In the last traces of night we emigrate from the cave, blinking like owls.
"Where's the juice ?"[1] we ask.
[Footnote 1: Coffee.] There is none.

The cooks are not there, nor the mess people.

And they reply:-- "Forward!" In the dull and pallid morning, on the approaches to a village, there appear gardens, which no longer have human shape.

Instead of cultivation there are puddles and mud.

All is burned or drowned, and the walls scattered like bones everywhere; and we see the mottled and bedaubed shadows of soldiers.