We finished emptying the trucks and then sat down inside them. The engine came along, rattling and puffing. It was coupled to the train, and the return journey began. The landscape was plainly visible in the light of the rising moon. Shell-holes, torn trees, and ruined houses decreased in number. We passed a straw-thatched cottage nestling amid a group of bushes and poplars. A light shone from the window, a dog barked. A bat flitted silently past. It seemed as though the uproar of the cannonade had been a dream. The engine stopped at the siding. We jumped out of the trucks and retired into our tents. Not a word was spoken by anyone. The following day we again received orders to proceed to the terminal siding by the light railway. In the morning our champion boxer had reported sick in anticipation. He looked convincingly pale and complained of the usual "pains all over." The Medical Officer gave him "light duty" and he spent the day in camp, picking up matches, bits of paper, and miscellaneous rubbish. It seemed strange that the ruined houses, the belt of poplars, the damaged farm, and the wood with the white chateau were still standing there so peacefully after the bombardment of the previous night. The frogs, charming creatures, were still croaking merrily. When we had unloaded the trucks we sat down in the grass and awaited the return of the engine. The trees were dim in the warm haze. I gazed at the white chateau. It fascinated me, for some inexplicable reason, and I felt an impulse to go and explore it. I was seized by a mood such as I had rarely felt since childhood, when almost every lonely and desolate building filled me with a sense of awe and mystery, as though it were the home of ghosts or fairies or witches. I was conscious of the absurdity of the emotion, but I surrendered to it and even enjoyed its strangeness. There was no sound of firing.