But whether they put him, as a military man, on a par with Napoleon, or come sapiently to the conclusion that he was no more than a very able general fortunate in being in command at the time the Germanic morale was breaking, it will never be possible to disprove that he was a supreme leader of men in a great war of ideals—­an incarnation of all those qualities of faith and fervor, of self-mastery and dependence on the Divine, of self-realization and with it devotion to the rights and progress of others, which are embodied in the Christian democracy for whose preservation millions have gladly died.

XVII

BRINGING GERMANY TO ITS KNEES

Faith in the ability of Foch to lead us all to victory was, however, not to endure without its grave tests.

The German drive of March 21 was checked by his co-ordination of Allied forces.  But checking the enemy just before he reached the key of the Channel ports was not defeating him; preventing him from driving a wedge between the British and French armies was only diverting him to another point of attack.  He was desperate—­that enemy!  He knew that he must win a decisive victory soon, or see his own maladies destroy him.

He knew the genius of Foch; he knew the immense increase in strength that the Allies had achieved in unifying their command.  He may have underestimated the worth in battle of our American fighters; but it is scarcely probable that he underestimated the worth, behind the lines, of our army of railroad builders, harbor constructors, supply handlers, and the like.  He knew that whether we could fight or not, we had money and men and were pouring both into France to help win the war.

And he also knew that victory after victory which he had won had not only failed to increase his might but had, somehow, weakened him; country after country had fallen before his sword or before his poison-propaganda—­or both!—­his plunder was vast, his accessions in fighting men available for the Western front were formidable—­yet something in his vitals was wrong, terribly wrong; he must stop, soon, and look to his health, or he would be too far-gone for recovery.  But not now! not now!  “They” must be crushed now or never!

So he fought like a maddened beast whose usual cunning has given place to frenzied desperation.

Again and again and again he lunged—­now here, now there.  And the defenders of civilization fell back and back, before him.

Where was that calm, quiet man who had said:  “Well, gentlemen, our affairs are not going badly; are they?”

“The boche,” he had said, “has been halted . . . now we shall endeavor to do better.”

What had happened?  The boche was not halted!  He was, in fact, shelling Paris!

It was in those days that the “soldier-saint,” as Major Stuart-Stephens has called him, must have had need of all his faith and all his fortitude.