Against the west wall of the church stood a large crucifix still undamaged.

The roof had gone, and the moonlight flooded the ruins through the broken Gothic windows.

To the left, ploughed up with shells, were the tombs of the civilian cemetery, and the whole place was ghostly and uncanny.
Near the huts, on the hill at Bulford Camp was a hollow in the ground which made a natural amphitheatre.

Here at night concerts were given.
All the audience packed together very closely sat on the ground.
Before us, at the end of the hollow, the performers would appear, and overhead the calm stars looked down.

I always went to these entertainments well provided with Players' cigarettes.