The attack was carried out with the greatest fierceness, men marching shoulder to shoulder into the furnace of battle.  But this time there was no fog to shield them, or to blind the British guns.  The enemy losses were appalling, and after one day’s fighting, in spite of the more northerly attacks on our line still to come, the German hopes of victory were in the dust, and—­as we now know—­for ever.

That is what Vimy means—­what Arras means—­in the fighting of last year.  We ponder it as we drive through the wrecked beauty of Arras and out on to the Douai road on our way to Valenciennes.  We passed slowly along the road to the east of Arras, honeycombed still with dug-outs, and gun emplacements, and past trenches and wire fields, till suddenly a mere sign-board, nothing more—­“Gavrelle!”—­shows us that we are approaching the famous Drocourt-Queant switch of the Hindenburg line, which the Canadians and the 17th British Corps, under Sir Henry Horne, stormed and took in September of last year.  Presently, on either side 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 debris 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 and children—­a natural softness and tenderness of feeling, as though a man who has upon him such stern responsibilities of life and death must needs grasp at their opposites, when and how he can; keen intelligence, bien entendu, modesty, courtesy; a habit of brevity; a boy’s love of fun:  with some such list of characteristics I find myself trying to answer my own question.  They are at least conspicuous in many leaders of the Allied Armies.