over a wide territory, the approach to the swathe is often through a
region of desolated villages sometimes far removed from the present
trenches. Such is the state of affairs in the region of the Marne, the
Argonne, and on the southern bank of the Moselle. Moss-overgrown and
silent, these villages often stand deserted in the fields at the
entrance to the swathe, fit heralds of the desolation that lies beyond.

Imagine, then, the French half of the swathe extending from the edge of
the civilian world to the barbed-wire entanglements of No Man's Land.
Within this territory, in the trenches, in the artillery positions, in
the villages where troops are quartered (and they are quartered in every
village of the swathe), and along all the principal turns and corners of
the roads, a certain number of shells fall every twenty-four hours, the
number of shells per locality increasing as one advances toward the
first lines. There are certain disputed regions, that of Verdun in
particular, where literally the whole great swathe has been pounded to
pieces, till hardly one stone of a village remains on another, and
during the recent offensive in the Somme the British are said to have
systematically wiped out every village, hamlet, and road behind the
German trenches to a depth of eighteen miles. Yet, protected from rifle
bullets and the majority of shells by a great wooded hill, the
inhabitants of M------, one mile from the lines of the Bois-le-Prêtre,
did a thriving business selling fruit to the soldiers, and I once saw an
old peasant woman, who was digging potatoes in her garden when a small
shell burst about two hundred feet from her, shake her fist toward the
German lines, mutter something, and plod angrily home to her cellar.
There are rarely any children close to the trenches, but in villages
that are only occasionally shelled, the school is open, and the class
hurries to the cellar at the first alarm.