The way heavy artillery churned the earth made irreal landscapes. The village that used to be here to support stables for the canal looked like a cake that was too wet to back properly. Bubbles of earth and strange shapes that confused the eyes. We passed an Imperial Harlequin walker, named for its strange appearance, rested against a road obelisk. It's front was entirely pushed in by the shock, knocked off its feet, it looked like a crumpled drunkard.
The road looked like it was combed, likely the "toes" of the walker when it was thrown by the blast dragged it against the ground. What force that such a big machine could be tossed around! The side hatch was inoperable, and a foul smell came from within, no one wanted to check.
Nearby someone spotted the exploded corpses of horses and their riders. Their porcelain chestpieces leaking white dust matched the sunbleached horse ribs. I was told cavalry with grenades were the best counter to walkers. Maybe that was propaganda, these people believed it.
This village was as far as the "Imps" got in the central theater during that terrible summer. Before they were turned back and had to retreat the next year. But they still held a front line nearby. Eventually narrowboats and a train of donkeys arrived to take us the rest of the way.
The boats were just covered by a tarp, and on the slow journey to the rear trenches, where you could hear the occasional shriek of a rocket mortar, the terrain went from muddy spires to green forests back to mud. No one spoke, we all knew how bad it was at the front.
