They were always busy as bees, deeply absorbed in their little combats.
The youth tried to observe everything.

He did not use care to avoid trees and branches, and his forgotten feet were constantly knocking against stones or getting entangled in briers.

He was aware that these battalions with their commotions were woven red and startling into the gentle fabric of softened greens and browns.

It looked to be a wrong place for a battle field.
The skirmishers in advance fascinated him.

Their shots into thickets and at distant and prominent trees spoke to him of tragedies--hidden, mysterious, solemn.
Once the line encountered the body of a dead soldier.