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In my mind I had learned to associate such a sight with at least one old
woman--an incredibly old woman, with a back bent like a measuring
worm's, and a cap on her scanty hair, and a face crosshatched with a
million wrinkles--who would be pottering about at the back of some half-
ruined house or maybe squatting in a desolated doorway staring at us
with her rheumy, puckered eyes. Or else there would be a hunchback--
crooked spines being almost as common in parts of Belgium as goiters are
in parts of Switzerland. But Battice had become an empty tomb, and was
as lonely and as silent as a tomb. Its people--those who survived--had
fled from it as from an abomination.
Beyond Battice stood another village, called Herve; and Herve was
Battice all over again, with variations. At this place, during the
first few hours of actual hostilities between the little country and the
big one, the Belgians had tried to stem the inpouring German flood, as
was proved by wrecks of barricades in the high street.


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