All about you, on every side, is a screen of secrecy. Once in a while
it parts for a moment, and through the rift you catch a glimpse of the
movement of armies and the swing and sweep of campaigns. Then the
curtain closes and again you are shut in.

Let me put the case in another way: It is as though we who are at the
front, or close to it, stand before a mighty painting, but with our
noses almost touching the canvas. You who are farther away see the
whole picture. We, for the moment, see only so much of it as you might
cover with your two hands; but this advantage we do have--that we see
the brush strokes, the color shadings, the infinite small detail,
whereas you view its wider effects.

And then, having seen it, when we try to put our story into words--when
we try to set down on paper the unspeakable horror of it--we realize
what a futile, incomplete thing the English language is.

This present day in Aix-la-Chapelle will be, I assume, much like all the
other days I have spent here. An hour ago small official bulletins,
sanctioned by the Berlin War Office, were posted in the windows of the
shops and on the front of the public buildings; and small groups
gathered before them to read the news.

If it was good news they took it calmly. If it was not so good, still
they took it calmly. If it was outright bad news I think they would
still take it calmly. For, come good or evil, they are all possessed
now with the belief that, in the long run, Germany must win. Their
confidence is supreme.