There were none of the amenities. My room was at the end. It boasted
two small windows, with a tiny stand between them containing a tin
basin and a pitcher; a bed with one side of the mattress torn open and
exposing a heterogeneous content that did not bear inspection; a pine
chair, a candle and a stove.
They called it a stove. It had a coal receptacle that was not as large
as a porridge bowl, and one small lump of coal, pulverized, was all it
held. It was lighted with a handful of straw. Turn your back and count
ten, and it was out. Across the foot of the bed was one of the
Continental feather comforts which cover only one's feet and let the
rest freeze.
It was not so near the front as La Panne, but the windows rattled
incessantly from the bombardment of Ypres. I glanced through one of
the windows. The red tiles I had grown to know so well were not in
evidence. Most of the roofs were blue, a weathered and mottled blue,
very lovely, but, like everything else about the town, exceedingly
cold to look at.
Shortly after I had unpacked my few belongings I was presented to
General Foch, not at headquarters, but at the house in which he was
living. He came out himself to meet me, attended by several of his
officers, and asked at once if I had had _dejeuner_. I had not, so he
invited me to lunch with him and with his staff.
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