camp, now a park of waiting field guns, now an encampment of cavalry.
One turns aside, and abruptly one is in France--France as one knew it
before the war, on a shady secondary road, past a delightful chateau
behind its iron gates, past a beautiful church, and then suddenly we are
in a village street full of stately Indian soldiers.

It betrays no military secret to say that commonly the rare tourist to
the British offensive passes through Albert, with its great modern red
cathedral smashed to pieces and the great gilt Madonna and Child
that once surmounted the tower now, as everyone knows, hanging out
horizontally in an attitude that irresistibly suggests an imminent dive
upon the passing traveller. One looks right up under it.

Presently we begin to see German prisoners. The whole lot look entirely
contented, and are guarded by perhaps a couple of men in khaki. These
German prisoners do not attempt to escape, they have not the slightest
desire for any more fighting, they have done their bit, they say, honour
is satisfied; they give remarkably little trouble. A little way further
on perhaps we pass their cage, a double barbed-wire enclosure with a few
tents and huts within.

A string of covered waggons passes by. I turn and see a number of men
sitting inside and looking almost as cheerful as a beanfeast in Epping
Forest. They make facetious gestures. They have a subdued sing-song going
on. But one of them looks a little sick, and then I notice not very
obtrusive bandages. "Sitting-up cases," my guide explains.

These are part of the casualties of last night's fight.

The fields on either side are now more evidently in the war zone.