When the battle of the Yser was over, and the Teuton hordes were stopped, Nieuport, the advance post of the immense front reaching from the North Sea to the Vosges, had to suffer pitiless destruction. It was the ransom we had to pay, because their ineffectual effort had been crushed by the steadfast defence of our heroes. I was present at the slow death of Nieuport and, as I had to go there frequently, I never passed by the heaped-up ruins without experiencing a sentiment of infinite sadness mingled with revolt. How many times its faithful admirers questioned me about its fate! How the old city had always charmed us by its exquisite archaism, with its little narrow, picturesque streets cut in straight angles, its quaint, yellow-ochre buildings with their green shutters, its church with the parvis planted with tall, protecting trees, its imposing Templars' Tower, its Archdukes' House teeming with memories, and above all its massive Cloth Hall, proudly situated on the Market Place. What pen can ever faithfully depict the havoc that seventeen months of war have made of the exquisite Flemish city we had all known and loved? As far away as Oostdunkerque, the vision of war begins. The population has been evacuated and here and there, along the streets, there are shattered houses. Then comes the winding road across deserted fields and the triangular wood, that ill-omened wood, where so many of our brave men fell, where the shells rained down with desperate persistency. At present, all is sad silence, disturbed only by detonations in the vicinity, by the sound of a cart passing, or by the measured tread of troops filing by along the edge of the road. On coming out of the wood, the horizon is suddenly in view and the sight is heart-rending. In the background is the town in ruins, and all along the road little houses that have fallen in. On each side a former arm of the sea cuts the dreary moor, which is skirted by uncultivated meadows, partially wooded. Most of the sublime old trees are lying there, all twisted by the machine-guns, silent for evermore. Some of those which are still standing seem to be lifting their bare branches heavenwards, in fruitless protest. We crossed the bridge and the level-crossing, with its little guard-house. The latter had fallen on to a cart, which now stood there unable to move under its unexpected burden. And there, with its Boulevard leading to the old station, all perforated now with enormous craters, are the first houses of the town. The deflagrations were all brittle, and we were in the very midst of the furnace. It was a vision of all that is horrible and, above everything else, there was that indescribable, persistent odour of rubbish, dust, and death.... Other martyred towns allow the spectator time enough to become accustomed to the frightful vision. The farther one goes, the more do the wounds appear huge and cruel. But here, the chaos and ruin strike one immediately.