He agreed that the Germans had wasted a great deal of their ammunition.

Like all great commanders, he was intensely proud of his men and their spirit.

“They are both cheerful and healthy,” said the general; “splendid men.  We are very proud of them.  I am glad that America is to know something of their spirit, of the invincible courage and resolution of the French to fight in the cause of humanity and justice.”

Luncheon was over.  It had been a good luncheon, of a mound of boiled cabbage, finely minced beef in the centre, of mutton cutlets and potatoes, of strawberry jam, cheese and coffee.  There had been a bottle of red wine on the table.  A few of the staff took a little, diluting it with water.  General Foch did not touch it.

We rose.  I had an impression that I had had my interview; but the hospitality and kindness of this French general were to go further.

In the little corridor he picked up his dark-blue cap and we set out for official headquarters, followed by several of the officers.  He walked rapidly, taking the street to give me the narrow sidewalk and going along with head bent against the wind.  In the square, almost deserted, a number of staff cars had gathered, and lorries lumbered through.  We turned to the left, between the sentry and the gendarme, and climbing a flight of wooden stairs were in the anteroom of the general’s office.  Here were tables covered with papers, telephones, maps, the usual paraphernalia of such rooms.  We passed through a pine door, and there was the general’s room—­a bare and shabby room, with a large desk in front of the two windows that overlooked the street, a shaded lamp, more papers and a telephone.  The room had a fireplace, and in front of it was a fine old chair.  And on the mantelpiece, as out of place as the chair, was a marvellous Louis-Quinze clock, under glass.  There were great maps on the walls, with the opposing battle lines shown to the smallest detail.  General Foch drew my attention at once to the clock.

“During the battle of the Yser,” he said, “night and day my eyes were on that clock.  Orders were sent.  Then it was necessary to wait until they were carried out.  It was by the clock that one could know what should be happening.  The hours dragged.  It was terrible.”

It must have been terrible.  Everywhere I had heard the same story.  More than any of the great battles of the war, more even than the battle of the Marne, the great fight along the Yser, from the twenty-first of October, 1914, to the twelfth of November, seems to have impressed itself in sheer horror on the minds of those who know its fearfulness.  At every headquarters I have found the same feeling.

It was General Foch’s army that reenforced the British at that battle.  The word had evidently been given to the Germans that at any cost they must break through.  They hurled themselves against the British with unprecedented ferocity.  I have told a little of that battle, of the frightful casualties, so great among the Germans that they carried their dead back and burned them in great pyres.  The British Army was being steadily weakened.  The Germans came steadily, new lines taking the place of those that were gone.  Then the French came up, and, after days of struggle, the line held.