In the old moated castle of Wynendaele, south of Bruges, the pale young man with sunken eyes and rumpled curly brown hair faced another sleepless night. For 14 days he had watched terror-stricken people fleeing across the fertile fields and meadows of North Flanders. For 14 nights he had seen the moonlit May sky turn murky yellow from the glow of burning villages. Four-fifths of his country had been devastated and overrun; how many of his countrymen had been slaughtered he did not know. As Commander in Chief of the Belgian Army holding the...
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