"Combien de coeurs vous avez ravagé dans un si petit délai que vous avez stationné ici," a French girl once remarked, "et cependant on ne devrait pas refuser aux anglais les baisers qu'ils nous demandent puisqu'ils se donnent pour nous."
And the last half of the sentence admirably sums up the French woman's point of view.
This landing of the portion of the Force at Rouen was typical of what happened at Boulogne or Havre. John Buchan, in his first volume of the "History of the War," has given a most interesting glimpse of incidents at the former port.
In no case did the troops remain at these bases for more than a couple of days. Nobody appeared to have the least idea of what was going on up at the frontiers, but time was obviously of importance.
No one knew where they were bound for; no one appeared to have the slightest presentiment of the tragedy, and the magnificence of the days which were so soon to crowd upon them. Still the cheery, light-hearted, end-of-term spirit. A summer holiday on the Continong! Cheer-oh!
And so they were merry parties of men which boarded the funny French trains; where you had to clamber up the sides of the carriages from platforms which didn't really exist, and where you were packed in like a Cup Tie crowd returning from the Crystal Palace.
How the horses hated those French trucks. Never before had they suffered such indignity. I would not have been a stableman on duty in one of those trucks for many a month's pay.
"Mais, quelles bêtes!" said the railway officials. And the porters would run and fetch the stationmaster and gesticulate at the Compagnie's trucks, which had begun to look like bundles of firewood long before the frontier was reached.
"Third return Clapham Junction, please," said the company wag.
"Wotto! Berlin! Not 'arf," shouted the rest....
And off the trains would steam, every compartment labelled "Berlin." It's rather pathetic how history repeats itself. This time the French were silent. Theyknew.
So, forward into the unknown!
So be there 'twixt your kingdoms such a spousal,That never may ill office, or fell jealousy,*****Thrust in between the paction of these kingdoms,To make divorce of their incorporate league:That English may as French, French Englishmen,Receive each other!
Patience, still a little patience! The stage is not yet set. The actors have not yet reached the theatre. Very soon now shall you see unfolded the opening scenes of the Great Drama, and hear the first clash of the armies. Soon shall you have your fill of the horror and splendour of modern warfare.
We have seen the Force into the French troop trains, horse, guns and foot. But not all journeyed thus to the frontier. Some of the units, the most mobile, went by road. Units which were intended to take their places in the reserve lines, and especially the A.S.C. motor transport, ammunition or supplies. Let us move forward with one of these and see a little of the France through which so soon the armies will come rolling back.
Out from Rouen and across the lovely Normandy country. You picture the excitement and amusement of the country folk as a great procession of those motor lorries, which we have seen coming into Avonmouth, pants heavily through the towns and villages.
Here is a part of a letter, from an officer in one of those units, which appeared in theTimestowards the end of August. It seems to give a very happy picture of the French reception of our men.
ROSES, ROSES, ALL THE WAY
I can, of course, tell you nothing of our movements, nor where we are. I can, however, say something of the reception we have met with moving across country. It has been simply wonderful and most affecting. We travel entirely by motor transport (if the censor will allow that), and it has been flowers all the way. One long procession of acclamation. By the wayside and through the villages men, women, and children cheer us on with the greatest enthusiasm, and everyone wants to give us something. Even the babies in arms have been taught to wave their little hands.
They strip their flower gardens, and the cars look like carnival carriages. They pelt us with fruit, cigarettes, chocolate, bread, anything, and everything. It is simply impossible to convey an impression of it all. One village had stretched across the road a big banner, "Honour to the British Army." Always cries of "Vivent les anglais, vive l'Angleterre," etc., and often they would make the sign of hanging, and cutting the throat (the Kaiser), pointing forward along the road. This always struck me as so curious.
Yesterday, my own car had to stop in a town for petrol. In a moment there must have been a couple of hundred people round, clamouring. Autograph albums were thrust in front of me; a perfect delirium. A tray of wine and biscuits appeared, and before we started again the car had come to look like a grocery delivery van with a florist's window display in front.
In another town I had to stop for an hour and took the opportunity to do some shopping. I wanted some motor goggles, an eye bath, some boracic, provisions, etc. They would not let me pay for a single thing, and there was lunch and drinks as well.
The farther we go the more enthusiastic is the greeting. What it will be like at the end of the war one cannot attempt to guess.
This all sounds like a picnic, but the work is hard and continuous. One eats and sleeps just when one can. There is no division between night and day. But we are all very fit and well, and the men, who have an easy time compared to the officers, look upon it as a huge joke—at present.
My French is, of course, simply invaluable, and each day I can understand and talk better and better. It is extraordinary that I am absolutely the only officer I have come across (except one or two Staff men) who can speak it with any fluency. Well, this will surely be the last of war amongst civilised peoples, and the dreams of the idealists will be fulfilled. The French seem to think that it will all be over certainly by Christmas. I wonder?
Thus the men came to see something of French life away from the beaten track of the tourist, and, needless to say, they made friends at every stopping-place.
"Mais, si polis, ces messieurs anglais," everyone remarks. And how could "ces messieurs" refuse some little trifles in return for such hospitality? The word "souvenir" soon became a nightmare in their dreams. There was a peculiar bleat in the intonation of the word which was, after a time, positively hateful. But during the first few days the men gave readily enough all sorts of little articles for which they had no immediate use, and others for which they had.
Before a week had elapsed very few had any buttons left. It was a mystery how they kept their trousers up. Regimental badges on caps and shoulder-straps were much appreciated, especially the Gunners' letters. It did not take long for the quick-witted French girl to discover that R.F.A. was obviously intended to represent the Triple Entente—Russie, France, Angleterre.
When these units eventually rolled up at their destination it was found that about half the men had lost not only all their buttons and badges but their caps as well, getting in exchange some horrible provincial product in the shape of a rakish tweed cap. Bits of tape and string held coats and trousers together.
But long ere this Thomas Atkins was fed up with souvenir-hunters, and one recalls aPunchpicture which showed a weary and wounded soldier sitting by the roadside with what remained of his kit and arms.
"'Souvenir' is it you want?" he remarks in reply to a little urchin who is bleating the hateful word at him. "Here, you can take the —— lot." And he pitches his rifle and kit at the youngster's head.
The officers and men who came up by road must have had a very cheery time in the various towns where they were billeted. The route lay, I believe, by way of Amiens, and so up through St. Quentin and Bohain to Le Cateau.
Hardly was there a hint of war in all that lovely country-side. What war could ever touch those glowing cornfields, those orchards heavy with plum and apple, the stately châteaux or dim cloisters of mediæval church or convent? As little can we conceive our fragrant villages of Kent or Surrey blasted and devastated by poisonous shells.
Very, very few men were to be seen anywhere; only Government officials and others over military age. Such guards or sentries as were posted were somewhat decrepit-looking Territorials, with arms and accoutrements which looked as if they had done good service in 1870. But they made up for their deficiencies in other respects by an excess of zeal in carrying out imaginary orders.
Their method of challenging, in particular, had the merit of simplicity and, at the same time, involved no undue straining of the vocal powers. It was merely the thrusting of a rifle-barrel into the face or chest of the passer-by. And when there is a very shaky hand on the trigger you don't lose much time in getting out your credentials.
One of these men caused much excitement one evening by holding up and clapping into the guardroom every single individual who attempted to pass him. He was performing sentry duty across a certain main road.
This went on for a couple of hours, and the guardroom was becoming uncomfortably crowded with a very miscellaneous assortment of travellers. In fact, when a particularly plump matron, carrying a basket of particularly evil-smelling cheeses, was incontinently thrust in, to fall heavily across the toes of an already irate railway porter, there was very nearly a riot.
At length a gilded Staff officer came along. He too was held up. But this time the sentry met his match. The officer demanded to see the N.C.O. of the guard. Whereupon the sentry, who was really somewhat the worse for drink, fell down upon his knees in the road, and with salty tears coursing down his cheeks piteously besought the officer to allow him to go home and get his supper.
But French Territorials did their "bit" gallantly enough a few days later, away on the British left. Old reservists as they were, they hung on splendidly at Tournai, and, led by de Villaret, fought gallantly against overwhelming numbers until they were surrounded, killed, or captured.
So, on through the golden August sunshine or beneath the heavy harvest moon. Interminable processions of columns, horsed and petrol-driven, threading their way along the endless, poplar-lined roads of France; the white dust churned up and drifting over men and vehicles until they look like Arctic adventurers.
No one knows what is happening in the great "beyond." No one very much cares. "Let's get on and have it over," is the philosophy of the hour. "Expect those Germans are being held up a bit in Belgium; wonder where we shall come in?"
The enemy had marched in triumph through Brussels on August 20th. The British Force was not actually in position until two days later: and Brussels is only 30 odd miles from Mons.
After it was all over; after the tide of war had crashed forward almost to the gates of Paris and then rolled sullenly back, one saw a little of the devastation it had left behind. Here are two pictures.
*****
August20th. Can you, too, see that little vicarage hard by the tiny church? (Think, it might have been plucked from a Surrey hamlet.) The cool, veranda-shaded rooms filled with a hundred homely treasures; the tiled kitchen with its winking copper pots and pans. Out through the flagged yard, where pigeons coo in gentle defiance of predatory sparrows, and down to a miniature farmstead. The pretty alleyed garden of roses, hollyhocks and the flowers and sweet herbs of English garden-lovers.
Can you see the old curé as he browses over a volume of Renan? He has tended his flock in that village for a quarter of a century. A pretty niece keeps house for him; and her dainty herb-potions and unwearied nursing have saved many a life in the little community. They think of her as of an angel from heaven.
September7th. A fortnight later! The village street has disappeared beneath the debris of what was once the village. One cow-shed is still miraculously intact, and from it creeps a gaunt, haggard old crone. They have not touched her. She was too old and infirm to make good fun, even for the rank and file.
She points with shaking finger to the wayside crucifix from which the Christ looks down with infinite patience. He also has been miraculously preserved. He gazes still over His tiny sanctuary, now but two blackened, battered walls. The vicarage has disappeared as though in an earthquake. The incendiary tablets have done their work well. The little garden with its pretty rose trees has been ploughed up, it would seem, by giant shares.
Stay, in one corner, down by the brook, there is planted a rough wooden cross.
The old curé had refused to leave his post when the stream of refugees had passed through. They told him of the horror behind them. He stood firm. Jeannette, too, would stay with her uncle.
Theycame. The curé, they said, must be a spy left behind by the French troops. Besides, he had carrier-pigeons. "What need have we of further witnesses?"
And so they tied him against the stem of his pigeon-cote. He met his death as a gallant gentleman of France.
The girl. Ah, young and tender! Good sport for the plucking! First let her bury the old man. "Rather hard work using a spade when you're not used to it, isn't it?—Done? Good, now get us dinner."
After dinner, a dance—Eastern slave fashion. First, good sport for the officers. "When we have finished throw her to the men."
What need to tell the horrors of it? The village marked the ebb of the tide. The French and British had turned at last. Hurried orders came to retire at dawn. The girl had not been such good sport after all—fainted too easily.
A leering, drunken satyr slashes at her naked breasts with his bayonet and Jeannette falls dead over the threshold. The house is fired, the body is pitched on to the pyre.
One village in France? No, one of a hundred where such things were done. And this is almost as nothing beside such as this England of ours has, by God's gracious mercy, been spared. What does England know of this war?
*****
Now the various units begin to converge and concentrate on the French frontier. "Each unit," says the G.O.C.-in-Chief in his first dispatch, "arrived at its destination in this country well within the scheduled time."
For some days past the French troop trains have been disgorging their living freight at a number of stations and sidings, most of them hastily improvised, within a few miles' radius on a line Valenciennes-Maubeuge.
The columns which came by road halted in various little villages about the town of Le Cateau. You will get the general lie of the land and the principal points of interest from the picture-map.
Now to set the stage.
Now entertain conjecture of a time,When creeping murmur, and the poring dark,Fills the wide vessel of the universe.From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,The hum of either army stilly sounds,*****..... and from the tents,The armourers, accomplishing the knights,With busy hammers closing rivets up,Give dreadful note of preparation.
A well-known American, it was probably Roosevelt, remarked à propos of the outbreak of the War that Germany's readiness would redound to her eternal dishonour, while Britain's unreadiness would be to her eternal honour.
The term "unready" applies to the nation as a whole. Fortunately for civilisation the British Navy and the little striking Force were, as we have seen, kept trained to an hour. And so it was that, upon a single word, the whole machine moved precisely as the admirable organisation had planned for it.
It must also be remembered that for some years past everybody who had studied international affairs with any intelligence knew precisely how and where Germany would attack; that even in 1908 it was possible to give the approximate date of such attack; and that when the attack came the position of the British Expeditionary Force would be in the post of honour upon the left of the French line in, approximately, the district in which it actually deployed.
Thus, up to a certain point, events fell out as anticipated. But one or two big factors were not foreseen, or, at least, not sufficiently appreciated. These were the amazing speed and mobility with which the German initial attack was destined to develop; the overwhelming numbers of the enemy; and, lastly, the astonishing effect of big gun fire, as instanced at Liége and other fortresses. This lack of foresight came within an ace of losing the war for the Entente Powers.
It was not until Saturday, August 15th, that the gates into Belgium by way of Liége were fully opened for the German armies, although Liége itself had been entered on the 7th.
The immediate effect, apart from the great moral value, of Belgium's heroic and successful resistance of those two or three days was to give to the British Force at least a sporting chance. The Force was late; those three days allowed it to get into position. It needs no great effort to imagine what would otherwise inevitably have happened.
Now let me at this point disclaim any intention of giving details of strategy and tactics, even were I sufficiently competent to do so. So far as I can I shall try to tell the story as simply as possible, omitting everything which may tend to confusion or which may render necessary continuous reference to maps. In a word, I am making this record of facts and impressions for the public, not for the experts. It is the human side and not the military which I would emphasise.
It is, however, necessary at the outset to get a good general idea of numbers, and the disposition of the armies on August 22nd in the particular area, if we wish fully to appreciate the events, and their significance, of the succeeding ten days. For the sake of convenience I will make sub-headings:
The German Forces
The total strength, all ranks, of a GermanArmy Corpsis, roughly, 45,000; of aDivision, roughly, 17,500. We may take this as a minimum.
Each Corps and each Division has, respectively, about 160 and 72 field-guns, and 48 and 24 machine-guns. The numbers of the latter arm were materially increased during 1913-14.
The German forces which concentrated on this far Western front, from Namur to about Tournai, consisted of no fewer than 13 Army Corps,each Corps being augmented by an extra Division. These Reserve Divisions were, I believe, combined into separate "Reserve Corps."
The Corps were divided up:—
5 under von Kluck (First German Army),attacking British.4 under von Buelow (Second GermanArmy), attacking 5th French Army.4 under von Hausen (Third GermanArmy), attacking 4th French Army.
The general lines of advance will be seen in plan A (page 71) and plan B (page 98).
Thus, the total German force concentrated on or about this immediate front must have numbered at least 812,500, with, say, 3,010 field-guns and 936 machine-guns.
It is not unreasonable to add to this total the not inconsiderable number of cavalry which operated, more or less independently, on the extreme flanks, and particularly from Tournai down through Amiens towards Le Havre.
The French Forces
The total strength, all ranks, of a French Army Corps is, roughly, 40,000, with, say, 160 field- and 48 machine-guns.
In this area there were present 3 corps under Lanrezac (5th French Army) holding the line Charleroi-Namur, and 3 corps under de Langle de Gary (4th French Army) holding a line west of the River Meuse south-west from Namur.
Away on the left flank of the British was another Corps, of Territorials, under d'Amade; and near Maubeuge, in reserve, were two or three Cavalry Divisions. These last did not, I believe, operate; and the Territorials were also fully occupied in their own area.
Reckoning up, then, we get an approximate total of, say, 240,000 men, 960 field- and 288 machine-guns.
The British Forces
A British Army Corps, of two Divisions, contains about 36,145, all ranks, with 152 field- and 48 machine-guns.
A Cavalry Division contains about 9,270, all ranks, with 24 field- and 24 machine-guns; a Cavalry Brigade about 2,285, all ranks, 6 field- and 6 machine-guns.
This is not revealing State secrets, because the numbers may be obtained from any military reference books.
Now it was, I believe, originally intended that the Expeditionary Force should be about 120,000 strong, or half the strength of the army with the colours.
The force actually present at Mons on August 22nd consisted, nominally, of two Army Corps, a Cavalry Division and a Cavalry Brigade. But several authorities, including Mr. Hilaire Belloc, assert that one of these corps was considerably below strength, and that, in round numbers, the strength of the Force was no more than 75,000, with 250 guns.
If we calculate up theofficialstrength the numbers should work out at 83,845 all ranks, 334 field- and 126 machine-guns.
Another Infantry Brigade came up on the 23rd and joined the Second Corps, and another Division (the 4th) also arrived.[1]
Taking everything into account it is, I think, reasonable to put the British strength at about 80,000 men, 300 field- and 100 machine-guns when battle was first joined.
Let me put these figures in tabular form so that we can get a comparison at a glance.
Machine-All ranks. Field-guns. guns.Actual Approximate Numbers on August22ndBritish. . . 80,000 300 100French. . . 240,000 960 288German. . . 812,500 3,016 936Excess Germanstrength overFranco-British492,500 1,756 548
It is always rather difficult to grasp themeaningof big numbers like these, so let me put it another way.
Place one German against each man in the Franco-British Force, and one German field-gun against each field-gun on our side. Now take all the German soldiers and guns still remaining over and imagine that you are watching them march past you down Whitehall, the men in fours all doing their "goose" parade step and the guns going by at a trot.
The army, marching night and day, without a moment's halt, would take just about three days to pass you.
Such then was the enemy superiority; about four or five times as great as the most pessimistic prophets had anticipated. We shall see shortly what this superiority developed into against the British Force.
The Position of the Forces
British.—The general position of the opposing forces before battle was joined, at least for the British, will be realised from plan A (page 71), and there is little need to add anything by way of explanation.
It will be noted that the British line extended along a front of about 25 miles, with Mons near the centre of the line. On Saturday, August 22nd, Sir John French disposed the Force into its positions. The Second Corps, under Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien, held the canal line from Condé, on the west, to Mons, on the east. The First Corps, under Sir Douglas Haig, extended from Mons, on the west, to Binche, on the east.
As there were no British reserves, the Cavalry Division, under General Allenby, was detailed to act as such and to be ready to move forward where and as required.
The 5th Cavalry Brigade, under Sir Philip Chetwode, was posted in and around Binche.
French.—I have indicated the composition of the French force, and plan A (page 71) will show how it was disposed on the morning of the 22nd; i.e. 5th French Army from Charleroi to just south of Namur, and 4th Army down the River Meuse to south of Dinant.
Similarly, there is nothing further to add about the German dispositions if the general lines of the enemy advance be noted: an attempted out-flanking movement on the extreme west, and the driving in of a wedge in the neighbourhood of Namur. These, together with heavy frontal attacks.
In all that follows it is necessary to add in, by way of reinforcements on the German side, the very great moral encouragement which the enemy had received by their triumphal passage through Belgium. They were in overwhelming strength; their heavy guns had crushed the fortresses in a few hours like so many egg-shells; they had, for many a long year, believed themselves invincible as against the world; and now they were marching directly upon Paris with the confident hope that within three months France would have ceased to exist as a nation, and that by the end of the year the war would be finished, with terms of peace dictated by their all-highest and supremely-powerful deity, the Kaiser.
It was, too, not merely an army disciplined and trained in the minutest details of war which was thus bludgeoning forward into France; it was, in effect, a nation in arms. A nation which, for many a long year past, had been educated to regard war as the greatest of all earthly things—-a supreme issue to which all the sciences and arts of the preliminary years of peace were to be directed.
It was a nation which regarded as fully legitimate any means whatever to the supreme end desired.
I recall a remark made to me during the South African War by a Prussian naval officer.
"You English," he said, "do not know the rudiments of war. When the day comes for us to go to war you shall see how we deal with the men, women and children. With us terror is our greatest weapon."
To-day the world knows how that weapon has been mercilessly wielded; and how impotent it has been.
On her side Britain was equally united, but in a different sense. She had taken up the gauntlet because her people were assured that the cause was a just one. In those early days the Expeditionary Force was not concerned one way or the other with the reasons for its presence in France. The men were, for the most part, quite ignorant of the facts; they were there as a professional army to do their "bit," as they had often had to do it before, and I cannot recall a single instance during the first month where the men spoke of the meaning of the war.
In numbers they were hopelessly insignificant beside the enormous masses ranged against them, but, for its size, the army with the colours has always been recognised the world over as without a peer.
There was, however, one factor which in no small degree tended to level the balance. Discipline in the Germany Army meant discipline in the mass, by regiments or companies, under constant supervision of officers and N.C.O.'s. In the British Army it meant discipline of the individual. In a word, if a British soldier finds himself alone in a tight corner he generally knows how to get out, if it is humanly possible. The German, accustomed from his childhood to be dry-nursed in every trivial detail of his every-day life, would be hopelessly at sea when forced to act on his own initiative. When properly led the German is splendidly courageous, and in this respect, quite apart from numbers and moral, it was an exceedingly tough proposition which French and British were up against at Mons.
As regards the French it is rather more difficult to estimate their outlook in the early days. From their experience in 1870 they knew what war with Germany meant, both in the actual fighting and in the nameless atrocities which the enemy committed on the civil population. Thus they wanted their revenge.
But France had not yet suffered in this war. She had not yet seen her borough officials taken as hostages and murdered in cold blood; her older men sold into slavery; her women raped and mutilated; her infant children impaled upon the bayonet and thrown into the fire; her Cathedral of Rheims tortured and desecrated. All this was yet to come.
At the beginning they fought valiantly but blindly. The shock was too sudden and overwhelming. Mistakes were made in the higher commands.
But within the month France awoke. The Soul of her still lived; and it was the Soul of a nation which was mighty many a generation before ever Germanic tribes had banded together in primitive community.
The Soul of France awoke in every one of her children. Not one, man, woman or child, but saw the way clear before him, but felt the grip of steel-cold determination to follow that path straight to the end.
Such was the France which turned at bay before the very gates of her capital, to show the world that the doom of civilisation's enemy was irrevocably sealed.
[1] Until Wednesday the 26th, the 19th Brigade was acting directly under orders from G.H.Q. On that date, being isolated it was appropriated by the Second Corps. The 4th Division detrained at Le Gateau and took up position in and about Solesmes to cover the retirement.
"If the English had any apprehension they would run away."
*****
"That island of England breeds very valiant creatures: their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage."
The dawn of Sunday, the 23rd, broke dim and misty, giving promise of heat. From the late afternoon of the previous day squadrons and reconnaissance patrols from Chetwode's Cavalry Brigade had been pushing well forward on the flanks and front of the British line. They were regiments with names "familiar in our mouths as household words": 12th Lancers, 20th Hussars and Scots Greys.
It was pretty though delicate work this feeling forward to get into touch with enemy outposts and patrols. Nor was there a troop which did not have some story to tell that evening of a tussle with enemy cavalry, with its ending, happy or otherwise, determined by the more wide-awake patrol.
In one place an officer's patrol, moving quietly out from a grassy forest track, stumbled straight upon a dozen Uhlans having a meal. The British had no time to draw swords, and certainly the Uhlans hadn't, it was just a question of riding them down, and swords and pistols out when you could.
In another place a German and a British patrol entered a village simultaneously from either end, unbeknown to each other. The turn of a corner and they were face to face. Our men were the more wide-awake, and they got spurs to their horses and swords out before the enemy grasped the situation. The little affair was over in five minutes.
But as our cavalry pushed farther and farther northwards they found themselves confronting ever-increasing numbers, and retirement became necessary.
Thus were the first shots fired.
At six in the morning of this Sunday, Sir John French held a "pow-wow" with the three G.O.C.'s, Generals Haig, Smith-Dorrien and Allenby, and discussed the situation, somewhat in these terms:[1]
"So far as I can see from the messages I've had from French H.Q. I don't think we've got more than a couple of Corps in front of us, perhaps a Cavalry Division as well.[2] And it doesn't look as though they are trying to outflank, because the cavalry have been right out there and didn't meet with much opposition; nor do the aircraft appear to have noticed anything unusual going on. It'll be a big enemy superiority, but I don't think too big if we've got dug in properly and the lines are all right. We ought to hold them when they come on. The French, as you know, are holding our right, Namur, and down the Meuse."
Here is a plan to show the situation as it was known at G.H.Q.:
PLAN APLAN A
The morning wears on. You picture the country-side as not unlike one of our own mining districts, the little villages and low-roofed houses giving that curious smoky, grimy effect of mean suburbs bordering on a large industrial town. Here and there great heaps of slag or disused pits and quarries; gaunt iron stems carrying great wheels and heavy machinery.
The soldiers are billeted all through the houses or make a shake-down in odd barns and yards. Look over the garden gate of one little house and you will see the company cooks of one regiment getting the Sunday dinner ready, peeling the potatoes, swinging the pots on to the camp fires.
From a barn hard by you'll hear the sound of singing. A padre has looked in as the rollicking chorus of "Who's your lady friend?" swung out into the roadway, and with gentle interruption has improvised a short service, suggesting "Rock of Ages" as a substitute for the music-hall ditty.
Down the road a couple of sergeants of the West Ridings lean idly over a gate smoking and watching the folk going off to Mass.
Out over the canal line the men are hard at work trench-digging, pausing now and again to look skywards as the drowsy hum of an aeroplane propeller sounds over them. Whether the machine is friend or foe they have no idea.
Three girls saunter down the road, arms round waists, and stop to look with interest and amusement at some of the West Kents washing out their shirts. One of the men is stripped for a wash and Marie exchanges a little repartee with him, to run off laughing as a burly lance-corporal plants a sounding kiss on her cheek, by way of finishing the argument.
So peaceful it all is, with just that under-current of excitement which the presence of strange troops would give. Imagine a Lancashire or Yorkshire village on a summer Sunday morning and you have the picture.
It is now eleven o'clock and the people are streaming home from church. The service seems to have been cut rather shorter than usual and there is just a hint of anxiety to be seen on their faces. What was it the curé had said, something about keeping quietly in their homes and trustingle bon Dieu? But there is no danger, the English are here to protect us. Still, those aeroplanes have an ugly sound, something ofun air menaçant.
Another aeroplane—and look, it has a great black cross under the wings! Un Boche? No, it cannot be. Ah, see, see, a French one, ours! It goes to meet it. Mon Dieu! they fight! And dimly from the sunny heaven there falls the crackle of revolvers.
A motor dispatch-rider hurls himself from his machine straight upon the astonished group of West Kents.
"Where's the officer? Get moving; you're wanted up there!" and he jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
The men rush for their kit and rifles. Away to the west there is the crack of an 18-pounder.
Down the street the cyclist pants. A subaltern bursts in on the Sunday dinner of the Bedfords.
"Fall in outside at once!"
Another aeroplane sails over. It hovers for a moment over the Scottish Borderers in their trenches. A trail of black smoke drops down, and instinctively the men cower below the parapet. Slowly it falls. Nothing more. The men raise their heads.
"Eh, man, but a thocht yon werre one o' thae——"
A sudden, odd hum in the air, and then—crash!
The Scots corporal slowly and painfully drags himself out from the pile of earth and debris and looks round. There is a curious numb feeling in his right arm. He sits up with a dazed gasp. There is a hand by him on the ground. His? He looks at his arm, and realises. Near by five of his pals are laid out. He seems to have escaped.
"The Lord ha' maircy—but the regiment's fair blooded this day," and he falls back in a faint.
More aeroplanes, more trails of smoke; and, wherever they fall, within twenty odd seconds a German shell bursts fair and true.
All down the line there springs the crack of rifles. Beyond the canal the outposts of the Lincolns, Royal Scots and others are coming in at the double. A curtain of shell-fire is lowered behind them as the British batteries come into action. A curtain of fire rolls down before them as the German guns take the range.
It is now close upon one o'clock, and enemy shells have begun to creep nearer and nearer in from the suburbs upon Mons itself. The good curé and his words are forgotten, for what living things can remain? And so there begins that pitiable exodus of old men, women and children which streamed steadily southwards, ever increasing as it crowded through the villages and towns.
But there is no time to-day to think of them. They must go, or stay and perish—anything so long as they do not interfere with the great game of War.
North of the town, where our lines necessarily bulged out, making a salient, the fighting was becoming desperate. Here three regiments especially (the Middlesex, Royal Irish and Royal Fusiliers) lost very heavily as they sturdily contested every yard of ground. This particular point had, from the first, been recognised as the weakest in the British lines.
Barely an hour since the first shots were fired, and now by one o'clock practically every gun and every rifle of the British Force is blazing away as though the powers of hell were set loose.
As yet it would seem that the ammunition is being merely wasted for the sake of making a noise. There is no enemy in sight save in the air the circling aeroplanes, and away on the flanks dimly-seen clouds of horsemen. A modern battlefield with its curious emptiness has so often been described that here one need only record the fact in passing. There is nothing to be seen. The men are firing, in the first flush of excitement, at corners of possible concealment—the line of a hedge, the edge of a wood, the very occasional flash of a field-gun. On the left, in the Second Corps, the British fire slackens somewhat as the men pull themselves together. No one has the foggiest notion of what is really happening. It is the officers' business of the moment to steady the ranks and keep them under cover.
But away on the right, out by Binche, where the Guards are, the storm has burst in fullest fury. No slackening there. The extreme right was held by battalions of historic regiments, names to conjure with: Munster Fusiliers, Black Watch, Scots and Coldstream Guards. Ah, those Guards! The glorious discipline of them! But how distinguish between any of the regiments that day, and after?
Almost from the first the senior officers began to realise that something was wrong, especially on the right. The Divisional Commanders and their immediate staffs, to whom the general idea of strengths and dispositions was known, began to wonder whether a big mistake had not been made. "Well, never mind, we're in for it now, we must do the best we can. But, those guns! There certainly should not be so many out there."
And it was positively uncanny how the German guns got their range. That fact struck everybody almost more than anything else. There appeared to be no preliminary ranging, as was always usual, but guns got direct on to the target at once.
It is difficult at times to avoid launching out into details which are of more interest to soldiers than to the general public, but as everything at this time was so new an occasional lapse may perhaps be excused.
Again, one's brain is so confused with such a mass of detail that it becomes most difficult to disentangle impressions and note them down in dispassionate language. If, however, the reader will take the little pen-pictures of incidents which are given and imagine them, not as isolated facts but as being reproduced fifty times all through the fighting lines, he may get a fair idea of the course of events.
*****
As the day wore on that uncanny effect of the German fire increased. There is no doubt that it was mainly due to the amazingly efficient secret service of the enemy. The H.Q. of a division or a brigade, for instance, does not blatantly advertise its position, and yet time and time again shells were dropped clean on to the particular building where the Staff happened to be. And when they got into another building, plump would come more shells.
Looking back it is a little curious to remember that even in that first week a very considerable percentage of our total casualties were caused by high explosive shell, and the shooting of them was astonishingly accurate.
Yes, the German guns did their work well, but they did not fully succeed in their object. Their local successes were great, especially against British guns and batteries.
Here is a British battery which has made two mistakes—it is not sufficiently concealed, the battery commander is perched up on an observation limber, and the guns are not far enough back behind the crest. (The Germans always "search" for some 300 yards behind crests of hills.) The B.C. is quickly spotted by an aeroplane observer and a perfect hell of fire is switched on by the enemy. In a moment telephone wires are cut, communications are broken, and within five minutes the gun detachments are wiped out.
The effect of a shell from the enemy heavier guns is overwhelming. The flank gun of the battery is hit, practically "direct." Some R.A.M.C. men double up a few minutes later to help out the wounded. There is nothing, save a great hole, fragments of twisted steel, and—a few limbs of brave men. Nothing can be done except, later, dig in the sides of the pit to cover the remains.
The rest of the guns remain, but there is no one to work them. The horses, a little way to the rear, have also suffered badly. A subaltern officer staggers painfully through the tornado of fire from one gun to the next, slowly, deliberately putting them out of action, rendering them useless should the enemy come up to capture them.
Early in the afternoon Brigade Commanders have got orders round to the British lines to hold up the infantry fire as far as possible. It is now all well under control, for everyone realises that the artillery bombardment was a preliminary only, that the real attack is yet to come. The men have had their baptism of fire and magnificently have they stood it. This is discipline, and now they are ready for anything which may come along.
FIELD-MARSHAL VISCOUNT FRENCH.FIELD-MARSHAL VISCOUNT FRENCH.
But already the casualties have been very heavy. Early in the day you have seen that company of the West Kents double up to the support of their battalion entrenched about half-way along the Second Corps line. I find a note in my diary: "W. Kents, Middlesex and Northumberlands" (they were all in the Second Corps) "decimated by shell fire." One or two companies of the W. Kents were, I believe, on outpost duty, which would mean that they were literally wiped out.
And, remember, the British trenches were not those of later days round Ypres. They had all been hastily dug in extremely hard and difficult ground, so that there were none of the niceties of snug dug-outs and bomb-proof shelters. In many places it was just a matter of scratching up the soil behind a hump of shale and cramming oneself in as far as one could go. To imagine, as one is led to do by some writers, that our men sat snugly in deep trenches through all that shell fire waiting calmly for the infantry attack is to get a hopelessly wrong idea. And if this was so on the first day when the men started in fresh, the conditions during the days which followed may be vaguely guessed.
Think for a moment of the splendid work the R.A.M.C. were doing all this time. I wonder how many V.C.'s were earned by that self-sacrificing corps during the week. It is easy enough to do what people call a gallant deed with arms in your hands when the blood is up, to pick up a live bomb and hurl it away—little trifles of the moment which no one thinks twice about,—but the courage demanded in walking quietly into a hail of lead to bandage and carry out a wounded man, a feat which the R.A.M.C. men in the firing lines do a dozen times a day,thatis worth talking about.
On our right the fight does not go well for us, and the suspicion that some mistake has been made becomes a certainty. If it is only a matter of two German corps and a Cavalry division in front of our position where on earth have all those guns come from?
Still the British guns out towards Binche go pounding gallantly on, hopelessly outmatched though they are. It's pretty shooting, for our 18-prs. can get in six or seven shots a minute more than the German field-guns, but we cannot compete against their heavier metal. And, just as in a naval fight, it is the heavier metal which tells.
The fighting on the right where General Lomax has the 1st Division has not slackened for a moment, but steadily becomes more intense. Now, for the first time, the enemy is really seen. And as his infantry begin an advance the German shell-fire redoubles in intensity. Every house where British can be concealed, every possible observation post, every foot of trench, every hill-crest and 400 yards behind it is swept and devastated by the tornado.
What communication between units is possible in such a storm? Now battalions and batteries find themselves cut off from their neighbours, each fighting and carrying on by itself.
Chetwode's Cavalry Brigade is caught in the thick of it. The Guards are out there and they hold on almost by their teeth. The 1st Irish are in action for the first time since their formation. They'll see the Germans in hell before they're going to quit. The Munsters are in the hottest corner, if indeed you can see any degrees of difference.
The cavalry have to go; and the Munsters and Black Watch lose horribly as they cover the retirement. No finer fighting regiments in the world than these on the right, but nothing human can stay there and live. The little town of Binche is abandoned; the first enemy success that day. The First Corps has had to swing back its outer flank.
But if you think that the Black Watch, or the Guards, or any of them, have been sitting there quietly to be shot at when there's an enemy in sight, you know little of those regiments. And you don't imagine that the Scots Greys, or Lancers, or Hussars, with such a reputation behind them, are going to sneak out of Binche by a back way without first getting a little of their own back.
No, if the Germans have got to have Binche they must bring up a great many more men than that to take it. There has been much talk of a repetition of that famous charge of the Greys, with the Black Watch hanging on to the stirrup-leathers. If indeed it was repeated that August then this must have been the moment. I am sorry to say that I have never been able to obtain any real confirmation of the story, so I shall not set it down.
But it might well have happened, and one likes to think that it did. Anyway, during that hour or so, there was many a gallant, desperate charge in that corner. A charge against overwhelming odds, when the utmost to be expected was the breaking and rout of the first two or three lines of the advance.
It needs no vivid flight of imagination to picture it. On the far outskirts of the town a railway line runs. Under the lee of a sheltering embankment and bridge the officers collect and re-form some of the squadrons, now grown pitiably less in numbers. Words of command are almost inaudible, but the men understand. Hard by, on their left, you have the flanking companies of the line regiments. One or two brief messages pass to and fro between cavalry and infantry.
"The Greys and Lancers are going to charge the left of infantry advancing beyond the wood. Give them all the support you can!"
The British fire slackens from loophole and broken window. The Scottish regiment and the Coldstream Guards insist on taking a share. They cut out through the leaden hail and make some yards' advance, dropping again under what cover they can.
A last look round, a final pull at girth-straps, and the word is passed. The enemy infantry is 300 yards away.
"Tr-rot!" They are clear of the embankment. All well in hand. The enemy guns have not yet got them.
The Scots and Coldstream Guards make another rush and again drop.
"Can-ter!" And men and horses settle down into the steady swing. The infantry who have got the orders to support start blazing away again as fast as they can get the magazine clips home.
Now the German gunners see what is happening and one gun after another drops its range and fuse. The German infantry is 250 yards away.
"Cha-arge!" No need to sound it. The officers are in front, and where the officers go their men will follow. Anywhere!
The Scots and Coldstreamers are after them as hard as they can leg it.
The enemy on the flank try to swing round to meet the charge, but there is no time. The German guns mercilessly drop the range still more—what matter if they sweep away their own men as well.
One hundred yards! Fifty yards! A long, sickening crash—and the Greys and Lancers are in them. Hacking, slashing, hewing! The Scots are hard on their heels just to their left. A mighty heave as the bayonets get home. The first rank is through. There are no more ranks, only a vast confusion.
Five little minutes (it seems an eternity) and the enemy flank is crushed in, smashed to pulp as a block of stone smashes in the head of a man.
"Who goes home?" Who can? Ten men, a dozen, perhaps twenty have struggled through. A few will cover again the ground over which they charged. A few, such a tiny few, will get back under cover again. "The rest is silence."
But they have done it. The enemy have learned what a British charge is like. They know now what bayonet work is, and the lesson sinks deep. They will not face the steel again. Ask the men who fought at the Aisne, at Ypres.
[1] I have simply turned paragraphs of Sir John French's dispatch into imaginary spoken words.
[2] A German Cavalry Division numbered, approximately, 5,200, all ranks, including 2 batteries Horse Artillery and 1 machine-gun battery.
But pardon, gentles all,The flat unraised spirits that have dar'd,On this unworthy scaffold to bring forthSo great an object: can this cockpit holdThe vasty fields of France?
It may be of interest at this point if the narrative be broken off for a few minutes to give some details of the methods the Germans employ in their infantry attack, especially as they differ so greatly from our own.
The two main features are (a) they consider rifle work as of comparatively little value and rely mainly on machine-gun fire, and (b) they attack in dense masses, shoulder to shoulder.
British methods are, or were, precisely the opposite. Our men have brought musketry to such perfection that an infantryman will get off in one minute almost double the number of rounds that a German will; and, what is more to the point, they will all hit the mark. Let it be noted that the British Army owes this perfection to the wise foresight of Lord Roberts. (Ah, if only the nation, too, had listened to him!)
British troops, adopting the lessons of the Boer War, attack with an interval between the files, i.e. in extended order.
Now at Mons, and after, a German battalion generally attacked in three double ranks. The rear double rank had with it four or six machine-guns. They count upon the first three or four ranks stopping the enemy's bullets, but, by the time these are swept away, the last ranks (with the machine-guns) should be sufficiently near to carry the position attacked: say about 300 yards.
This reckless sacrifice of life is typical of the German "machine," as opposed to the British "individual."
As a matter of fact their method never succeeded over open ground before the British fire, for the front ranks were always swept away at the very beginning of the attack, and so they did not get near enough with the rear ranks.
The German officer who gave me these details remarked that the rapidity and accuracy of the British fire were simply incredible, that they never had a chance.
"Our men," he said, "have come to believe that every one of you carries a portable Maxim with him."
*****
It must have been about 2.30 in the afternoon that Binche had to be abandoned. But it was before this that the German infantry attacks began all along the line.
For nearly two hours our men had somehow or other been weathering the storm of shrapnel, and we have seen that they had by now settled down under it. Let us get back to the Second Corps and see what is happening. You have got some idea of the look of the country in front of our positions, all broken up, uneven ground, little woods here and there. Out on the left flank there are county regiments, men of Dorset, Norfolk, Suffolk, Cheshire, Surrey. They know something about "ground" work, and they have learned a deal more with their regiments.
One end of the Yorks L.I. trench ends in a little stone-walled pigsty. At least it was a pigsty about church time that morning, but a German gunner thought it would look better without any roof or walls.
There is still a fragment three feet high on the weather side, and the Yorks C.O. finds it a convenient shelter for the time being. He is not attending church-parade that day, so it doesn't matter about lying full length in the filth on the ground. The last remaining company colour-sergeant is with him—also embedded in the manure. They are both nibbling chocolate. Tobacco would be particularly useful just now, but they have both run out of it.
For some minutes the C.O. has been intently watching through his glasses the corner of a wood about 500 yards in front. He hands the binoculars to the sergeant.
"What do you make of it? That corner over the little shed."
The sergeant has a look. He returns the glasses and slowly nods.
"It might be a brigade, sir, from the number of them."
"Yes," says the C.O., "I thought it was about time. Get word along that there is to be no firing till the order's given."
"Very good, sir!" And the sergeant scrambles to his feet, salutes, ducks hastily as a shell seems to whistle past unnecessarily close, and dives into the rabbit-burrow in which his men are squatting. The C.O. returns to his glasses.
The C.O. of a British battery, in position some distance to the rear, has evidently also spotted that particular target, for puffs of bursting shrapnel have begun to appear over the wood and round the edges.
Now there is a distinct movement of troops emerging from behind the wood. It is a movement only which can be seen, for the men themselves can scarcely be distinguished against the grey-green country-side.
At the very same moment it seems as though all the guns in the world have been turned on to those few miles of British front, and to the batteries behind.
The British gun-fire wavers for a minute or so; but soon it picks up again though, alas! not so strongly as before.
The Yorks C.O. has lost his enemy infantry for a minute; they are working forward under the edge of a rise in the ground.
Now the front ranks appear, and the C.O. gives a sharp whistle of astonishment. Four hundred yards off, and it looks like a great glacier rolling down a mountain-side.
Nearer still it creeps, and the German guns have raised their range to give their infantry a chance. "Besides, there will probably be nothing but empty trenches to take anyway," they say.
Fifty yards nearer, and the temptation is too great.
"Let it go, Yorkshires!" he yells down the trench. (The command is not in the drill-book, but it serves very well.)
And the Yorkshires "let it go" accordingly.
"Eh, lads," sings out a lad from Halifax, "'tis t' crowd coom oop for t' Coop Day! And t' lads yonder can't shoot for nuts," he blithely adds as myriads of rifle bullets whistle high overhead.
And he and the lads from Trent-side proceed very methodically to give "t' lads" from Spreeside a lesson in how shooting should be done.
Very methodically; but that means something like 16 shots a minute each man, and you may be sure that very, very few bullets go off the target. No one dreams of keeping cover. Indeed, the men prop their rifles on the parapet and pump out lead as hard as their fingers can work bolt and trigger.
Miss? It's impossible to miss. You can't help hitting the side of a house—and that's what the target looks like. It is just slaughter. The oncoming ranks simply melt away.
And now through the unholy din you can hear a cracking noise which is quite distinct in the uproar. Something like the continuous back-fire of a mammoth motor-cycle. Machine-guns.
The Dorsets have got a man who is a past-master in the use of these infernal engines. How he escaped that day no one can tell. But for many an hour he sat at the gun spraying the enemy attack with his steel hose. His "bag" must have run into thousands.
The attack still comes on. Though hundreds, thousands of the grey coats are mown down, as many more crowd forward to refill the ranks.
Nearer still, and with a hoarse yell the Yorkshires, Dorsets, Cornwalls and others are out of the trenches, officers ahead of them, with bayonets fixed and heading straight at the enemy. A murderous Maxim fire meets them but it does not stop them, and in a minute they are thrusting and bashing with rifles, fists, stones, in amongst the enemy ranks.
Again the German gunners drop their range and pour their shells indiscriminately into friend and foe. It is too much for the attacking regiments and they break up hopelessly, turn and begin to struggle back. It is impossible to attempt any rally of our men. They must go on until they are overwhelmed by sheer numbers, or they must straggle to the lines as best they can in knots of twos and threes, or wander aimlessly off to the flanks and get lost.
Such was one single attack. But no sooner was it broken than fresh regiments would march out to begin it all over again. And here is no Pass of Thermopylae where a handful of men can withstand for indefinite time an army. What can the British hope to do against such overwhelming numbers? The end, you will say, must be annihilation.
The cavalry, the only reserves, are working, surely, as no cavalry has ever worked before. Squadrons are everywhere at once. Wherever a gap is threatened they are there in support. And wherever they go there also go the Horse Gunners working hand and glove with them. Charge and counter-charge upon the flanks of the attacking infantry, dismounting to cover with their fire a British infantry rally, fierce hand-to-hand encounters with enemy squadrons. Wherever they are wanted, each man and horse is doing the work of ten.
But this cannot last for long. Now it is becoming only too evident that far from there being a reasonable superiority against us the British are everywhere along the line hopelessly outnumbered in every arm. And at 5 P.M. there happened one of the most dramatic incidents of the war, that day or afterwards. You will find the bare recital of the event set forth in cold official language in the G.O.C.-in-Chief's dispatch, beginning: "In the meantime, about 5 P.M., I received a most unexpected message from General Joffre."
It will be remembered that from information received from French G.H.Q. the previous night, and from his own reconnaissance reports, the Commander-in-Chief had concluded that his right flank was reasonably secured by the French armies, that the fortress of Namur was still being held, and that the enemy strength in front of him was about 134,000 men and 490 field-guns, at an outside estimate.
All the afternoon the enemy had been attacking, and the British right had had to give ground before it, with the consequence that Mons itself had to be abandoned.
Now, like a bolt from the blue, came the message from the French. "Unexpected," one would think, is a very mild term:—
"Namur has fallen. The Germansyesterdaywon the passages over the River Sambre between Charleroi and Namur. The French armies are retiring. You haveat least187,500 men and 690 guns attacking you in front; another 62,500 men and 230 guns trying to turn your left flank; and probably another 300,000 men" (the victorious army in pursuit of the French) "driving in a wedge on your right."
This is what the message would look like:—
Attacking and defending forcesAttacking and defending forces
But we have seen that there were really thirteen German corps attacking the positions Tournai—Namur—Dinant.
Thus therealfigures would probably look like this:—
Attacking and defending forcesAttacking and defending forces
We may, of course, take it that by the end of the day the figures were somewhat reduced all round, British and German; the German losses being "out of all proportion to those which we have suffered."
PLAN B. Position as it appeared at 5 pm Aug 23.PLAN B. Position as it appeared at 5 pm Aug 23.
Such then was the situation at 5.0 P.M. on that eventful Sunday. An average of nearly four times our number of guns against us all along the position. No wonder that senior officers had guessed from the first that "something was wrong."
And G.H.Q.? You imagine, perhaps, that the municipal offices where the General Staff had its abode would now be seething with excitement. You will picture Staff officers rushing from room to room; orders and counter-orders being reeled off; the Intelligence and Army Signals Departments looking like Peter Robinson's in sales week; an army of motor-cyclist dispatch riders being hurled from the courtyard towards every point of the compass.
Wrong! G.H.Q. that day, and the next, was less concerned than a little French provincial mairie would be on France's national fête day. The casual visitor would have seen less bustle of activity than at the Liverpool offices of a shipping firm on mail day.
The Postal Department: "Business as usual." Army Censor: Not much doing. Intelligence: Half a dozen red-tabbed officers looking at big maps with blue and red chalk-marks on them. Director of Ordnance Supplies: "Better see about moving rail-head a few miles farther south." A.G.'s (Adjutant-General) Office: "We shall want orders out about stragglers, what they are to do." And so on, all through the list. If this was an instance of that British phlegm which so amuses the French, then commend me to it! If anybody wanted a tonic against pessimism these days of the Retreat he only had to drop in at G.H.Q. He would certainly come out with the conviction that we should indeed be home by Christmas, with the German Army wiped off the map.
Yes, that week which followed, indeed, welded into one "band of brothers" all the officers and men in the little Force. In those days everybody seemed to know everybody else. Regimental jealousy (if it ever existed) was obliterated completely, and every officer and man, from the General Officers Commanding Corps down to the bus drivers who drove the A.S.C. lorries, worked shoulder to shoulder. And so we pulled through.
Now there were other units in the Force besides those in the firing-line. There were all those columns which trekked up by road. Normally, most of these should be something like 15 miles to the rear. They know very little of what is going on ahead of them, though the ammunition columns can gauge fairly well by the demands made on them.
So it was that about midnight on that Sunday they began to realise back there that things were moving by a sudden and insistent demand for every scrap of rifle and 18-pr. ammunition they carried.
No sooner was that sent than there came more demands, and there was nothing to send. Wagons and lorries had trundled off at once to rail-head, but it would be hours before they could get back. Thus, on the very first day, the overwhelming nature of the situation pulled at and snapped the slender threads of communication. The threads were soon mended, but, as will be seen later, they never got properly into working order until the Marne.
Nor did those columns altogether escape disaster even at the very outset of the fighting. One, out towards the flank, was attacked and practically destroyed by raiding cavalry, for they do not work with escorts.
In one column, about 10.0 P.M., the alarm was given by an imaginative A.S.C. subaltern. What the men were to fight with is not clear, for only about 25 per cent. of the detachment had ever handled a rifle, and no ammunition was issued.
"It's Germans crawling through that field," said the subaltern. "I saw their electric-torch flashes."
The men stood to, peering into the darkness, and feeling certain that their last hour had come.
A farmer came slowly out of the field-gate and begged two of the men to come and help him round up his cows.
So the detachment turned in again, cursing heartily.
But soon the A.S.C. bus drivers were "doing their bit" under fire as gallantly as everybody else. How and when you shall hear in another chapter.
6.0 P.M.—The enemy have concentrated their fire upon the town of Mons and it has become untenable.
Only six hours, six little hours since the Belgian townsfolk had come peacefully home from Mass to their Sundaydéjeuner, proud and hopeful in the presence of their British allies. And now their houses, their town, a heap of smoking ruins.