We made towards Chambry.  Chambry is a village which, like Meaux, lies below the plain.  Chambry escaped glory; but between it and Barcy, on the intervening slope through which a good road runs, a battle was fought.  You know what kind of a battle it was by the tombs.  These tombs were very like the others—­an oblong of barbed wire, a white flag, a white cross, sometimes a name, more often only a number, rarely a wreath.  You see first one, then another, then two, then a sprinkling; and gradually you perceive that the whole plain is dotted with gleams of white flags and white crosses, so that graves seem to extend right away to the horizon marked by lines of trees.  Then you see a huge general grave.  Much glory about that spot!

And then a tomb with a black cross.  Very disconcerting, that black cross!  It is different not only in colour, but in shape, from the other crosses.  Sinister!  You need not to be told that the body of a German lies beneath it.  The whole devilishness of the Prussian ideal is expressed in that black cross.  Then, as the road curves, you see more black crosses, many black crosses, very many.  No flags, no names, no wreaths on these tombs.  Just a white stencilled number in the centre of each cross.  Women in Germany are still lying awake at nights and wondering what those tombs look like.

Watching over all the tombs, white and black without distinction, are notices:  “Respect the Tombs.”  But the wheat and the oats are not respecting the tombs.  Everywhere the crops have encroached on them, half-hiding them, smothering them, climbing right over them.  In one place wheat is ripening out of the very body of a German soldier.

Such is the nearest battlefield to Paris.  Corporate excursions to it are forbidden, and wisely.  For the attraction of the place, were it given play, would completely demoralise Meaux and the entire district.

In half an hour we were back at an utterly matter-of-fact railway station, in whose cafe an utterly matter-of-fact and capable Frenchwoman gave us tea.  And when we reached Paris we had the news that a Staff Captain of the French Army had been detailed to escort us to the front and to show us all that could safely be seen.  Nevertheless, whatever I may experience, I shall not experience again the thrill which I had when the weak and melancholy old driver pointed out the first tomb.  That which we had just seen was the front once.

II On The French Front

We were met at a poste de commandement by the officers in charge, who were waiting for us.  And later we found that we were always thus met.  The highest officer present—­General, Colonel, or Commandant—­was at every place at our disposition to explain things—­and to explain them with that clarity of which the French alone have the secret and of which a superlative example exists in the official report of the earlier phases of the war, offered to the Anglo-Saxon public through