The battlefield lay spread out like a map. As I looked, clouds of
smoke over Messines told of the bursting of shells.
Major General H---- came hurrying out. His quarters occupy the only
high ground, with the exception of the near-by hill with its ruined
tower, in the neighbourhood of Ypres. Here, a week or so before, had
come the King of Belgium, to look with tragic eyes at all that
remained to him of his country. Here had come visiting Russian princes
from the eastern field, the King of England, the Prince of Wales. No
obscurities--except myself--had ever penetrated so far into the
fastness of the British lines.
Later on in the day I wrote my name in a visitors' book the officers
have established there, wrote under sprawling royal signatures, under
the boyish hand of the Prince of Wales, the irregular chirography of
Albert of Belgium, the blunt and soldierly name of General Joffre.
There are six officers stationed in the farmhouse, composing General
H----'s staff. And, as things turned out, we did not require the
white-paper sandwiches, for we were at once invited to luncheon.
"Not a very elaborate luncheon," said General H----, "but it will give
us a great deal of pleasure to share it."
While the extra places were being laid we went to the brow of the
hill. Across the valley at the foot of a wooded ridge were the British
trenches.
Pages:
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331