Day dawned, and I came cautiously out of my hole to have a look at the country. The human imagination never, I imagine, has conceived, nor ever can picture, anything sadder or more desolate than what I saw. I found myself on the road leading from Nieuport to Saint-Georges at a point almost equally distant from both of these remains of towns. The banked-up road meandered over an immense muddy plain, necked with pools of grey water, now frozen. Nieuport was on my right. From here I could not see a single house which was, I won’t say intact, but only damaged by the bombardment. It was a heap of gutted buildings, crumbling walls and twisted and broken trees. On my left was Saint-Georges, in if anything worse state. Nothing remained but a pile of stones, and one would never have supposed that a village had once existed there. By the side of my trench there was a freshly made grave, that is to say a square of mud surmounted by a white cross. The cap of a marine lay by its side. I picked it up; it was full of brains. The poor fellow must have been killed on this very spot, and yesterday probably, mown down perhaps by that same shell which had pierced two neighbouring trees with its murderous fragments. As I re-entered my trench the sharp clatter of our batteries disturbed the air. They were placed quite near us, and well hidden, for I could see nothing of them. I supposed that this was the opening of the ball and that the enemy’s reply would not be long in coming. Some of my men had come out. I made them get back again quickly, and treated Hurel to a kick from behind. The men become as quiet as sheep when there is danger about. One of them warmed me some coffee on a solid fuel spirit-lamp, and another let me make a pillow of his abdomen. _25th January, 1915._—We were relieved at 5 o’clock and returned safe and sound to Nieuport. I found the cellar transformed, thanks to Clère and Hénon; there was a light, a table covered with a cloth and some crockery. They had looted these things from the town, and I did not find fault with them for doing so, for these articles were safer where they were than in the ruins exposed at any moment to squalls of shell. The bombardment had kept on increasing until past midday. It was dangerous to go outside. Every half-hour I made a round to make the men get back into their cellars. We made some tea, but the water came from the Yser, which was carrying down dead bodies, and the tea smelt of death. We could not drink it. The ration cart arrived to an accompaniment of shells. We did not take long to unload it. _26th January, 1915._—At midday a French aëroplane flew over the dunes. It was bombarded at times, and it let fall some silver trails which sparkled in the sky like the scales of fish.[4]