Over the whole countryside hung a melancholy and weird desolation, cottages, homesteads, fields, the very trees crying aloud to high heaven for pity and vengeance.
At Vlammertinghe, itself, the church tower still stood whole, but the church itself was wrecked, as were most of the village shops and dwellings.

In the village was to be seen no living thing except some soldiers, who in the broken cellars were making their bivouacs.

The village stood deserted of its inhabitants, ever since the terrific onslaught of the Huns, on the 22nd of April, 1915, which had driven them forth from their homes, a panic-stricken, terror-hunted crowd of old men, women and little babes, while over them broke, with a continuous and appalling roar, a pitiless rain of shells.
At the cross-roads stood a mounted officer, directing the traffic, which here tended to congestion.

As they entered the village, the sentry halted them to enquire as to their bona fides.

Having satisfied him, they enquired their way to the Menin Mill.
"Menin!" The rising inflection of the sentry's voice expressed a mild surprise.