We hoped it was only dead horses we smelled there.
When there has been fighting in France or Belgium, almost any thicket will give up hideous grisly secrets to the man who goes searching there.
Men sorely wounded in the open share one trait at least with the lower animals.

The dying creature--whether man or beast--dreads to lie and die in the naked field.

It drags itself in among the trees if it has the strength.
I believe every woodland in northern France was a poison place, and remained so until the freezing of winter sealed up its abominations under ice and frost.
Nearing Rheims we turned into a splendid straight highway bordered by trees, where the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the dead leaves, which still hung from the boughs and dappled the yellow road with black splotches, until it made you think of jaguar pelts.

Midway of our course here we met troops moving toward us in force.

First, as usual, came scouts on bicycles and motorcycles.