From G.H.Q., the brain of the Army, the volitional centre of the whole organism, radiate the sensory and motor nerves by which impressions at the Front are registered and plans for action transmitted.  It is the home of the Staff, not of the Armies, and contains more “brass hats” than all the other Headquarters put together.  Beyond the “details” in the barracks it contains few of the rank and file, and its big square betrays little of the crowded animation of the towns nearer the fighting line, with their great parks of armoured cars, motor lorries, and ammunition waggons, their filter-carts, and their little clusters and eddies of men resting in billets.  The Military Police on point-duty have a comparatively quiet time, although despatch-riders are, of course, for ever whizzing to and fro with messages from and to the Front.  It is as full of departmental offices as Whitehall itself—­some 153 of them to be exact—­each one indicated by a combination of initial letters, for staff officers are men of few words and cogent, and it saves time to say “O.” when you mean Operations, “I.” for Intelligence, “A.G.” for Adjutant-General; a fashion which is faithfully followed at the other H.Q., for D.A.A.Q.M.G. saves an enormous number of polysyllables.

Hence the proximity of hostilities has left but little outward and visible sign upon the ancient town.  The tradesmen have, it is true, made some concessions to our presence, and one remarks the inviting legends “Top-hole Tea” in the windows of a patisserie and “High life” over the shop of a tailor.  Four of us made a private arrangement with a buxom housewife, whereby, in return for four francs per head a day and the pooling of our rations, she undertook to provide us with lunch and dinner, thereby establishing a “Mess” of our own.  Many such fraternities there were in the absence of a regular regimental mess.  But these arrangements were more private than military, the only obligation on the ordinary householder being the furnishing of billets.  Occasionally the cobbled streets became the scene of an unwonted animation when young French recruits celebrated their call to the colours by marching down the streets arm-in-arm singing ribald songs, or a squad of sullen German prisoners were marched up them on their way to the prison, within which they vanished amid the imprecations of the crowd.  One such squad I saw arriving in a motor lorry, from the tailboard of which they jumped down to enter the gates, and one of them, a clumsy fellow of about thirteen stones, landed heavily in his ammunition boots from a height of about five feet on the foot of a British soldier on guard.  The latter winced and hastily drew back his foot, but beyond that gave no sign; I wondered whether, had the positions been reversed and the scene laid across the Rhine, a German guard would have exhibited a similar tolerance.  I doubt it.