Two or three towns have stood out as conspicuous points of activity in the western field.  Ypres is one of these towns.  Day by day it figures in the reports from the front.  The French are there, and just to the east the English line commences.[D] The line of trenches lies beyond the town, forming a semicircle round it.

[Footnote D:  Written in May, 1915.]

A few days later I saw this semicircle, the flat and muddy battlefield of Ypres.  But on this visit I was to see only the town, which, although completely destroyed, was still being shelled.

The curve round the town gave the invading army a great advantage in its destruction.  It enabled them to shell it from three directions, so that it was raked by cross fire.  For that reason the town of Ypres presents one of the most hideous pictures of desolation of the present war.

General M——­ had agreed to take me to Ypres.  But as he was a Belgian general, and the town of Ypres is held by the French, it was a part of the etiquette of war that we should secure the escort of a French officer at the town of Poperinghe.

For war has its etiquette, and of a most exacting kind.  And yet in the end it simplifies things.  It is to war what rules are to bridge—­something to lead by!  Frequently I was armed with passes to visit, for instance, certain batteries.  My escort was generally a member of the Headquarters’ Staff of that particular army.  But it was always necessary to visit first the officer in command of that battery, who in his turn either accompanied us to the battlefield or deputised one of his own staff.  The result was an imposing number of uniforms of various sorts, and the conviction, as I learned, among the gunners that some visiting royalty was on an excursion to the front!

It was a cold winter day in February, a grey day with a fine snow that melted as soon as it touched the ground.  Inside the car we were swathed in rugs.  The chauffeur slapped his hands at every break in the journey, and sentries along the road hugged such shelter as they could find.

As we left Poperinghe the French officer, Commandant D——­, pointed to a file of men plodding wearily through the mud.

“The heroes of last night’s attack,” he said.  “They are very tired, as you see.”

We stopped the car and let the men file past.  They did not look like heroes; they looked tired and dirty and depressed.  Although our automobile generally attracted much attention, scarcely a man lifted his head to glance at us.  They went on drearily through the mud under the pelting sleet, drooping from fatigue and evidently suffering from keen reaction after the excitement of the night before.

I have heard the French soldier criticised for this reaction.  It may certainly be forgiven him, in view of his splendid bravery.  But part of the criticism is doubtless justified.  The English Tommy fights as he does everything else.  There is a certain sporting element in what he does.  He puts into his fighting the same fairness he puts into sport, and it is a point of honour with him to keep cool.  The English gunner will admire the enemy’s marksmanship while he is ducking a shell.