The white houses with their low thatched roofs, which ended in a bordering of red tiles, looked prosperous. But there were soldiers again. We were approaching the war zone.
CHAPTER XVI
THE MAN OF YPRES
The sun was high when we reached the little town where General Foch, Commander of the Armies of the North, had his headquarters. It was not difficult to find the building. The French flag furled at the doorway, a gendarme at one side of the door and a sentry at the other, denoted the headquarters of the staff. But General Foch was not there at the moment. He had gone to church.
The building was near. Thinking that there might be a service, I decided to go also. Going up a steep street to where at the top stood a stone church, with an image of the Christ almost covered by that virgin vine which we call Virginia creeper, I opened the leather-covered door and went quietly in.
There was no service. The building was quite empty. And the Commander of the Armies of the North, probably the greatest general the French have in the field to-day, was kneeling there alone.
He never knew I had seen him. I left before he did. Now, as I look back, it seems to me that that great general on his knees alone in that little church is typical of the att.i.tude of France to-day toward the war.
It is a totally different att.i.tude from the English--not more heroic, not braver, not more resolute to an end. But it is peculiarly reverential. The enemy is on the soil of France. The French are fighting for their homes, for their children, for their country. And in this great struggle France daily, hourly, on its knees asks for help.
I went to the hotel--an ancient place, very small, very clean, very cold and shabby. The entrance was through an archway into a cobble-paved courtyard, where on the left, under the roof of a shed, the saddles of cavalry horses and gendarmes were waiting on saddle trestles. Beyond, through a glazed door, was a long dining room, with a bare, white-scrubbed floor and whitewashed walls. Its white table-cloths, white walls and ceiling and white floor, with no hint of fire, although a fine snow had commenced to fall, set me to shivering.
Even the attempt at decoration of hanging baskets, of trailing vines with strings of red peppers, was hardly cheering.
From the window a steep, walled garden fell away, dreary enough under the grey sky and the snowfall. The same curious pale-green moss covered the trees, and beyond the garden wall, in a field, was a hole where a German aeroplane had dropped a bomb.
Hot coffee had been ordered, and we went into a smaller room for it.
Here there was a fire, with four French soldiers gathered round it.
One of them was writing at the table. The others were having their palms read.
"You have a heart line," said the palmist to one of them--"a heart line like a windmill!"
I drank my coffee and listened. I could understand only a part of it, but it was eminently cheerful. They laughed, chaffed each other, and although my presence in the hotel must have caused much curiosity in that land of no women, they did not stare at me. Indeed, it was I who did the gazing.
After a time I was given a room. It was at the end of a whitewashed corridor, from which pine doors opened on either side into bedrooms.
The corridor was bare of carpet, the whole upstairs freezing cold.
There were none of the amenities. My room was at the end. It boasted two small windows, with a tiny stand between them containing a tin basin and a pitcher; a bed with one side of the mattress torn open and exposing a heterogeneous content that did not bear inspection; a pine chair, a candle and a stove.
They called it a stove. It had a coal receptacle that was not as large as a porridge bowl, and one small lump of coal, pulverized, was all it held. It was lighted with a handful of straw. Turn your back and count ten, and it was out. Across the foot of the bed was one of the Continental feather comforts which cover only one"s feet and let the rest freeze.
It was not so near the front as La Panne, but the windows rattled incessantly from the bombardment of Ypres. I glanced through one of the windows. The red tiles I had grown to know so well were not in evidence. Most of the roofs were blue, a weathered and mottled blue, very lovely, but, like everything else about the town, exceedingly cold to look at.
Shortly after I had unpacked my few belongings I was presented to General Foch, not at headquarters, but at the house in which he was living. He came out himself to meet me, attended by several of his officers, and asked at once if I had had _dejeuner_. I had not, so he invited me to lunch with him and with his staff.
_Dejeuner_ was ready and we went in immediately. A long table had been laid for fourteen. General Foch took his place at the centre of one of the long sides, and I was placed in the seat of honour directly across. As his staff is very large, only a dozen officers dine with him. The others, juniors in the service, are billeted through the town and have a separate mess.
Sitting where I did I had a very good opportunity to see the hero of Ypres, philosopher, strategist and theorist, whose theories were then bearing the supreme test of war.
Erect, and of distinguished appearance, General Foch is a man rather past middle life, with heavy iron-grey hair, rather bushy grey eyebrows and a moustache. His eyes are grey and extremely direct. His speech incisive and rather rapid.
Although some of the staff had donned the new French uniform of grey-blue, the general wore the old uniform, navy-blue, the only thing denoting his rank being the three dull steel stars on the embroidered sleeve of his tunic.
There was little ceremony at the meal. The staff remained standing until General Foch and I were seated. Then they all sat down and _dejeuner_ was immediately served.
One of the staff told me later that the general is extremely punctilious about certain things. The staff is expected to be in the dining room five minutes before meals are served. A punctual man himself, he expects others to be punctual. The table must always be the epitome of neatness, the food well cooked and quietly served.
Punctuality and neatness no doubt are due to his long military training, for General Foch has always been a soldier. Many of the officers of France owe their knowledge of strategy and tactics to his teaching at the _ecole de Guerre_.
General Foch led the conversation. Owing to the rapidity of his speech, it was necessary to translate much of it for me. We spoke, one may say, through a clearing house. But although he knew it was to be translated to me, he spoke, not to the interpreter, but to me, and his keen eyes watched me as I replied. And I did not interview General Foch. General Foch interviewed me. I made no pretence at speaking for America. I had no mission. But within my limitations I answered him as well as I could.
"There are many ties between America and France," said General Foch.
"We wish America to know what we are doing over here, to realise that this terrible war was forced on us."
I mentioned my surprise at the great length of the French line--more than four hundred miles.
"You do not know that in America?" he asked, evidently surprised.
I warned him at once not to judge the knowledge of America by what I myself knew, that no doubt many quite understood the situation.
"But you have been very modest," I said. "We really have had little information about the French Army and what it is doing, unless more news is going over since I left."
"We are more modest than the Germans, then?"
"You are, indeed. There are several millions of German-born Americans who are not likely to let America forget the Fatherland. There are many German newspapers also."
"What is the percentage of German population?"
I told him. I think I was wrong. I think I made it too great. But I had not expected to be interviewed.
"And these German newspapers, are they neutral?"
"Not at all. Very far from it."
I told him what I knew of the German propaganda in America, and he listened intently.
"What is its effect? Is it influencing public opinion?"
"It did so undeniably for a time. But I believe it is not doing so much now. For one thing, Germany"s methods on the sea will neutralise all her agents can say in her favour--that and the relaxation of the restrictions against the press, so that something can be known of what the Allies are doing."
"You have known very little?"
"Absurdly little."
There was some feeling in my tone, and he smiled.
"We wish to have America know the splendid spirit of the French Army,"
he said after a moment. "And the justice of its cause also."
I asked him what he thought of the future.