of the road as we drive slowly eastward, a wilderness of trenches runs
north and south. With what confident hope the Germans dug and
fortified and elaborated them years ago!--with what contempt of death
and danger our men carried them not six months since! And now not a
sign of life anywhere--nothing but groups of white crosses here and
there, emerging from the falling dusk, and the _débris_ of battle
along the road.

A weary way to Douai, over the worst road we have struck yet, and a
weary way beyond it to Denain and Valenciennes. Darkness falls and
hides the monotonous scene of ruin, which indeed begins to change as
we approach Valenciennes, the Headquarters of the First Army. And at
last, a bright fire in an old room piled with books and papers, a kind
welcoming from the officer reigning over it, and the pleasant careworn
face of an elderly lady with whom we are billeted.

Best of all, a message from the Army Commander, Sir Henry Horne, with
whom we had made friends in 1917, just before the capture of the Vimy
Ridge, in which the First Army played so brilliant a part.

We hastily change our travel gear, a car comes for us, and soon we
find ourselves at the General's table in the midst of an easy flow of
pleasant talk.

What is it that makes the special charm of the distinguished soldier,
as compared with other distinguished men?

Simplicity, I suppose, and truth. The realities of war leave small
room for any kind of pose. A high degree, also, of personal stoicism
easily felt but not obtruded; and towards weak and small things--women