The iron spire of the little church had been hit twice.

It stood above the village, twisted into the form of a note of interrogation.

In the churchyard many of the graves had been ripped open.

Bones and skulls lay scattered about among the shattered tombstones.

But, save for a couple of holes in the roof, the body was still intact, and every afternoon a faint, timid-sounding bell called a few villagers and a sprinkling of soldiers to Mass.