France, May 23rd.

I sat down to write an article about a log-chopping competition.  But the irony of writing such things with other things on one’s mind is too much even for a war correspondent.  One’s pen goes on strike.  One impression above all has been brought home in the two months we have spent in France.  For some reason, people at home are colossally ignorant of the task now in front of them.  We have now seen three theatres of war, and it was the same everywhere.  Indeed, in Gallipoli we ourselves were just as ignorant of the state of affairs elsewhere.  All the news we had of Salonica came from the English newspapers.  We thought, “However difficult things may be here, at any rate the Salonica army is only waiting for a few more men before it cuts the railway to Constantinople.”  Then somebody came from Salonica, and we found that the army there was comforting itself with exactly the same reflections about us.  As for England, everyone who reached us from there arrived with the conviction that we needed only a few more men to push through.

When the attempt to get through from Suvla failed the public turned to Bulgaria, and, on the strength of what they read, many of those on the Peninsula could not help doing the same.  Now that we see with our eyes the nature of Britain’s task in France, there is only one depressing thing about it, and that is that one doubts if the British people have any more idea of its magnitude than it had of the difficulties of Gallipoli.

The world hears from the British public vague talk of some future offensive.  It goes without saying that we hear nothing of any plans here.  If there were any, it would be in London that they would first become common knowledge.  But if such an offensive ever does happen, have the British people any idea of its difficulties?  In this warfare, when you have brought up such artillery as was unbelievable even in the first year of the war, and reduced miles of trenches to powder, and have walked over the line of the works in front of you, a handful of batmen and Headquarters’ cooks may still hold up the greatest attack yet delivered, and you may spend the next month dashing your strength away against a barrier of ever-increasing toughness.

If an offensive ever is made, we know it will not be made without good reason for its success.  But everything which one has seen points to the conclusion that a vague belief in the success of such an offensive ought not to be the sole mental effort that a great part of the nation makes towards winning the war.  And yet, from what I saw lately during a recent visit to Great Britain, I should say that such was the case.  “If we fail to break through,” the public says, “surely the Russians will manage it, or the French will succeed this time.”  Wherever we have seen the war there is always this tendency to look elsewhere for success.  There is not the slightest doubt we have success in our power.