"A little promenade in the open and my mind made up," said Westerling, clapping Bouchard on the shoulder.
"Something about an attack to-night?" asked Bouchard.
"You guess right. Call the others."
Five minutes later he was seated at the head of the dining-room table with his chiefs around him waiting for their chairman to speak. He asked some categorical questions almost perfunctorily, and the answer to each was, "Ready!" with, in some instances, a qualification—the qualification made by regimental and brigade commanders that, though they could take the position in front of them, the cost would be heavy. Yes, all were willing and ready for the first general assault of the war, but they wanted to state the costs as a matter of professional self-defence.
Westerling could pose when it served his purpose. Now he rose and, going to one of the wall maps, indicated a point with his forefinger.
"If we get that we have the most vital position, haven't we?"
Some uttered a word of assent; some only nodded. A glance or two of curiosity was exchanged. Why should the chief of staff ask so elementary a question? Westerling was not unconscious of the glances or of their meaning. They gave dramatic value to his next remark.
"We are going to mass for our main attack in front at Bordir!"
"But," exclaimed four or five officers at once, "that is the heart of the position! That is—"
"I believe it is weak—that it will fall, and to-night!"