Where we are, and for miles and miles around, myriads of troops,
cavalry, artillery, everything, all camped in the open--no concealment.
Mud? Why, everyone is mud, up to the eyes, and so are the horses. This
big movement has quite dislocated the ordinary trench warfare, and now
all over the dreary uplands are trenches hurriedly dug by the Hun and
then abandoned. Trenches that often barely shelter you above the knees.
Chaos, chaos. Rifles lying to rust in the mud, duds everywhere, men
sitting in dug-outs, not knowing what they are expected to do next.
Others in mere scratched-out shelters or in actual shell holes.
Sometimes they sing. Often they are asleep. Wreckage indescribable.
Shrapnel cracking into black clouds close by. Enormous and magnificent
H.E.'s hurling up black earth and red earth, and smoke that drifts
slowly and solidly away to limbo. Poor dead men lying about, and dead
horses, too. And in the trenches this limitless porridge of mud.
Cr-r-r-ump! go the crumps searching out a battery. But oh the
woods--the poor scarecrow woods. I was in a famous wood that looked
positively devilish in its sinister nakedness. And it's September, too,
when woods are so often at their loveliest. Not a leaf--not one single
leaf; and, instead of undergrowth, just tossed earth, fuses, a boot, a
coat, some wire, and above-ground dead men. Below-ground (or as far
below as they can get in the time) live men.

The Boche dug-outs are marvellous. They are really works of art. So
solidly, even beautifully built. I went into one that had wooden pillars
supporting the roof like some baronial hall, with neat little cupboards,
tables, beds, and everything complete. There were two of our M.M.G.
officers sleeping there, and we left them sleeping. But emerge out into
daylight, and ye gods! the confusion makes you feel awed. A village is
usually a heap of rubble, with here and there a bit of a gaudy enamelled
coffee-pot or something; a geranium from a window, still growing; a