of the most brilliant manoeuvres of the war, before staffs had settled down to office existence in permanent quarters.  That is, we might see the little there was to see:  a soldier telegrapher in one bedroom, a soldier typewritist in another, officers at work in others.  One realized that they could pack up everything and move in the time it takes to toss enough clothes into a bag to spend a night away from home.  Apparently, when the French fought they left red tape behind with the bureaucracy.

From his seat before a series of maps on a sitting-room table an officer of about thirty-five rose to receive us.  It struck me that he exemplified self-possessed intelligence and definite knowledge; that he had coolness and steadiness plus that acuteness of perception and clarity of statement which are the gift of the French.  You felt sure that no orders which left his hand wasted any words or lacked explicitness.  The Staff is the brains of the army, and he had brains.

“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 Societe 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 them for wounded.  This ambulance had got one and was taking him to Paris, off the regular route of the wounded who were being sent south.  The boot-soles of a prostrate figure showed out of the dark recess of the interior.  This French officer, a major, had been hit in the shoulder.  He tried to control the catch in his voice which belied his assertion that he was suffering little pain.  The drizzling rain was chilly.  It was a long way to Paris yet.