The sun, a round glazed disk sharply defined but without colour, was like a dirty plate in the sky.
Up again into the woods, then over rough cart tracks, they came finally to a standstill amongst thick brushwood and dripping undergrowth.
They could hear, very far away, the noise of cannon.

The sanitars were inclined to grumble.

"Nice sort of business, looking for dead men here, your Honour....

We must leave the carts here and go on foot.
What's it wet for?
It hasn't been raining." Why was it wet, indeed?
A heavy brooding inertia, Trenchard has told me, seemed to seize them all.

"They were not pleasant trees, you know," I remember his afterwards telling me, "all dirty and tangled, and we all looked dirty too.