"All goes well!" he said, as if there were no more to say. All goes well!
He would say it when things looked black or when they looked bright,
and in a way that would make others believe it.

Outside the hotel were no cavalry escorts or commanders, no
hurrying orderlies, none of the legendary activity that is associated
with an army headquarters. A motor-car drove up, an officer got out;
another officer descended the stairs to enter a waiting car. The wires
carry word faster than the cars. Each subordinate commander was in
his place along that line where we had seen the puffs of smoke
against the landscape, ready to answer a question or obey an order.
That simplicity, like art itself, which seems so easy is the most difficult
accomplishment of all in war.

After dark, in a drizzling rain, we came to what seemed to be a town,
for our motor-car lamps spread their radiant streams over wet
pavements. But these were the only lights. Tongues of loose bricks
had been shot across the cobblestones and dimly the jagged skyline
of broken walls of buildings on either side could be discerned. It was
Senlis, the first town I had seen which could be classified as a town in
ruins. Afterwards, one became a sort of specialist in ruins, comparing
the latest with previous examples of destruction.

Approaching footsteps broke the silence. A small, very small, French
soldier--he was not more than five feet two--appeared, and we
followed him to an ambulance that had broken down for want of
petrol. It belonged to the Société de Femmes de France. The little
soldier had put on a uniform as a volunteer for the only service his
stature would permit. In those days many volunteer organizations
were busy seeking to "help." There was a kind of competition among