THE MILITARY SECRET

The second hill was our destination.  At the foot of it the car stopped and we got out.  A steep path with here and there a wooden step led to the summit.  At the foot of the path was a sentry and behind him one of the multicoloured tents.

“Are you a good climber?” asked the officer.

I said I was and we set out.  The path extended only a part of the way, to a place perhaps two hundred feet beyond the road, where what we would call a cyclone cellar in America had been dug out of the hillside.  Like the others of the sort I had seen, it was muddy and uninviting, practically a cave with a roof of turf.

The path ceased, and it was necessary to go diagonally up the steep hillside through the snow.  From numberless guns at the base of the hill came steady reports, and as we ascended it was explained to me that I was about to visit the headquarters of Major General H——­, commanding an army division.

“The last person I brought here,” said the young officer, smiling, “was the Prince of Wales.”

We reached the top at last.  There was a tiny farmhouse, a low stable with a thatched roof, and, towering over all, the arms of a great windmill.  Chickens cackled round my feet, a pig grunted in a corner, and apparently from directly underneath came the ear-splitting reports of a battery as it fired.

“Perhaps I would better go ahead and tell them you are coming,” said the officer.  “These people have probably not seen a woman in months, and the shock would be too severe.  We must break it gently.”

So he went ahead, and I stood on the crest of that wind-swept hill and looked across the valley to Messines, to Wytschaete and Ypres.

The battlefield lay spread out like a map.  As I looked, clouds of smoke over Messines told of the bursting of shells.

Major General H——­ came hurrying out.  His quarters occupy the only high ground, with the exception of the near-by hill with its ruined tower, in the neighbourhood of Ypres.  Here, a week or so before, had come the King of Belgium, to look with tragic eyes at all that remained to him of his country.  Here had come visiting Russian princes from the eastern field, the King of England, the Prince of Wales.  No obscurities—­except myself—­had ever penetrated so far into the fastness of the British lines.

Later on in the day I wrote my name in a visitors’ book the officers have established there, wrote under sprawling royal signatures, under the boyish hand of the Prince of Wales, the irregular chirography of Albert of Belgium, the blunt and soldierly name of General Joffre.

There are six officers stationed in the farmhouse, composing General H——­’s staff.  And, as things turned out, we did not require the white-paper sandwiches, for we were at once invited to luncheon.

“Not a very elaborate luncheon,” said General H——­, “but it will give us a great deal of pleasure to share it.”