The country below has changed into a flat surface of varicoloured
figures. Woods are irregular blocks of dark green, like daubs of ink
spilled on a table; fields are geometrical designs of different shades
of green and brown, forming in composite an ultra-cubist painting;
roads are thin white lines, each with its distinctive windings and
crossings--from which you determine your location. The higher you are
the easier it is to read.

In about ten minutes you see the Meuse sparkling in the morning light,
and on either side the long line of sausage-shaped observation
balloons far below you. Red-roofed Verdun springs into view just
beyond. There are spots in it where no red shows and you know what has
happened there. In the green pasture land bordering the town, round
flecks of brown indicate the shell holes. You cross the Meuse.


VERDUN, SEEN FROM THE SKY

Immediately east and north of Verdun there lies a broad, brown band.
From the Woevre plain it runs westward to the "S" bend in the Meuse,
and on the left bank of that famous stream continues on into the
Argonne Forest. Peaceful fields and farms and villages adorned that
landscape a few months ago--when there was no Battle of Verdun. Now
there is only that sinister brown belt, a strip of murdered Nature. It
seems to belong to another world. Every sign of humanity has been
swept away. The woods and roads have vanished like chalk wiped from a
blackboard; of the villages nothing remains but gray smears where
stone walls have tumbled together. The great forts of Douaumont and
Vaux are outlined faintly, like the tracings of a finger in wet sand.