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Updated: June 13, 2025
On the 27th of May the Germans caught Foch by surprise and launched a violent attack on the Chemin des Dames, between Soissons and Berry-au-Bac. This formed the third phase of their great offensive. In four days they pushed before them the tired French divisions, sent into that sector to recuperate, a distance of fifty kilometers and reached the Marne.
I had the fire lit. Burton lit it, everyone else was out. Of course the crowd has prevented her returning. There would be great difficulty in getting back from Auteuil. Some of the fellows of the Supreme War Council rang up. They were less exhilarated by the news. A pity, they thought. Foch could have entered Berlin in a week!
So Foch, on the third day of organizing his new command, received orders at once terrible and immensely flattering that he was to occupy the center of Joffre's battle line and to sustain the onslaught of Von Buelow and the famous Prussian Guards.
Distinguished in appearance, with superb carriage, thin lips, and squarely-chiselled chin, he possessed military gifts of a sound rather than brilliant character. A strict disciplinarian, he failed to win from his troops that affection which the poilus gave to Pétain, while he never displayed the genius that compelled universal admiration for Foch.
Joffre, Castelnau and Foch were the three great names in the French Army which the public knew after the Marne, and of the three Foch has, perhaps, more of the dash which the world associates with the French military type.
He came out himself to meet me, attended by several of his officers, and asked at once if I had had déjeuner. I had not, so he invited me to lunch with him and with his staff. Déjeuner was ready and we went in immediately. A long table had been laid for fourteen. General Foch took his place at the centre of one of the long sides, and I was placed in the seat of honour directly across.
It was on Monday, March 25th, that at Doullens, a small manufacturing town, lying in a wooded and stream-fed hollow not far from Amiens, there took place the historic meeting of the leading politicians and generals of the war, which ended in the appointment of Marshal Foch to the supreme military command of the Allied forces in France.
For they look as if yesterday they might have been bristling with men-at-arms whereas not in centuries has their melancholy majesty served any other purpose than that of raising reflections in those to whom the past speaks through her monuments. From Montpellier, Ferdinand Foch returned to Paris, in February, 1891, as major on the general army staff. He and Joffre had now the same rank.
Some black coffee was heated for them, and for two hours they discussed the problems of this new front Castelnau as eager to serve under Foch, for France, as, eight weeks ago, Foch had been to serve under Castelnau.
Then at dawn on the third day, Foch struck like a thunderbolt! He had gathered his forces. He had chosen the place. He had bided his time. The German forces were taken utterly by surprise. Their General Staff was caught napping. They had underestimated their enemy's daring and resources. Their flank was exposed, and it crumpled up under the terrific and unexpected blow.
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