Now we must return to Belgium, and follow the progress of the German forces in that country. There were two armies in Belgium—the one under General von Buelow,[253] and the other under General Alexander von Kluck.[253]We shall hear much of the latter general in the next volume of this work. If you were to examine his portrait, you would say that he is a man of sullen fierceness and great doggedness. This is by no means his first war: he fought against Austria in 1866, and was wounded at Metz in 1870. You already know that most of the officers holding high command in the German army are of noble birth. Von Kluck is an exception: he was only ennobled after he became a colonel.
The two German armies in Belgium were only part of the vast force intended for the invasion of France. This force consisted of six main armies, which, on 7th August, were stationed as follows:—The Sixth Army was assembled in and around Strassburg; the Fifth Army, under the Bavarian Crown Prince, lay just south of Metz; the Fourth Army, under the Crown Prince of Germany, was on the border of Luxemburg; the Third Army was in the Moselle valley, facing the Ardennes; the Second Army was south of Aix-la-Chapelle; and the First Army was in and around that city.
We shall not know for many years to come what was the exact manner in which the Germans meant to move these armies into France. Some say they intended to mass nearly all of them on a wide front in Belgium, north and west of the Meuse, and then march them south into France. It is more likely, however, that they meant to use Metz as a pivot and swing thefirst five armies in a great circling movement to the west, like a gate upon its hinges; while the Sixth Army defended Alsace, and checked any advance of the French through the Vosges. Lay your pencil on the map with the point on Metz. Hold the point in your fingers, and sweep round the rest of the pencil to your left, and you will see exactly what I mean. It is said that the Germans had about two millions of men in the armies which were to make this movement. Of course, many of them would be required to mask[254]the fortresses and guard the lines of communication. Probably the actual German fighting line consisted of something between one million and one million and a half men. The Emperor, as War Lord, was in supreme command; but the real conduct of the campaign was in the hands of Count Helmuth von Moltke, the Chief of the General Staff. His uncle had brought France to its knees in 1870-71; he was to shatter the forces of France and Britain in 1914.
Now let us turn our attention to the First and Second Armies, which, as you know, were actually in Belgium when I broke off my story to tell you how the British Empire girded up its loins for the fray. Von Kluck'sarmy (the First Army), which was to form the extreme right of the German line, had crossed the Dyle on 19th August, and von Buelow's army (the Second Army) was rapidly advancing towards the strong fortress of Namur, which stands at the point where the Meuse and the Sambre unite. The Belgian army at this time stood in danger of being enveloped; so it withdrew, much reduced in numbers, but still unbroken and undefeated, to the shelter of the Antwerp forts, leaving the capital, Brussels, open to the enemy. The Belgian Government had already left the city, and its headquarters were now in Antwerp.
Brussels, as you know, stands on the river Senne, and is one of the finest cities in Europe. It has noble buildings—churches, libraries, museums, picture-galleries—and broad boulevards, with a carriage drive down the middle, and a riding track on either side, shaded by rows of trees. Some of these boulevards have been made on the site of the old walls, which were pulled down many years ago. At one end of a pretty but not large park stands the king's palace, and at the other end are the Houses of Parliament. Much of Brussels is modern, but the Grand' Place belongs to the Middle Ages. On one side of it stands the town hall, which was built in the fifteenth century, and is a glorious old building, with a high steep roof, pierced by many little windows, and a front dotted with statues. Above its lofty and graceful spire is a gilded figure of the Archangel Michael, which serves as a wind-vane.
The other sides of the square are enclosed by quaint gabled houses, which formerly belonged to the Merchant Guilds. Some of them have gilded mouldings, and one of them is shaped like the stern of a ship. In the paved middle of the square a flower market is held, and here you may see the women of Brabant[255]in their white caps and large gold earrings. The largest and finest of all the modern buildings is the Palace of Justice, in which the law courts sit. It is said to have cost £2,000,000. As it stands on a little hill, and is so big and tall, it can be seen from every part of the city. The people of Brussels are perhaps the gayest and most lively in all Europe. Nowhere do you findmen and women so fond of jokes and fun, and so eager for amusement. They call their city "Little Paris."
Brussels is very well known to British people, not only because the city is frequently visited by our tourists, but because some of our great writers have described it in their books. Laurence Sterne,[256]the Irish novelist, tells us much about Flanders in his "Tristram Shandy." The finest character in the book is Captain Shandy, or Uncle Toby, as he was more commonly called. This delightful old soldier was wounded at Namur,[257]and spent his peaceful old age in following Marlborough's campaigns[258]with the help of maps, books, and models. On his bowling-green he made trenches, saps, barricades, and redoubts, just as Marlborough was then doing; and he and his servant, Corporal Trim, fought many great battles on the greensward before his house.
William Makepeace Thackeray,[259]in his "Vanity Fair," gives us a wonderful picture of Brussels in the year 1815, when the great battle of Waterloo was fought; and in his "Esmond" there is an exquisite account of the hero's visit to his mother's grave in a convent cemetery of the city. Charlotte Brontë,[260]in what is perhaps her best story, "Villette," describes her own experiences as a girl in Brussels very fully and vividly—so much so that many British readers cannot think of the city without thinking of "Villette." Here is her picture of Brussels on a festal night: "Villette is one blaze, one broad illumination; the whole world seems abroad; moonlight and heaven are banished; the town by her own flambeaux[261]beholds her own splendour—gay dresses, grand equipages, fine horses, and gallant riders throng the bright streets. I see even scores of masks.[262]It is a strange scene, stranger than dreams...Safe I passed down the avenues; safe I mixed with the crowdwhere it was deepest. To be still was not in my power, nor quietly to observe. I drank the elastic night air—the swell of sound, the dubious light, now flashing, now fading."
On Monday, 17th August, the people of Brussels knew for certain that the Germans were approaching the city. Crowds of refugees came pouring in from the villages and towns which the enemy had destroyed, and the condition of these poor folks would have melted a heart of stone. Mothers, weary and footsore, carried or dragged by the hand little children, weeping with weariness and hunger. Old men struggled along with bundles on their backs, or in wheelbarrows, or even in perambulators, containing all the little store of worldly goods which they had been able to save from the wreck of their homes. There were many widows and many fatherless in the sad throng, and they had terrible tales of sorrow and suffering to tell. Peasant women sent a shudder through the townsfolk by relating how their sons or husbands had been hanged for resisting the Uhlans. Young boys told how the priest, the doctor, and the schoolmaster of their villages had been shot, and the rest of the men carried off as prisoners of war. Still, in spite of all these alarms, the people of Brussels kept their heads. The Government put up notices warning them not to resist the German troops, and ordering them to stay in their houses with closed doors and windows, so that the enemy might have no excuse for shooting them down.
All Belgian towns have what is known as a Civic Guard, composed of menwho prepare themselves to defend their homes in case of attack. If you had seen these men on parade you would probably have smiled. Many of them were stout, elderly shopkeepers or workmen, and they wore on their heads a hard bowler hat, sometimes decorated with a bunch of dark green glossy feathers at the side. But in spite of their unsoldierlike appearance, they were brave fellows, all ready to lay down their lives in defence of hearth and home. While the Germans were approaching Brussels, the Civic Guard drilled daily in the park, dug trenches in the outskirts and even in the streets, and set up barricades of wire all along the roads by which the enemy could enter the city. The townsfolk constantly heard the dull roar of explosions as bridges and roadways were blown up to check the German advance. In the suburbs the people gladly gave the contents of their houses to form barricades. "Hundreds of people," we are told, "sacrificed all their household furniture in the common cause. Beds, pianos, carts, boxes, baskets of earth—one child I saw filling up a basket from the gutter—are all piled up."
Soon, however, it was clear that Brussels could not be defended. Even if all the Civic Guards fell, they could not hope to beat off the Germanarmy that was hourly drawing nearer and nearer. The only result would be that the city would suffer the fate of Louvain—all its grand buildings would be battered down, and Brussels would be no more.
At once there was a great exodus from the city. Motors, carts, carriages, and all kinds of conveyance were pressed into service, and were filled with people all bent on reaching the coast. Most of the vehicles were plastered with huge red crosses cut out of wall paper or old petticoats. Thousands of the poor people who had no means of escape went aimlessly to and fro in the streets, weeping and wailing. Every train was packed with people, and the roads leading to Holland were black with men, women, and children tramping onwards towards safety.
The greater part of the townsfolk, however, remained, and went about their work as of yore, hoping against hope that the British or French would soon arrive. On Thursday, 19th August, the brave Mayor, M. Adolphe Max, posted a notice telling the people that, despite the heroic efforts of the Belgian troops, it was to be feared that the enemy would occupy Brussels. He advised the people to be calm, and avoid all panic, and he promised them that as long as he was alive he would try to protect their rights and dignity. "Citizens," he said, "whatever may befall, listen to your burgomaster. He will not betray you. Long live a free and independent Belgium! Long live Brussels!"
M. Max was as good as his word. By his fearless dealing with the Germans he won a renown which will last long after Belgium is free again. Whoever in future days writes the history of the war in this little heroic country will give M. Max a place beside King Albert and General Leman.
One Thursday morning, attired in his scarf of office, M. Max drove out in a motor car, along with several other city officers, to meet the German general, and to arrange terms of surrender. He was received with that lack of politeness for which the German officer is notorious. After roughly ordering him to remove his scarf, the German general asked him if he was ready to surrender the city. If not, it would be shelled. M. Max replied that he had no choice in the matter; and was then informed that he and the other city officers would be held responsible for the good behaviour of the people, and that if they offended they would suffer. It was then arranged that the Germans were to march in next day, and that they were to be housed and fed at the expense of the city. When the burgomaster returned to Brussels, the Civic Guard, to their great disappointment, were ordered to give up their arms.
The German General Staff meant to make the entry into Brussels a matter of great pomp and display, so as to impress the citizens. They therefore arranged that an army corps which had not yet been engaged in fighting should be marched through the streets. The men were halted outside the town and given time to furbish themselves up for the occasion. The people of Brussels were not to be allowed to see the Germans against whom their fellow-countrymen had fought so bravely. There were to be no thinned ranks, no scarred, wounded, or war-weary soldiers in their streets, but an army as fresh and spick and span as though it were parading before the Kaiser at Potsdam.
The news that Brussels was in German hands had been flashed to every corner of the Fatherland, and had been received with loud rejoicings.Surely some of the more sober-minded Germans, even in that hour of rapture, must have remembered the remark of Napoleon, "The capture of an undefended city is no glory."
Try to realize the feelings of the people of Brussels as they gathered in the streets on that black day to see a ruthless and faithless enemy take possession of their beautiful and beloved capital. "Belgians," said an old soldier, with tears in his eyes, "can never forget this." They suffered then what their forefathers had suffered on the eve of Waterloo:—
"While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering with white lips, 'The foe!—they come, they come!'"
"While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering with white lips, 'The foe!—they come, they come!'"
At two o'clock in the afternoon of 20th August the distant sound of guns announced the coming of the foe. Imagine the surprise of the people when the news flitted from mouth to mouth that their own M. Max was riding at the head of the German army. He had insisted on taking this place, because he was, as he reminded his captors, the first citizen of Brussels. On the wan, strained faces of the townsfolk there was the ghost of a smile when they saw him appear. Their quick-witted burgomaster was receiving the Germans not as a captive but as a host! It was a good joke, and the people could appreciate it, even on such a sad occasion.
Now the sound of bands was heard, and the advance guards of the Germans entered the city. By the side of M. Max rode a Prussian general—"a swarthy, black-moustached, ill-natured brute, dressed in khaki gray," as a bystander described him. I am sure that if he had been an angel of light the people of Brussels would have found fault with him at such a time. On came the waves of men, singing "Die Wacht am Rhein."[263]
"The wind-tost banners proudly fly;While runs the river, sounds the cry,—'We all will guard with heart and handThe German Rhine for German land.'Dear Fatherland, untroubled be,Thy Rhine Watch stand true, firm, and free."
"The wind-tost banners proudly fly;While runs the river, sounds the cry,—'We all will guard with heart and handThe German Rhine for German land.'Dear Fatherland, untroubled be,Thy Rhine Watch stand true, firm, and free."
Anon they broke into the strains of "Deutschland über Alles,"[264]thefirst verse of which I translate roughly as follows. It is sung to the air of the Austrian National Anthem, composed by Joseph Haydn, the greatest of Austrian musicians, in the year 1797.
"First in all the world, my Germany,First and foremost shalt thou be.When thy sons in soul unitedGrasp the shining sword for thee,From the Maas, yea to the Mernel,[265]From the Adige[266]to the sea,First in all the world, my Germany,First and foremost shalt thou be."
"First in all the world, my Germany,First and foremost shalt thou be.When thy sons in soul unitedGrasp the shining sword for thee,From the Maas, yea to the Mernel,[265]From the Adige[266]to the sea,First in all the world, my Germany,First and foremost shalt thou be."
The Brunswick,[267]Death's Head, and Zieten[268]Hussars led the way; then came the infantry, followed by artillery with siege howitzers, and a hundred motor cars armed with quick-firing guns. As the men moved into the main streets they broke into that stiff-legged parade step which has been the triumphal march of the German army since the days of Frederick the Great.
The townsfolk in deep dismay watched the Germans filing into the Grand'-Place, and many of them muttered under their breath, "They will never come back again; the Allies will do for them." It is said that the German officers behaved very rudely to the people, and laughed scornfully in their faces, as though they wished to goad them into acts which would excuse an attack upon the city. The people, however, restrained themselves, and there was no bloodshed or destruction.
The city was placarded with notices threatening stern punishment to all those who opposed the troops, and a fine of £8,000,000 was levied on the place. Food and lodging were provided for the troops, and when the Staff arrived they made the town hall their headquarters. M. Max was ordered to furnish three hundred beds for them. "I will provide three hundredand one beds," said he, "for, of course,Ishall sleep there too."
When he was ordered to hand over a hundred of the chief men of the city as hostages[269]for the good behaviour of the people, the brave burgomaster refused to do anything of the sort. "I will be your hostage," he said, "and I will provide you with no others." On every occasion he was more than a match for the German officers. When one of the generals tried to browbeat him, and laid a revolver on the table to show him what his fate would be if he did not do as he was told, the burgomaster calmly picked up a pen and laid it beside the weapon. Even the slow, heavy Germans saw the meaning of this action. "The pen is mightier than the sword." Mr. Max meant them to understand that though they might kill him, writers in the future would tell the story of their shameful deeds, and brand their name with infamy for ever.
The Germans could do nothing with this brave, gay Belgian, who stood up so sturdily for the rights of his people; so at last they removed him from his office, and sent him to a German fortress in what they called "honourable custody." You may be sure that the townsfolk grieved greatly when their burgomaster was thus removed, and the Germans soon discovered that they were far more difficult to handle than when they had been under the care and guidance of the good M. Max.
The Germans occupied Brussels in force for a single day only. A garrison was left to hold the city, and the march through Belgium was continued. Meanwhile huge bodies of men, under the command of von Buelow, were passing unnoticed along the north bank of the Meuse towards Namur. At the same time two other armies were marching through the leafy Ardennes, where the overhanging foliage hid them from the eyes of the Belgian airmen. The great line was slowly but surely deploying for the long-delayed march into France.
With the occupation of Brussels by the Germans the first stage of the war comes to an end.
On the morning of 18th August, when the fate of Brussels was hanging in the balance, our newspapers contained a brief paragraph which was read by Britons all over the world with great satisfaction—our army had been landed on French soil without the loss of a single man. It was a great feat, and we were rightly proud of it. To many of us the news came as a great surprise. We British are not good at keeping secrets; but on this occasion, like Brer Rabbit, we lay low and said "nuffin." Thousands of people knew what was going on, but they did not talk about it, and in the newspapers there was scarcely a hint of what was happening. For once we kept a secret; and we were rewarded, for our transports crossed the narrow seas without the slightest attempt on the part of the enemy to molest them.
But for our navy this feat could never have been performed. A naval writer once said: "I consider that I have command of the sea when I am able to tell my Government that they can move an expedition to any point without fear of interference from an enemy's fleet." This is exactly what Admiral Jellicoe was able to tell his Government. He had "bottled up" the German navy in its ports, and the Channel and the Strait of Dover were as safe as ever they had been. From the first we had the great advantage of the command of the sea.
Let me tell you how our army of about 110,000 men, with guns, horses, and stores, was carried in safety to France. You know that the army was mobilized on 3rd August, and in a day or two most of the regiments were ready to depart with everything necessary for the grim work of war. Outside the barracks, in the early mornings, wives and mothers mighthave been seen bidding farewell to their husbands or sons; but there were few other signs that a great movement of troops was in progress. The Government had taken over the railways, and as soon as each unit was ready it was hurried off by train towards the south coast. Never were the railways so busy as at that time, and never did they work more smoothly; yet all was done with the utmost secrecy. Even the drivers of the engines were not told beforehand the name of the place to which they were bound. You can form some idea of the great strain upon the railways when I tell you that the London and South-Western dispatched three hundred and fifty trains each of thirty-five cars to Southampton in forty-five hours. During the first three weeks of the war seventy-three such trains arrived at the quays every fourteen hours. Every ten minutes, day and night, they steamed in, all up to time. We ought not to forget the splendid part which our railwaymen played at this time.
The men stationed in the Irish camp at Curragh sailed from Dublin; the men in the camp on Salisbury Plain boarded the transports at Avonmouth; while those at Aldershot found ships awaiting them at Southampton. Other bodies of men were embarked at Plymouth, Newhaven, Folkestone, Dover, and London. The busiest port of all was Southampton, which was entirely handed over to the army. On the outskirts of the town a rest camp had been formed, and in it the men who had travelled long distances were allowed some time to recover. Many of the trains were run directly to the quayside; in other cases the soldiers marched through the streets. Night and day for more than a week the streets of Southampton echoed to the tramp of khaki-clad men, the rattle of baggage-wagons, and the rumbling of guns.
All sorts of passenger ships were pressed into service—the Holyhead-North Wall steamers, the Fishguard boats, the Channel packets, vessels plying between Harwich and the Hook of Holland, Antwerp, and Hamburg, and many others. One Atlantic liner carried three thousand men on a single trip. When the soldiers were on board, the transports steamed off, and not even the captains knew the port to which they were to sail until they were ten miles out at sea. Then they opened sealed envelopes, and for the first time knew their destination. Think of theforesight and arrangement needed to engage all these ships and send them to their proper stations at the right time and in the right order without confusion and delay.
But this was not all. Arrangements had to be made for the troops to be landed at the various French ports, and to be encamped until they could be carried by rail to the front. Some of our officers were sent across to France before the troops arrived to prepare for their coming; and French officers came to England to arrange matters on this side. Everything was done according to a carefully-thought-out plan, and it worked as smoothly as a well-oiled machine. Long before the troops landed, enormous quantities of stores had been shipped to the French ports, so that depôts for the supply of the army might be established.
Our troops were landed on the Continent at the French ports of Havre, Dieppe, Boulogne, Calais, and Dunkirk. All day long, and all night too, streams of transports crossed and recrossed the Channel. The weather was perfect, and the men were packed on board the ships like Bank Holiday trippers. They suffered no discomfort, for the passage did not in any case occupy more than about fifteen hours. Many of the men were surprised to find that no armed vessels accompanied them as an escort. British warships, however, were keeping their Watch on the Brine, though the soldiers could not see them. A squadron of cruisers patrolled the narrow seas between the North Foreland and the French coast, and thus closed the North Sea entrance to the Channel. Aeroplanes and a naval airship hovered above the same waters, keeping a bright lookout for enemy craft. It is said that the crew of one seaplane engaged in this work did a most daring deed in mid-air. Something went wrong with the propeller, and it had to be changed. The pilot thought he would be obliged to descend for the purpose, but two of the crew offered to do the work in the air. They climbed out on to the bracket carrying the propeller, and actually changed the blade while soaring two thousand feet above the sea!
On former occasions, when our soldiers have been sent abroad to fight for their country, we have gathered in crowds to give them a hearty "send off." They have departed to the noise of ringing cheers, the blare of bands, the waving of banners, the flutter of handkerchiefs. But those were days when we did not fear the secret menace of mines, submarines,and aeroplanes. On this occasion there were no public farewells. The men, however, were not allowed to depart without a fervent "God speed" from him who speaks in the name of us all. Before embarking, each soldier was presented with two printed messages—one from the King, the other from Lord Kitchener.
Here is the King's message. You will notice how quietly confident it is, and how full of dignity. It is just the message which we should expect a British king to send to British soldiers.
"You are leaving home to fight for the safety and honour of my Empire. Belgium, which country we are pledged to defend, has been attacked, and France is about to be invaded by the same powerful foe. I have implicit confidence in you, my soldiers. Duty is your watchword, and I know your duty will be nobly done. I shall follow your every movement with deepest interest, and mark with eager satisfaction your daily progress. Indeed, your welfare will never be absent from my thoughts. I pray God to bless you and guard you, and bring you back victorious."George, R. et I."[270]
"You are leaving home to fight for the safety and honour of my Empire. Belgium, which country we are pledged to defend, has been attacked, and France is about to be invaded by the same powerful foe. I have implicit confidence in you, my soldiers. Duty is your watchword, and I know your duty will be nobly done. I shall follow your every movement with deepest interest, and mark with eager satisfaction your daily progress. Indeed, your welfare will never be absent from my thoughts. I pray God to bless you and guard you, and bring you back victorious.
"George, R. et I."[270]
The men also received a little printed letter of counsel and guidance from Lord Kitchener. It has been rightly called the noblest message ever sent to fighting men. Read the following three paragraphs very carefully, and try to remember them. Never before has so fine an ideal been set before the British soldier.
"Remember that the honour of the British Empire depends on your individual conduct, and you can do your country no better service than in showing yourself in France and Belgium in the true character of a British soldier."Be invariably courteous, considerate, and kind. Always look upon looting as a disgraceful act. You are sure to meet with a welcome, and to be trusted; your conduct must justify that welcome and that trust."Do your duty bravely. Fear God. Honour the King."Kitchener, Field-Marshal."
"Remember that the honour of the British Empire depends on your individual conduct, and you can do your country no better service than in showing yourself in France and Belgium in the true character of a British soldier.
"Be invariably courteous, considerate, and kind. Always look upon looting as a disgraceful act. You are sure to meet with a welcome, and to be trusted; your conduct must justify that welcome and that trust.
"Do your duty bravely. Fear God. Honour the King.
"Kitchener, Field-Marshal."
More of our soldiers were landed at Boulogne than at any other French port. Boulogne has a special interest for us: it was the port at which Napoleon made his preparations, between June 1803 and September 1805, for the invasion of England. He marched a hundred thousand men—a verylarge army in those days—to Boulogne, and every road by which his soldiers passed bore the sign-post, "To England." A huge flotilla of flat-bottomed boats was collected, and the men were exercised in embarking and disembarking within sight of the white cliffs of Dover. "The Channel," said Napoleon, "is but a ditch, and anyone can cross it who has but the courage to try." You know that he never tried to cross it. He could not win that command of the narrow seas on which the success of his invasion depended. His fleet lured Nelson to the West Indies, and then sailed rapidly back; but it was met off Ferrol, and was so crippled that Napoleon was forced to give up his project in disgust. He broke up the camp at Boulogne, and marched his army against the Austrians and Russians instead.
Many of our soldiers at Boulogne rested almost in the shadow of a tall column, 172 feet high, which stands about two miles from the port on the road to Calais. It was erected in 1804 to commemorate the invasion which never came off, and was left unfinished until 1841. On the summit is a statue of the emperor. Our men must also have been much interested in the crumbling forts which were built by Napoleon to protect his flat-bottomed boats from attack.
A friend who was in Boulogne when the transports were expected, tells me that weather-beaten sailors watched the sea eagerly for days on end, and at last, when they saw the hulls of our ships on the horizon, broke into loud cries: "Les Anglais arrivent!"[271]At once the townsfolk flocked to the quays, and as our men marched down the gangways they received them like old friends. They were full of admiration for the fine, trim, well-set-up Britons who had come to their help, and they loudly praised their arms, clothing, horses, and guns. They flocked around them, shaking them by the hand and patting them on the shoulder. "So milord Kitchener has sent you," they said. "He is indeed a fine fellow, a tough customer."
Many of the soldiers were marched straight from the boat to the train, which they boarded in their usual business-like fashion. "Those English," said an admiring townsman, "take their departure as if theywere going for a walk. They are indeed brave soldiers." You can imagine the bustle and excitement on the quays and in the streets of the town as infantry, cavalry, artillery, Army Service corps, and nurses came ashore, and the delight of the people as they saw aeroplanes hovering overhead like huge dragon flies.
Some of our soldiers were sent to a rest camp on the low hills outside the town, and before long they won the hearts of the townsfolk by their cheery good humour and excellent behaviour. All sorts of presents were exchanged; little French tricolours, bonbons, flowers, and cigarettes were pressed upon them, in return for which our men parted with their buttons and badges. "They are English gentlemen—that's what they are," said French men and women alike. Many of the French soldiers in the town could speak English well, and with these our men struck up a close comradeship at once. "Hallo!" said one "Tommy" to a French corporal, "does your mother know you're out?" To which came the quick reply in perfect English, "Well, she ought to, for there are six of us out."
Those early days in France were delightful to our men. The weather was perfect, their surroundings were novel, they had little to do, and they were surrounded by hosts of friends. "This isn't like war," said one of them; "it's just a bit of a holiday, with nothing to pay." All our soldiers were provided with a sheet of paper containing the French words and phrases which they were likely to need. As you may imagine, the attempts of some of the Tommies to speak French with this slender equipment were amusing in the extreme.
And now, while our army is being rapidly carried by train to the front, where it is to form the extreme left of the Allied battle-line, let us learn something of its commander-in-chief, Field-Marshal Sir John French.[272]The general public knew little of him before the war, but he has always been most popular in all branches of the service. In 1866 he joined the navy as a cadet, and served as a midshipman for four years; but he gave up the sea in his twenty-second year, and obtained a commission in the 8th Hussars, because he wished to see active service, and there seemed little likelihood of naval warfare for a long time to come. He soon showed himself a keen cavalry officer, but he had to waitmany years for the chance to draw his sword against an enemy. When General Gordon[273]was shut up in Khartum, Major French, as he was then, commanded the single cavalry squadron in the little army which was sent—alas! too late—to save him. Though the expedition was a failure, several desperate battles were fought, and Major French came home with a very good record. In 1885 he was promoted lieutenant-colonel, and later on was sent to India, where he made a great name as a leader of cavalry.
When he joined the army most officers believed that the work of cavalry was to wait until the guns had shaken the enemy's infantry, and then to charge down upon it in a solid mass, and put it to flight. French did not think that this was the chief part which cavalry had to play in modern warfare. He believed that it ought to be the "eyes and ears" of the army, and that it should devote itself largely to scouting and to "feeling for the enemy." He trained his regiment on these lines, and though there were some of the "old school" who opposed him, he found a warm friend and supporter in the Duke of Connaught.
It was during the South African War that General French was able to put his principles into practice, and by so doing he showed how valuable they were. He only just escaped being shut up in Ladysmith;[274]he left it by the last train to take charge of the cavalry division which relieved Kimberley,[275]stopped the retreat of Cronje at Paardeburg,[276]and entered Pretoria.[277]His striking success in South Africa marked him out as the greatest of our cavalry leaders. Naturally we should expect him to be fond of horses. The charger which carried him through the South African War wore a medal round its neck,with a record of its services. When this charger died Sir john was much grieved, and he buried it under a memorial stone at Aldershot.
Those who know General French well tell us that he has real genius. When he has a problem to solve he seems more like a dreamer than a man of action. Suddenly, however, when he has fully grasped the situation, he springs to his feet, having fully made up his mind what he is going to do and how he is going to do it. He sketches out his plan in the fewest possible words, and frequently astonishes his staff by the daring and novelty of his plans. "Deeds, not words," is his motto, and he fully deserves his nickname, "Silent French." He loves his profession, and no general has ever been so ready to pay such generous tributes to those of his officers and men who deserve them. Amongst the rank and file he is known as "Johnny," and all of them know that their welfare is his chief concern. A chaplain at the front tells us that "no matter how hard he has worked during the day, he always tries to spend a little time in a field hospital at night with the wounded."
Our French allies were delighted that Sir John French had been made commander-in-chief of the British army which was to fight side by side with them. Most of the leading French officers knew him well, and admired him greatly. They were specially pleased that his name was French, and they said that he must be a Frenchman by descent. When they discovered that he had Irish blood in his veins they found a new reason for giving him a hearty welcome. Many Irish soldiers, as you know, have fought bravely and died nobly for France. Before setting out for the front, he paid a flying visit to Paris, and was greeted with loud cheers by the Parisians who lined the streets in his honour.
And now, while millions of men are grasping their rifles, ready for the first clash of arms in this gigantic struggle which will decide the fate of Europe, the first volume of this book comes to an end. The greatest story of the world has yet to be told—a story of strife on a scale far beyond the experiences of mankind, of combats so vast and long enduring that the battles of history seem in comparison but puny skirmishes, of slaughter that has horrified the watching world, and of heroisms that have thrilled it with pride.