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renowned a place were lost to France.

Once again Conrad disagreed with Falkenhayn, preferring a concentrated blow to knock Italy out of the war, and arguing that a decision there was more feasible than in the French alternative. Nor was he the only dissentient. The German Crown Prince, who was to have the honor of commanding the Verdun attack, felt that attrition was a two-edged weapon and thought that it would be wiser to finish with Russia first.

Both were overruled, and the Verdun 'bloodletting' incisions began on February 21.

The keynote of the tactical plan was a continuous series of limited advances which by their menace should draw the French reserves into the mincing machine of the German artillery. And each of these advances was itself to be secured from loss by an intense artillery bombardment, brief for surprise, and compensating its short duration by the number of batteries and their rapidity of fire. By this means the objective would be taken and consolidated before the defenders could move up their reserves for counterattack.

But the theory of limitation was carried to an extreme: the first day the front of attack was only two and a half miles. Thus the few scattered packets of surviving Frenchmen caused more delay than would have been possible on a frontage of rational width. This idea of punching a narrow hole was contrary to the advice of members of Falkenhayn's own staff and the executive commanders. When the front was at last extended on March 6 to the other bank of the Meuse, the chance of a break-through had faded, for the French had recovered from their surprise, repaired their original negligence, and the numbers were now balanced. Even so, the superior technique of the German troops and the reluctance of

the French to cede a yard of groundFalkenhayn had at least gauged the French temperament correctly- turned the balance of attrition in favor of the Germans. But the slow and costly process, and the absence of tangible result, brought no credit to Falkenhayn's 'limited' strategy, and the discontent rose to a height when the offensive failed to prevent ripostes elsewhere. For on June 5, 1916, the Russian army, which Falkenhayn had thought that he could disregard, came to the rescue of France. Under the slight pressure of Brusilov's impromptu advance, the Austrian front collapsed and within three days Brusilov had taken 200,000 prisoners. Never has a mere demonstration had so amazing a success since the walls of Jericho fell at Joshua's trumpet blasts. Although soon checked by its own lack of weight and by prompt German intervention, it compelled Falkenhayn to withdraw troops from the Western Front, and so abandon his plan for a counterstroke against the British offensive preparing on the Somme, as well as the hope of nourishing his Verdun attrition process. It led Rumania to take her fateful decision to enter the war on the side of the Entente. And it caused the downfall of Falkenhayn and his replacement in the supreme command by Hindenburg and Ludendorff. For, although Rumania's unexpected entry was the ostensible reason, the underlying one was the fact that Falkenhayn's 'limited' strategy in 1915 had made possible the Russian recovery which stultified the plan of 1916. Falkenhayn's strategy was history's latest example of the folly of half measures.


He was offered as consolation the post of ambassador at Constantinople and after declining this was given

executive command of the Ninth Army for the campaign against Rumania. Here, if a difficult subordinate, he regilded his laurels by conducting the offensive which threw the Rumanians out of Transylvania, broke through the Carpathians just before the winter snows, and captured Bucharest through a convergent manœuvre with Mackensen's forces from the south. Later he was sent to Turkey for the purpose of regaining Mesopotamia from the British, and when this scheme was abandoned, owing to the burning of the depots with all the ammunition for the campaign, he took over the command in Palestine. He arrived in Jerusalem the day after Allenby's attack on Beersheba, which had forestalled his own offensive, and in a vain attempt to stay the British advance he dissipated the scanty Turkish resources in a series of petty counterattacks. His misunderstanding of local conditions and of the psychology of Turkish troops helped to complete the bankruptcy of Turkish man power, but early in 1918, before the final disaster, he gave way to Liman von Sanders.

Before his death in 1922 he had issued his own account of his work in the Supreme Command and in Rumania, and the studiously impersonal tone-cloaking omissions which cleverly distorted the facts-combined with the likeness of his 'limited' strategy to their own to win him undue credit among British military leaders. Thus the pernicious legend has been created by those who do not trouble to

delve beneath the surface that Falkenhayn was 'the most competent and most farseeing of the German commanders and strategists.'

His countrymen, who knew him intimately, knew him better. Colonel Bauer, the one fixture in the headquarters of the Supreme Command throughout the war and the invaluable assistant in turn of Moltke, Falkenhayn, and Ludendorff, has said of Falkenhayn that he possessed nearly every gift of nature 'except the intuition of a commander; his decisions were half measures, and he wavered even over these. He would probably have made a great statesman, diplomat, or parliamentarian, and was least of all qualified to command in the field.'

The antithesis of Foch, Falkenhayn was an uncompromising realist, and the very excess of this valuable quality was his own poison. Like Napoleon's opponents, he saw too many things at once, and, above all, saw the enemy's strength too clearly. His realization that England was the soul and will of the hostile alliance was proof of his insight, but it merely depressed him.

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HANDS cool and fragrant, like a garden swept
By wind from off a distant sea at night:

A voice which deeper than the hearing crept
By what it left unsung! God's eremite,
To the high hill of questing I had come,
But, solitary, found no single light:

The seraph-sounding planets all were dumb
And Beauty misted from my eager sight.

Then, with no word, in silence full of grace,
Giving with gladness, making no demands,
I knew her near and lowly bent my face
To quench its thirsting in her quiet hands.
Now through the rain I tread the ghostly hill,
The dawn is coming, and my heart is still.



EVERY proper pilgrimage should be foretold in the measured terms of prophecy, but the words which forecast my journey to Canterbury held a certain bluntness not found in the prognostications of the ancients. Tightlipped Cassandra would have been shocked by their forceful and unequivocal message. They came to me nine years ago when, as one of the deck officers on a small naval vessel, I found myself on the bridge with a British pilot who had been detailed to take us through the Downs on our way up to London. For three hours he paced the bridge in frigid silence, a silence broken only by an occasional 'Pawt!' or 'Stawb'd!' and tugged at the right end of his moustache with his left hand as, with quick, sure calculation of buoys, lighthouses, and other channel marks, he kept us on our course. His was the rolling gait of a seafaring man, yet it was marked by a peculiar hitch which prepared me for a cockney accent when at last he spoke. Pointing vaguely at the shore, he suddenly wheeled and blurted: 'Gawblimey, sir, Cawnterb'ry, Cawnterb'ry, Cawnterb'ry! Damme, y'll see Cawnterb'ry, I dare say every snivelin' Yonkee tourist troops there directly he lands! Cawnterb'ry, gawblimey, sir - I say "Stawb'd!"

Having been grouped so irrevocably with those who tour and snivel, it was only natural that I should carry out his prediction six years later when a business trip took me to London. By rare good fortune I was not alone, for

at the last moment before sailing the entire Mogul Club had decided to go. Now the Mogul Club is the most exclusive club in the world, for it is limited to three men: the Ferial Founder, the Carousing Custodian, and the Member. There is also, it must be admitted, the Permanent Novice, a stripling undergraduate whose status is that of a mere burden bearer, a fetcher of lighted fagots for our pipes, a parrier of our Jovian thrusts when stouter or more dexterous foils are withheld from us and him we encountered in Piccadilly on the morning of our arrival, wandering lonely as a cloud. We straightway invited him to lunch with us at Simpson's. Notwithstanding this relaxation of our tense club discipline, it must not be supposed that we extended our indulgence beyond steak pie, ale, and propinquity. One of the tenets of the Mogul Club - the one, in fact, to which we most stubbornly cling- is that, though a Permanent Novice may talk, only an officer or a member will be heard. Upheld by this clean-cut dogma, we need not admit the existence of post-adolescent opinions, nor are we called upon to give consideration to callow suggestions and immature plans. We preserve a homogeneity most unusual and refreshing in an adult body. We observe youth, but decline its restrictions.

Luncheon concluded, we dispatched the Permanent Novice up the Strand in search of some palatable cigarettes, and fell to making plans.

'We might go to Canterbury,' said looming within the dark, cavernous the Ferial Founder. 'I-'

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When it thus became apparent that I must play the part of courier, I lost no time in shouldering the burdens of my rôle. Surely a movement of such significance for when, in history, had a Mogul Club visited Canterbury en masse? could not be undertaken in any casual vein. There must be color, a dash of the picturesque. To go by train would be monstrous what pageantry does a railroad afford? Besides, cinders and smoke have no place in a pilgrimage.

Like many other men, faced with a project which was to jar the very superstructure of history, I sought counsel. In short, I took the matter up with the hall porter at my hotel. He was impressively brief. 'Motor!' he said. "Ere's a card as gives the nyme "Arry Muggs, Motors f'r h'all occysions," h'it says. Number twelve, Eddington Mews, sir. Just over the wye, sir!'

Number twelve, Eddington Mews, proved to be an abandoned stable, and

interior I descried a gigantic, not to say formidable, outline. I rang the bell. Mr. Muggs, a little robin of a man with the air of one who had never in his heart of hearts given up his devotion to the stable, listened politely while I explained my errand. 'We wish to drive to Canterbury,' I said.

His eyes shone. 'Ah, then, y'll be tykin' 'Iggins, sir,' he affirmed, hoarsely earnest. "E mykes a prawper 'obby of Cawnterb'ry, sir; knows every blinkin' bishop, 'n can rattle orf the reekin' s'ynts loike they wos 'is aown mother, sir!' mother, sir!' Triumphantly he surveyed me.

I was, I am sure, visibly moved. 'And the car?' I suggested.

Drawing back the door so that full light might strike it, he indicated a vast motor car of ancient mien and rich antiquity. Painted a royal crimson, every exposed metal part burnished to a positive heat, it was a chariot before which a Muggs might well stand silently and point. Such Gargantuan, gorgeous bulk overwhelmed mere speech.

Frankly, I gloated. Here were the trappings of mediævalism; here flaming color, glittering steel and brasses, splendor and pomp! But one thing was lacking. As though reading my thoughts, the solicitous Mr. Muggs pressed the horn bulb, and a clear, sweet fanfare awoke the echoes as did the trumpets of Henry's court afield. My cup was full. I accepted the chariot, the as yet unseen 'Iggins, on the spot, without thought of the Ferial Founder's approval. Had not arrogant Wolsey once cried, 'Ego et rex meus'? What, then, if I did conclude arrangements with a high hand? Untroubled of heart, I repaired to my hotel.

Sunday dawned clear and warm. Breakfast dispatched, we barely had time to draw on our coats and look at our watches before a silvery note

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