We went up a hill once crowned by one of those clusters of farm buildings of stone and mortar, where house and stables and granaries are close together. All around were bare fields. Those farm buildings stood up like a mountain peak. The French had the hill and lost it and recovered it. Whichever side had it, the other was bound to bathe it in shells because it commanded the country around. The value of property meant nothing. All that counted was military advantage. Because churches are often on hilltops, because they are bound to be used for lookouts, is why they get torn to pieces. When two men are fighting for life they don’t bother about upsetting a table with a vase, or notice any “Keep off the grass” signs; no, not even if the family Bible be underfoot. None of the roof, none of the superstructure of these farm buildings was left; only the lower walls, which were eighteen inches thick and in places penetrated by the shells. For when a Frenchman builds a farmhouse he builds it to last a few hundred years. The farm windmill was as twisted as a birdcage that has been rolled under a trolley car, but a large hayrake was unharmed. Such is the luck of war. I made up my mind that if I ever got under shell-fire I’d make for the hayrake and avoid the windmill. Our tall major pointed out all the fluctuating positions during the battle. It was like hearing a chess match explained from memory by an expert. Words to him were something precious. He made each one count as he would the shots from his cannon. His narrative had the lucidity of a terse judge reviewing evidence. The battle-field was etched on his mind in every important phase of its action. Not once did he speak in abuse of the enemy. The staff officer who directs steel ringing on steel is too busy thrusting and keeping guard to indulge in diatribes. To him the enemy is a powerful impersonal devil who must be beaten. When I asked about the conduct of the Germans in the towns they occupied, his lip tightened and his eyes grew hard. “I’m afraid it was pretty bad!” he said; as if he felt, besides the wrong to his own people, the shame that men who had fought so bravely should act so ill. I think his attitude toward war was this: “We will die for France, but calling the Germans names will not help us to win. It only takes breath.” “_Allons, messieurs!_” As our car ran up a gentle hill we noticed two soldiers driving a load of manure. This seemed a pretty prosaic, even humiliating, business, in a poetic sense, for the brave _poilus_, veterans of Lorraine’s great battle. But Father Joffre is a true Frenchman of his time. Why shouldn’t the soldiers help the farmers whose sons are away at the front and perhaps helping farmers back of some other point of the line?