A discussion followed as to where I was to be taken.  There was a culm heap near the Givenchy brickyards which was rather favoured as a lookout spot.  In spite of my protests, that was ruled out as being under fire at the time.  Bethune was being shelled, but not severely.  I would be taken to Bethune and along the road behind the trenches.  But nothing was to happen to me.  Sir John French knitted his grey brows, and suggested a visit to a wood where the soldiers had built wooden walks and put up signs, naming them Piccadilly, Regent Street, and so on.

“I should like to see something,” I put in feebly.

I appreciated their kindly solicitude, but after all I was there to see things; to take risks, if necessary, but to see.

“Then,” said Sir John with decision, “we will send you to a hill from which you can see.”

The trip was arranged while I waited.  Then he went with me to the door and there we shook hands.  He hoped I would have a comfortable trip, and bowed me out most courteously.  But in the doorway he thought of something.

“Have you a camera with you?”

I had, and said so; a very good camera.

“I hope you do not mind if I ask you not to use it.”

I did not mind.  I promised at once to take no pictures, and indeed at the end of the afternoon I found my unfortunate camera on the floor, much buffeted and kicked about and entirely ignored.

The interview with Sir John French had given me an entirely unexpected impression of the Field Marshal of the British Army.  I had read his reports fully, and from those unemotional reports of battles, of movements and countermovements, I had formed a picture of a great soldier without imagination, to whom a battle was an issue, not a great human struggle—­an austere man.

I had found a man with a fighting jaw and a sensitive mouth; and a man greatly beloved by the men closest to him.  A human man; a soldier, not a writer.

And after seeing and talking with Sir John French I am convinced that it is not his policy that dictates the silence of the army at the front.  He is proud of his men, proud of each heroic regiment, of every brave deed.  He would like, I am sure, to shout to the world the names of the heroes of the British Army, to publish great rolls of honour.  But silence, or comparative silence, has been the decree.

There must be long hours of suspense when the Field Marshal of the British Army paces the floor of that grey and rose brocade drawing-room; hours when the orders he has given are being translated into terms of action, of death, of wounds, but sometimes—­thank God!—­into terms of victory.  Long hours, when the wires and the dispatch riders bring in news, valiant names, gains, losses; names that are not to be told; brave deeds that, lacking chroniclers, must go unrecorded.

Read this, from the report Sir John French sent out only a day or so before I saw him: