Here there was an animated scene of military activity. A battalion of infantry was bivouacing, and up the side of the hill, which was one of the slopes of Monte San Michele, there was a big camp with tents arranged in careful alignment. I mention this latter fact as it was an unusual spectacle to see an encampment so well “pitched.” Both the bivouac and the tents were quite protected from shell-fire by the brow of the hill, but they would have made an easy target had the Austrians had any aeroplanes here; doubtless, though, all precautions had been taken by the Italian Commander in the event of this. Over the crest of the hill the scene changed as though by magic, and all sign of military movement disappeared. The desolate waste of the Carso faced us, and we were in the zone of death and desolation. The road was absolutely without a vestige of “cover”; it was but a track across the rocky ground, and now wound over a series of low, undulating ridges, on which one could trace the battered remains of trenches. Huge shell-craters were visible everywhere, and the road itself was so freshly damaged in places that I involuntarily recalled what the General had told us, and wondered whether we should get back safely. The country was so open and uninteresting that one could see all that there was to see for several miles ahead; it was therefore certain no scenic surprises were awaiting you. Meanwhile shells were bursting with unpleasant persistency round about the road; it was not what one could term an inviting prospect and recalled an incident that had occurred a few days previously on this very road. There was a good deal of firing going on as usual, and the chauffeur of an officer’s car suddenly lost his nerve and became completely paralysed with fear, not an altogether unusual case, I believe. It was a very awkward situation, as the officer knew nothing about driving, so he was obliged to sit still for over an hour, when, fortunately for him, a motor lorry came along, and he was extricated from his predicament. It seemed to me to be very purposeless going on further, since there was absolutely nothing to sketch and still less to write about. Since, however, we could not be far from our destination now, I thought it best to say nothing. But where was the village? I knew by what we had been told that we must be close to it by now; yet there was no trace of habitation anywhere. The chauffeur suddenly turned round and, pointing to what appeared to be a rugged slope just ahead, said quietly, “Ecco San Martino del Carso.” I am hardened to the sight of ruins by now after more than two years at the war, but I must admit I had a bit of a shock when I realized that this long, low line of shapeless, dust-covered rubble actually bore a name, and that this was the place we had risked coming out to see. No earthquake could have more effectually wiped out this village than have the combined Italian and Austrian batteries.