In places the recent collapse of stones, cement and plaster had laid on the bricks a new and vivid whiteness that was visible in the dark.
"It's the glass works," said a soldier to me.
We halted a moment in a passage whose walls and windows were broken, where we could not make a step or sit down without breaking glass.

We left the works by sticky footpaths, full of rubbish at first, and then of mud.

Across marshy flats, chilly and sinister, obscurely lighted by the night, we came to the edge of an immense and pallid crater.

The depths of this abyss were populated with glimmers and murmurs; and all around a soaked and ink-black expanse of country glistened to infinity.
"It's the quarry," they informed me.
Our endless and bottomless march continued.

Sliding and slipping we descended, burying ourselves in these profundities and gropingly encountering the hurly-burly of a convoy of carts and the advance guard of the regiment we were relieving.