These Germans we were trailing cleaned up behind themselves as carefully as New England housewives.
It may have been the German love of order and regularity that induced them even to avoid trampling the ripe grain in the fields wherever possible.

Certainly, except when dealing out punishment, they did remarkably little damage, considering their numbers, along their line of march through this lowermost strip of Belgium.
At Merbes-Ste.-Marie, a matter of six kilometers from Binche, we came on the first proof of seeming wantonness we encountered that day.

An old woman sat in a doorway of what had been a wayside wine shop, guarding the pitiable ruin of her stock and fixtures.

All about her on the floor was a litter of foul straw, muddied by many feet and stained with spilled drink.

The stench from a bloated dead cavalry horse across the road poisoned the air.