So I followed him back to the main trench and
crouched along another sap to a pocket whose
occupant clearly disapproved of our presence.
Through the grass and wire the confusion of trenches appeared much the same, but when the captain asked me if I could now see the Boyau Unter den Linden I replied without hesitation:
"Perfectly. It is surprisingly distinct."
Nor did I keep him in suspense about the other objects he pointed out. I recognised all the boyaus with a miraculous ease. So eventually we stole back to healthier regions, both very much pleased. We were all glad enough to thank our host, and commence the return journey.
That was halted almost at the start while we studied a picture that at the time seemed better than anything I saw at the French front to symbolise the waste and the distortion of war.
For background there was the main street of a ruined village almost directly behind the first line trenches. The street made a slight arc between walls which for the most part gave only a sketchy illusion of habitation. Many of them were unsupported, offering views through eyeless windows of emptiness and desolation. Here and there a building maintained a semblance of completeness. Its doors might have gone, its windows have dis-
