It is a restful place. Though it shelters the brain of the army, there is no rush or flurry, even when heavy fighting is toward. Deep thinking and hard work are going on day and night between the four walls of this plain, unpretentious house; but, save for the whirr of a telephone now and then, or the arrival of a Staff car or a cyclist, only the sentries at the gateway betoken the presence of the Commander-in-Chief.
You enter from the street under one of those arched entries, known as a porte cochère, found in all French towns. A small door, with panels of frosted glass on the left of the entrance, gives access to the hall, where the first thing to meet the eye is a pyramid of parcels, gifts from home for the Field-Marshal and his troops, mostly from unknown admirers. By every post these presents pour in, vivid testimony of the loving solicitude wherewith the folks at home hang on the life of the army in the field. Every imaginable kind of gift is there—Bibles, Books of Common Prayer, blessed medals and rosaries, charms of all sorts, “woollies” galore, socks and waistcoats and comforters and mitts.
One day even Russia sent her tribute of admiration in the shape of a little ikon of the far-famed Madonna of Kazan, before whose bejewelled image in the Kazan Cathedral at Petrograd thousands of suppliants kneel daily in silent prayer for the safe return of their loved ones from the war. Truly there is a great sameness about certain aspects of the war on both sides. I remember reading an amusing appeal by Field-Marshal von Hindenburg to the correspondent of the Neue Freie Presse, my old friend, Dr. Paul Goldmann, begging him to tell people he did not want any more mitts or remedies against rheumatism and chilblains.
A small room to the right of the hall is the A.D.C.’s (Aide-de-Camp’s) room, where one of the four A.D.C.’s to the Commander-in-Chief is always present. He is known as the A.D.C. on duty. He remains in this room all day in attendance on the Commander-in-Chief, receiving and transmitting messages, answering the telephone on the desk at his elbow, dealing with applications for interviews with “The Chief,” as he is called by his Staff, and receiving visitors. A huge map of the whole zone of the British Army in France hangs on the wall, and portraits of Sir John French and some of his Generals, cut from French and English illustrated papers, have been nailed up.
In the corner is a white door marked “PRIVATE”. When a bell whirrs the A.D.C. disappears through this door. It leads to the workroom of the Commander-in-Chief.
A perfectly plain room, spacious and lofty, with large windows, from its white walls and massive marble mantelpiece and large mirror obviously the drawing-room of the house in other days, the big maps hung all round the walls and spread over the very large plain deal table, lend it an essentially business-like air. On the mantelpiece a handsome Empire clock and some candelabra are the sole ornaments in the room.
There is also a little illuminated card, headed “Nelson’s Prayer,” that finely inspired supplication for victory which they found in the great Admiral’s cabin on board his famous flagship after he received his mortal wound. I have placed this beautiful prayer at the head of this chapter, because its plain, direct appeal, its confidence, and its dignity seem to me to be characteristic of the man on whom once again the hopes of the whole British race are fixed. That little English prayer is the only visible link between Sir John French and home in his workroom in France.
The Commander-in-Chief spends the greater part of the day in this room. It is a place of hard work, of deep concentration, of lightning decisions on which hang the lives of thousands of men. You will find him there at all hours, dapper, fresh, as young as the youngest of his Staff, eternally giving the lie to his white hair and moustache. It is in this room that most of his despatches are written, those models of precise English that, without rhodomontade, false pathos, or exaggeration, set forth their plain tale of glory to make the Empire ring.
Sir John French always writes his own despatches. His warm words of praise, his frank words of criticism, are absolutely the expression of his own thoughts. When he has a despatch to write he will shut himself up in this reposeful room for hours at a time, neglecting his meals, working far into the night, until the last word is written and his name affixed:
“Your Lordship’s most obedient servant,