you would expect in an Anarchist, though as likely as not he was a Communist.
We were near the front line now, near enough to smell the characteristic smell of war — in my experience a smell of excrement and decaying food.
Simile:
There were thirty or forty dug-outs running into the ground like rat-holes.
Homage to Catalonia