In the fields, for long
stretches, nothing stirred except pheasants, feeding on the neglected
grain, and big, noisy magpies. The roads were empty, too, except that
there were wrecked shells of automobiles and bloated carcasses of dead
troop horses. When the Germans, in their campaigning, smash up an
automobile--and traveling at the rate they do there must be many
smashed--they capsize it at the roadside, strip it of its tires, draw
off the precious gasoline, pour oil over it and touch a match to it.
What remains offers no salvage to friend, or enemy either.
The horses rot where they drop unless the country people choose to put
the bodies underground. We counted the charred cadavers of fifteen
automobiles and twice as many dead horses during that ride. The smell
of horseflesh spoiled the good air. When passing through a wood the
smell was always heavier. We hoped it was only dead horses we smelled
there.
When there has been fighting in France or Belgium, almost any thicket
will give up hideous grisly secrets to the man who goes searching there.
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