At night, when I stood at an open window listening to the silence of the place it was hard, even though I knew, to think that here in this town was the Headquarters Staff of the greatest army England has ever sent abroad, and that the greatest war in history was being fought out only a few miles away.  The raucous horn of a motor-car, the panting of a motor-cycle, the rumble of a convoy of ambulances, the shock of a solitary gun, came as the only reminders of the great horror away there through the darkness.  A dispatch rider was coming back from a night ride on a machine which had side-slipped all the way from Ypres.  An officer was motoring back to a divisional headquarters after a late interview with the chief...  The work went on, though it was very quiet in General Headquarters.

But the brains of the Army were not asleep.  Behind those doors, guarded by sentries, men in khaki uniforms, with just a touch of red about the collar, were bending over maps and documents—­studying the lines of German trenches as they had been sketched out by aviators flying above German shrapnel, writing out orders for ammunition to be sent in a hurry to a certain point on the fighting line where things were very “busy” in the afternoon, ordering the food-supplies wanted by a division of hungry men whose lorries are waiting at the rail-head for bread and meat and a new day’s rations.

“Things are going very well,” said one of the officers, with a glance at a piece of flimsy paper which had just come from the Signals Department across the street.  But things would not have gone so well unless at General Headquarters every officer had done his duty to the last detail, whatever the fatigue of body or spirit.  The place was quiet, because the work was done behind closed doors in these private houses of French and Flemish bourgeoisie whose family portraits hang upon the walls.  Outside I could not see the spirit of war unless I searched for it.

It was after I had left “G.H.Q.” that I saw something of the human side of war and all its ceaseless traffic.  Yet even then, as I travelled nearer and nearer to the front, I was astounded at the silence, the peacefulness of the scenery about me, the absence of all tragic sights.  That day, on the way to a place which was very close to the German lines, children were playing on the roadside, and old women in black gowns trudged down the long, straight high roads, with their endless sentinels of trees.

In a furrowed field a peasant was sowing the seed for an autumn harvesting, and I watched his swinging gestures from left to right which seem symbolical of all that peace means and of all nature’s life and beauty.  The seed is scattered and God does the rest, though men may kill each other and invent new ways of death...

But the roads were encumbered and the traffic of war was surging forward ceaselessly in a muddled, confused, aimless sort of way, as it seemed to me, before I knew the system and saw the working of the brain behind it all.  A long train of carts without horses stood, shafts down, on the muddy side of the road.  Little blue and red flags fluttered above them.  A group of soldiers were lounging in their neighbourhood, waiting, it seems, for something to turn up.  Perhaps that something was a distant train which came with a long trail of smoke across the distant marshlands.