Some houses have lost roofs; some have lost side walls, so that one can gaze straight into them and see the cluttered furnishings, half buried in shattered masonry and crumbled plaster.
One small cottage has been blown clear away in a blast of artillery fire; only the chimney remains, pointing upward like a stubby finger.

A fireplace, with a fire in it, is the glowing heart of a house; and a chimney completes it and reveals that it is a home fit for human creatures to live in; but we see here--and the truth of it strikes us as it never did before--that a chimney standing alone typifies desolation and ruin more fitly, more brutally, than any written words could typify it.
Everywhere there are soldiers--German soldiers--in their soiled, dusty gray service uniforms, always in heavy boots; always with their tunics buttoned to the throat.

Some, off duty, are lounging at ease in the doors of the houses.

More, on duty, are moving about briskly in squads, with fixed bayonets.

One is learning to ride a bicycle, and when he falls off, as he does repeatedly, his comrades laugh at him and shout derisive advice at him.
There are not many of the townsfolk in sight.