Beyond these are dark, tangled woods
surrounded by yellow ropes strung between red signs "Danger Entre Interdit Munitions Non EclatÚe"
(undetonated explosives).

The sun was low and cast long shadows. I found myself left alone by the living. Yet behind the wind in
the trees, faintly, I thought I could hear desperate cries and curses of men who had died for the promise of
peace and found that the price they paid had brought only a lull. Millions more were to bleed and die.

In the cemetery their stones stand
Forever at attention
Ridged in the setting sun.
I wonder
How is it that I can leave
and they cannot?

That night in the "Hotel du Golf" I was introduced to the French mosquito. There were no window
screens or air conditioning (the norm in France). I passed the night waging war against these miniature
foes dive bombing my ear. Another round in the eternal battle between "us" and "them!" My one
satisfaction was adding to the already numerous record of Mosquito kills marked in blood on the walls.

The next day I drove out to the coast, and travelled from World War I to II. I stopped at the towering
chalk cliffs of Cape Gris, a mere 18 km from England. Their mirror image, the "white cliffs of Dover"
were visible in the faint haze separating the light blue sky from the darker sea.

Because of this, Cape Gris was an important observation post for the Nazis. Masters of reinforced
concrete, they had built several observation bunkers on and into the cliff connected by a warren of
tunnels that still survive.

I realised I was hungry and lunch was in order. I sat on top of one of the bunkers, ate my jambon et
fromage baguette and drank a glass of superb French wine. In the warmth of the sun, the sight of gulls
hovering over the edge of the white cliffs, and the taste of good food, I was filled with the joie de vivre
one expects from a holiday in France.

After lunch I wandered over to one of the tunnel entrances. It was overgrown with brush, and smelled
like a latrine (which is just what many tourists used them for). The tunnels beyond were impenetrably
dark. The beam of my little key-chain flashlight seemed to be smothered, as if there was more to the
darkness here than just the lack of light. My return from the tunnel into the sun dispelled most of my
fear, but I was left with a sense that the evil I had felt was not dead, only biding its time.

Beyond these are dark, tangled woods
surrounded by yellow ropes strung between red signs "Danger Entre Interdit Munitions Non EclatÚe"
(undetonated explosives).

The sun was low and cast long shadows. I found myself left alone by the living. Yet behind the wind in
the trees, faintly, I thought I could hear desperate cries and curses of men who had died for the promise of
peace and found that the price they paid had brought only a lull. Millions more were to bleed and die.

In the cemetery their stones stand
Forever at attention
Ridged in the setting sun.
I wonder
How is it that I can leave
and they cannot?

That night in the "Hotel du Golf" I was introduced to the French mosquito. There were no window
screens or air conditioning (the norm in France). I passed the night waging war against these miniature
foes dive bombing my ear. Another round in the eternal battle between "us" and "them!" My one
satisfaction was adding to the already numerous record of Mosquito kills marked in blood on the walls.

The next day I drove out to the coast, and travelled from World War I to II. I stopped at the towering
chalk cliffs of Cape Gris, a mere 18 km from England. Their mirror image, the "white cliffs of Dover"
were visible in the faint haze separating the light blue sky from the darker sea.

Because of this, Cape Gris was an important observation post for the Nazis. Masters of reinforced
concrete, they had built several observation bunkers on and into the cliff connected by a warren of
tunnels that still survive.

I realised I was hungry and lunch was in order. I sat on top of one of the bunkers, ate my jambon et
fromage baguette and drank a glass of superb French wine. In the warmth of the sun, the sight of gulls
hovering over the edge of the white cliffs, and the taste of good food, I was filled with the joie de vivre
one expects from a holiday in France.

After lunch I wandered over to one of the tunnel entrances. It was overgrown with brush, and smelled
like a latrine (which is just what many tourists used them for). The tunnels beyond were impenetrably
dark. The beam of my little key-chain flashlight seemed to be smothered, as if there was more to the
darkness here than just the lack of light. My return from the tunnel into the sun dispelled most of my
fear, but I was left with a sense that the evil I had felt was not dead, only biding its time.