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 attitude of France to-day toward
the war.
It is a totally different attitude 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 aëroplane 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 _déjeuner_. I had not, so he
invited me to lunch with him and with his staff.
_Déjeuner_ 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
_déjeuner_ 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 _École 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.
"There is no question about the future," he said with decision. "That
is already settled. When the German advance was checked it was checked
for good."
"Then you do not believe that they will make a further advance toward
Paris?"
"Certainly not."
He went on to explain the details of the battle of the Marne, and how
in losing that battle the invading army had lost everything.
It will do no harm to digress for a moment and explain exactly what
the French did at the battle of the Marne.
All through August the Allies fell back before the onward rush of the
Germans. But during all that strategic retreat plans were being made
for resuming the offensive again. This necessitated an orderly
retreat, not a rout, with constant counter-engagements to keep the
invaders occupied. It necessitated also a fixed point of retreat, to
be reached by the different Allied armies simultaneously.
When, on September fifth, the order for assuming the offensive was
given, the extreme limit of the retreat had not yet been reached. But
the audacity of the German march had placed it in a position
favourable for attack, and at the same time extremely dangerous for
the Allies and Paris if they were not checked.
On the evening of September fifth General Joffre sent this message to
all the commanders of armies:
"The hour has come to advance at all costs, and do or die where you
stand rather than give way."
The French did not give way. Paris was saved after a colossal battle,
in which more than two million men were engaged. The army commanded by
General Foch was at one time driven back by overwhelming odds, but
immediately resumed the offensive, and making a flank attack forced
the Germans to retreat.
Not that he mentioned his part in the battle of the Marne. Not that
any member of his staff so much as intimated it. But these are things
that get back.
"How is America affected by the war?"
I answered as best I could, telling him something of the paralysis it
had caused in business, of the war tax, and of our anxiety as to the
status of our shipping.
"From what I can gather from the newspapers, the sentiment in America
is being greatly influenced by the endangering of American shipping,"
"Naturally. But your press endeavours to be neutral, does it not?"
"Not particularly," I admitted. "Sooner or later our papers become
partisan. It is difficult not to. In this war one must take sides."
"Certainly. One must take sides. One cannot be really neutral in this
war. Every country is interested in the result, either actively now or
later on, when the struggle is decided. One cannot be disinterested;
one must be partisan."
The staff echoed this.
Having been interviewed by General Foch for some time, I ventured to
ask him a question. So I asked, as I asked every general I met, if the
German advance had been merely ruthless or if it had been barbaric.
He made no direct reply, but he said:
"You must remember that the Germans are not only fighting against an
army, they are fighting against nations; trying to destroy their past,
their present, even their future."
"How does America feel as to the result of this war?" he asked, "I
suppose it feels no doubt as to the result."
Again I was forced to explain my own inadequacy to answer such a
question and my total lack of authority to voice American sentiment.
While I was confident that many Americans believed in the cause of the
Allies, and had every confidence in the outcome of the war, there
remained always that large and prosperous portion of the population,
either German-born or of German parentage, which had no doubt of
Germany's success.
"It is natural, of course," he commented. "How many French have you in
the United States?"
I thought there were about three hundred thousand, and said so.
"You treat your people so well in France," I said, "that few of them
come to us."
He nodded and smiled.
"What do you think of the blockade, General Foch?" I said. "I have
just crossed the Channel and it is far from comfortable."
"Such a blockade cannot be," was his instant reply; "a blockade must
be continuous to be effective. In a real blockade all neutral shipping
must be stopped, and Germany cannot do this."
One of the staff said "Bluff!" which has apparently been adopted into
the French language, and the rest nodded their approval.
Their talk moved on to aëroplanes, to shells, to the French artillery.
General Foch considered that Zeppelins were useful only as air scouts,
and that with the coming of spring, with short nights and early dawns,
there would be no time for them to range far. The aëroplanes he
considered much more valuable.
"One thing has impressed me," I said, "as I have seen various
artillery duels--the number of shells used with comparatively small
result. After towns are destroyed the shelling continues. I have seen
a hillside where no troops had been for weeks, almost entirely covered
with shell holes."
He agreed that the Germans had wasted a great deal of their
ammunition.
Like all great commanders, he was intensely proud of his men and their
spirit.
"They are both cheerful and healthy," said the general; "splendid men.
We are very proud of them. I am glad that America is to know something
of their spirit, of the invincible courage and resolution of the
French to fight in the cause of humanity and justice."
Luncheon was over. It had been a good luncheon, of a mound of boiled
cabbage, finely minced beef in the centre, of mutton cutlets and
potatoes, of strawberry jam, cheese and coffee. There had been a
bottle of red wine on the table. A few of the staff took a little,
diluting it with water. General Foch did not touch it.
We rose. I had an impression that I had had my interview; but the
hospitality and kindness of this French general were to go further.
In the little corridor he picked up his dark-blue cap and we set out
for official headquarters, followed by several of the officers. He
walked rapidly, taking the street to give me the narrow sidewalk and
going along with head bent against the wind. In the square, almost
deserted, a number of staff cars had gathered, and lorries lumbered
through. We turned to the left, between the sentry and the gendarme,
and climbing a flight of wooden stairs were in the anteroom of the
general's office. Here were tables covered with papers, telephones,
maps, the usual paraphernalia of such rooms. We passed through a pine
door, and there was the general's room--a bare and shabby room, with a
large desk in front of the two windows that overlooked the street, a
shaded lamp, more papers and a telephone. The room had a fireplace,
and in front of it was a fine old chair. And on the mantelpiece, as
out of place as the chair, was a marvellous Louis-Quinze clock, under
glass. There were great maps on the walls, with the opposing battle
lines shown to the smallest detail. General Foch drew my attention at
once to the clock.
"During the battle of the Yser," he said, "night and day my eyes were
on that clock. Orders were sent. Then it was necessary to wait until
they were carried out. It was by the clock that one could know what
should be happening. The hours dragged. It was terrible."
It must have been terrible. Everywhere I had heard the same story.
More than any of the great battles of the war, more even than the
battle of the Marne, the great fight along the Yser, from the
twenty-first of October, 1914, to the twelfth of November, seems to
have impressed itself in sheer horror on the minds of those who know
its fearfulness. At every headquarters I have found the same feeling.
It was General Foch's army that reënforced the British at that battle.
The word had evidently been given to the Germans that at any cost they
must break through. They hurled themselves against the British with
unprecedented ferocity. I have told a little of that battle, of the
frightful casualties, so great among the Germans that they carried
their dead back and burned them in great pyres. The British Army was
being steadily weakened. The Germans came steadily, new lines taking
the place of those that were gone. Then the French came up, and, after
days of struggle, the line held.
General Foch opened a drawer of the desk and showed me, day by day,
the charts of the battle. They were bound together in a great book,
and each day had a fresh page. The German Army was black. The French
was red. Page after page I lived that battle, the black line
advancing, the blue of the British wavering against overwhelming
numbers and ferocity, the red line of the French coming up. "The Man
of Ypres," they call General Foch, and well they may.
"They came," said General Foch, "like the waves of the sea."
It was the second time I had heard the German onslaught so described.
He shut the book and sat for a moment, his head bent, as though in
living over again that fearful time some of its horror had come back
to him.
At last: "I paced the floor and watched the clock," he said.
How terrible! How much easier to take a sword and head a charge! How
much simpler to lead men to death than to send them! There in that
quiet room, with only the telephone and the ticking of the clock for
company, while his staff waited outside for orders, this great
general, this strategist on whose strategy hung the lives of armies,
this patriot and soldier at whose word men went forth to die, paced
the floor.
He walked over to the clock and stood looking at it, his fine head
erect, his hands behind him. Some of the tragedy of those nineteen
days I caught from his face.
But the line held.
To-day, as I write this, General Foch's army in the North and the
British are bearing the brunt of another great attack at Ypres.[E] The
British have made a gain at Neuve Chapelle, and the Germans have
retaliated by striking at their line, some miles farther north. If
they break through it will be toward Calais and the sea. Every
offensive movement in this new warfare of trench and artillery
requires a concentration of reserves. To make their offensive movement
the British have concentrated at Neuve Chapelle. The second move of
this game of death has been made by the other side against the
weakened line of the Allies. During the winter the line, in this
manner, automatically straightened. But what will happen now?
[Footnote E: Battle of Neuve Chapelle March, 1915.]
One thing we know: General Foch will send out his brave men, and,
having sent them, will watch the Louis-Quinze clock and wait. And
other great generals will send out their men, and wait also. There
will be more charts, and every fresh line of black or blue or red or
Belgian yellow will mean a thousand deaths, ten thousand deaths.
They are fighting to-day at Ypres. I have seen that flat and muddy
battlefield. I have talked with the men, have stood by the batteries
as they fired. How many of the boys I watched playing prisoners' base
round their guns in the intervals of firing are there to-day? How many
remain of that little company of soldiers who gave three cheers for me
because I was the only woman they had seen for months? How many of the
officers who shrugged their shoulders when I spoke of danger have gone
down to death?
Outside the window where I am writing this, Fifth Avenue, New York,
has just left its churches and is flaunting its spring finery in the
sun. Across the sea, such a little way as measured by time, people are
in the churches also. The light comes through the ancient,
stained-glass windows and falls, not on spring finery, not on orchids
and gardenias, but on thousands of tiny candles burning before the
shrine of the Mother of Pity.
It is so near. And it is so terrible. How can we play? How can we
think of anything else? But for the grace of God, your son and mine
lying there in the spring sunlight on the muddy battlefield of Ypres!