It did not
seem possible to very many of us at the end of 1915 that either France
or Germany could hold on for another year. There was much secret
anxiety for France. It has given place now to unstinted confidence and
admiration. In their astonishment the British are apt to forget the
impressive magnitude of their own effort, the millions of soldiers, the
innumerable guns, the endless torrent of supplies that pour into France
to avenge the little army of Mons. It seems natural to us that we should
so exert ourselves under the circumstances. I suppose it is wonderful,
but, as a sample Englishman, I do not feel that it is at all wonderful.
I did not feel it wonderful even when I saw the British aeroplanes
lording it in the air over Martinpuich, and not a German to be seen.
Since Michael would have it so, there, at last, they were.
There was a good deal of doubt in France about the vigour of the British
effort, until the Somme offensive. All that had been dispelled in August
when I reached Paris. There was not the shadow of a doubt remaining
anywhere of the power and loyalty of the British. These preliminary
assurances have to be made, because it is in the nature of the French
mind to criticise, and it must not be supposed that criticisms of detail
and method affect the fraternity and complete mutual confidence which is
the stuff of the Anglo-French relationship.
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