Farther down, where the sunken road again wound across our path, we passed an old-fashioned family carriage jammed against the bank, with one shaft snapped off short.

Lying on the dusty seat-cushion was a single silver teaspoon.
Almost opposite the carriage, against the other bank, was a cavalryman's boot; it had been cut from a wounded limb.

The leather had been split all the way down the leg from the top to the ankle, and the inside of the boot was full of clotted, dried blood.

And just as we turned back to return to the town I saw a child's stuffed cloth doll--rag dolls I think they call them in the States--lying flat in the road; and a wagon wheel or a camion wheel had passed over the head, squashing it flat.
I am not striving for effect when I tell of this trifle.

When you write of such things as a battlefield you do not need to strive for effect.
The effects are all there, ready-made, waiting to be set down.