they pronounced it
"Berlue," and the villagers only laughed.

The officer in the car explained.

"'Berlue,'" he said, "is--what do you Americans say--dotty? They are
telling the villagers they want to go crazy!"

So he got out and explained. Also he found out their road for them and
sent them off, rather sheepish, but laughing.

"I never get over the surprises of this war," said the officer when he
returned. "Think of those boys, with not a word of French, taking that
lorry from the coast to the English lines! They'll get there too. They
always do."

As we left the flat land toward the coast the country grew more and
more beautiful. It rolled gently and there were many trees.

The white houses with their low thatched roofs, which ended in a
bordering of red tiles, looked prosperous. But there were soldiers
again. We were approaching the war zone.

CHAPTER XVI

THE MAN OF YPRES

The sun was high when we reached the little town where General Foch,
Commander of the Armies of the North, had his headquarters. It was not
difficult to find the building. The French flag furled at the doorway,
a gendarme at one side of the door and a sentry at the other, denoted
the headquarters of the staff. But General Foch was not there at the
moment. He had gone to church.

The building was near. Thinking that there might be a service, I
decided to go also. Going up a steep street to where at the top stood
a stone church, with an image of the Christ almost covered by that
virgin vine which we call Virginia creeper, I opened the
leather-covered door and went quietly in.

There was no service. The building was quite empty. And the Commander
of the Armies of the North, probably the greatest general the French
have in the field to-day, was kneeling there alone.

He never knew I had seen him. I left before he did. Now, as I look
back, it seems to me that that great general on his knees alone in
that little church is typical of the attitude of France to-day toward
the war.

It is a totally different attitude from the English--not more heroic,
not braver, not more resolute to an end. But it is peculiarly
reverential. The enemy is on the soil of France. The French are
fighting for their homes, for their children, for their country. And
in this great struggle France daily, hourly, on its knees asks for
help.

I went to the hotel--an ancient place, very small, very clean, very
cold and shabby. The entrance was through an a