It was now considerably past midday, and we were within a few miles of the French frontier, when I saw the guidon which signified the presence of the head of the army, planted at the entrance to a splendid old chateau.  As we passed between the stately gateposts, whirled up the splendid, tree-lined drive and came to a stop in front of the terrace, a dozen officers came running out to meet us.  So cordial and informal were their greetings that I felt as though I were being welcomed at a country-house in America instead of the headquarters of a German army in the field.  So perfect was the field-telephone service that the staff had been able to keep in touch with our progress ever since, five hours before, we had entered the German lines, and had waited dinner for us.  General von Boehn I found to be a red-faced, grey-moustached, jovial old warrior, who seemed very much worried for fear that we were not getting enough to eat, and particularly enough to drink.  He explained that the Belgian owners of the chateau had had the bad taste to run away and take their servants with them, leaving only one bottle of champagne in the cellar.  That bottle was good, however, as far as it went.  Nearly all the officers spoke English, and during the meal the conversation was chiefly of the United States, for one of them had been attached to the German Embassy at Washington and knew the golf-course at Chevy Chase better than I do myself; another had fished in California and shot elk in Wyoming; and a third had attended the army school at Fort Riley.  After dinner we grouped ourselves on the terrace and Thompson made photographs of us.  They are probably the only ones—­in this war, at least—­of a German general and an American war correspondent who is not under arrest.  Then we gathered about a table on which was spread a staff map of the war area and got down to serious business.

The general began by asserting that the accounts of atrocities perpetrated by German troops on Belgian non-combatants were lies.

“Look at these officers about you,” he said.  “They are gentlemen, like yourself.  Look at the soldiers marching past in the road out there.  Most of them are the fathers of families.  Surely you do not believe that they would do the unspeakable things they have been accused of?”

“Three days ago, General,” said I, “I was in Aerschot.  The whole town is now but a ghastly, blackened ruin.”

“When we entered Aerschot,” was the reply, “the son of the burgomaster came into the room where our officers were dining and assassinated the Chief of Staff.  What followed was retribution.  The townspeople got only what they deserved.”

“But why wreak your vengeance on women and children?” I asked.

“None have been killed,” the general asserted positively.

“I’m sorry to contradict you, General,” I asserted with equal positiveness, “but I have myself seen their bodies.  So has Mr. Gibson, the secretary of the American Legation in Brussels, who was present during the destruction of Louvain.”