The hill of Leomont, and the many graves upon it, were quiet enough as
we stood talking there. The old farm was in ruins; and in the fields
stretching up the hill there were the remains of trenches. All around
and below us spread the beautiful Lorraine country, with its rivers and
forests; and to the south-east one could just see the blue mass of Mont
Donon, and the first spurs of the Vosges.
"Can you show me exactly where the French line runs?" I asked my
companion. He pointed to a patch of wood some six miles away. "There is
a French battalion there. And you see that other patch of wood a little
farther east? There is a German battalion there. Ah!" Suddenly he broke
off, and the younger officer with us, Capitaine de B----, came running
up, pointing overhead. I craned my neck to look into the spring blue
above us, and there--7,000 to 8,000 feet high, according to the
officers--were three Boche aeroplanes pursued by two French machines. In
and out a light band of white cloud, the fighters in the air chased each
other, shrapnel bursting all round them like tufts of white wool.
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