FOOTNOTES:

Boy Heroes of the Front.

Courtesy of "Le Miroir."A Servian lad, sharpshooter, 12 years old, who fought gallantly at Belgrade.

Courtesy of "Le Miroir."

A Servian lad, sharpshooter, 12 years old, who fought gallantly at Belgrade.

Courtesy of "J'ai Vu.""Petit Jean" of the Zouaves, who won revenge against the Germans who burned his French home.

Courtesy of "J'ai Vu."

"Petit Jean" of the Zouaves, who won revenge against the Germans who burned his French home.

Courtesy of "Ill. London News."A Russian lad, 14 years old, full member of a gun crew, which saw much action.

Courtesy of "Ill. London News."

A Russian lad, 14 years old, full member of a gun crew, which saw much action.

"'Shoot the Frenchman, you!' he said. 'That will make you a good German.'

"The boy took the gun, pointed it at the French sergeant, then wheeled suddenly and fired point-blank at the German commander, who fell dead. So," said the peasant slowly, "they first tortured my nephew and then killed him. After that they set fire to the house and burned alive the wounded man inside. My sister escaped from the burning house and told me the story last night."[11]

"And she?"

"She went mad early this morning and drowned herself in the river. Do you think I would let fear stop me from revenge?"

No more was said. They filed out of the farmhouse, creeping through the forest down the steep slopes to the river below. At a tiny landing-stage two German soldiers were standing.

The hunchback held up two fingers and the boy's spirits rose with relief at the thought that he would not be compelled to take part in a cold-blooded though necessary slaughter.

"Take the bird," whispered Croquier to him, "and, whatever happens, see that the Germans do not get it. If you are about to be caught, throw the cage in the river. Its weight will sink it."

"I will," said the boy. He would have said more, as his fingers closed upon the iron ring, but his companions had slipped off into the darkness.

The few minutes of waiting that followed seemed like hours. Far, far away, there was a faint sound of cannonading, which, although the boy did not know it, was the advance-guard knocking at the gates of Namur. It rose and fell on the night breeze above the indistinguishable murmur around him, born of the presence of hundreds of thousands of men encamped on both sides of the river, of the rattle of harness, of the hum of motor-vehicles and of the tramp of feet. A dull, angry red flickered spasmodically in the sky, here and there, the reflections of burning villages below.

Silently, so silently that it seemed to Horace as though he were watching a play of shadows, two men arose from the ground behind the sentries. The blue steel in the peasant's hand flashed in the faint moonlight of an aged moon and the sentry fell with a choked cry. From the other sentry's throat there came no sound and the dumb strugglewas a fearful thing to see. The hunchback's fingers, however, would have strangled an ox, and, before a minute had passed, a dead man lay on the ground, the iron grip still on his windpipe.

At that instant, Horace heard a voice humming the snatch of a German song and the third sentry came along the path, returning to his post.

The boy fingered his revolver, but he could not bring himself to shoot a man unprepared. His gorge rose at the thought. Yet, if he allowed the sentry to pass, the alarm would be given and he and his companions would be killed.

A trick of boyhood flashed through his mind.

Quickly seizing a dead branch which lay near by, he thrust it between the sentry's legs as he passed, with a sudden jerk tripping him up, so that he fell headlong from the narrow stony path into the bushes on the side. Then the boy sped for the wharf like a deer.

"The third sentry!" he gasped.

There was no time for explanations. The two fugitives and the peasant leaped into the boat and a few short, sharp strokes took them well into the strong current of the river.

The sentry who had been tripped, quite unsuspicious and blaming only the roughness of thepath in the darkness, got up, grumbling, rubbed himself where he had been bruised and searched for his spiked helmet, which had fallen off.

These few seconds were salvation for the fugitives.

Before half a minute had elapsed, the sentry reached the landing-stage and saw the stretched-out bodies of his comrades. Taken by surprise, he lost another ten or twenty seconds staring around him before he caught sight of the boat on the river.

Then, and not till then, did the sentry grasp that a surprise attack had been made and that his fall on the path had been purposed and not due to an accident. Raising his rifle, he fired, but the shots flew wide.

"I heard the Germans couldn't shoot straight!" declared the hunchback, in contempt. "Now I know it's true."

Horace thought the bullets were quite close enough, and when one of them nipped the oar he was using and raised a sliver of wood from the feathered blade, he had an uncomfortable feeling inside. But, before the alarm could be widely given, the boat shot into the shadow of the western bank and reached the shore in safety.

French advance posts took the three in charge as soon as they touched land, and, when morning arrived, brought them before the ranking officer. Horace was able to give but little information, but Croquier, who had read widely of military tactics, was able to combine the various items that he had gleaned during the escape to make a report of great value and importance.

"You are sure," the officer asked him, "that, in addition to the armies of Von Kluck and Von Buelow to the north, and the Duke of Würtemberg and the Crown Prince to the south, there is another army, hurrying up between?"

"We saw it, sir," Croquier replied.

"Under whose command?"

"I couldn't find out, sir."

The officer gnawed his mustache.

"Our air men report a gap in the German line, there," he said. "We're counting on it."

"There isn't such a gap, sir," the hunchback insisted, earnestly. "Every road we crossed was filled with troops, and, sir," he added, "there seemed to be an independent siege-train. It looked like a complete army."

"It would be hard to distinguish such a force from divisions of the other armies," the officersaid, "unless you had more facts than you were able to gather, but I'll convey your information to headquarters. It may prove very useful. Now, just what shall I do with you?"

"I'd like to fight, sir," said the hunchback, "if I could find some one to guard the Kaiser."

The officer stared at him as though he thought Croquier had gone mad.

"What are you talking about," he said, "to 'guard the Kaiser'?"

The hunchback pointed to the cage in his hand, which he had positively refused to give up to the orderly.

"Here's the Kaiser, sir," he said, "withered left arm and all!"

His questioner bent forward, as Croquier described the capture, and, in spite of the responsibilities weighing upon him, the officer laughed aloud.

"It is a true omen of victory!" he said. "Stay with this division. It will bring us luck."

"I'll be glad to, sir," said Croquier.

"Do any of the men know about it?"

"It must be all over the camp by now, sir," the hunchback answered. "I've told the story at least a dozen times this morning."

The colonel smacked his leg with delight.

"That bird," he said, "especially if we have to retreat, is worth half a regiment of men. Next to good food, good spirits keep an army going. You stay here and 'guard the Kaiser' yourself.

"As for the lad," he continued, turning to Horace, "why, we'll send you on to Paris, the first chance we get. The front is no place for a boy, and, in any case, military regulations are rigid against the presence of non-combatants. Even war correspondents are not allowed, no matter how strong their official credentials."

Horace would have protested, but he knew that while French military discipline is not as machine-made as that of Germany, it is not less strict. Boy-like, he trusted to chance that something might happen, and, in any case, he would probably see a battle that day. If he could just see one battle, he thought, he would be content, particularly if it were a German defeat.

Partly owing to his capture of "the Kaiser," because of the pluck he had shown in escaping from Liége, and partly owing to the stories he had to tell of German atrocities in Belgium, Horace was very popular with the "poilus,"[12]as theFrench soldiers familiarly called themselves.

It was in conversation, that morning, with one of the veterans of the army, a non-commissioned officer who had seen active service in Morocco and Madagascar, and who was studying with the aim of winning his shoulder-straps, that Horace gained his first clear idea of the huge scale upon which modern war operations are conducted. Evidently the veteran had worked out for himself the main elements of General Joffre's plan, and Horace's information concerning the location of the German troops revealed further developments of the campaign to the old soldier's eyes. Resting in readiness to support the advance line should the reserves be called on, the veteran delivered himself oracularly as to the situation.

"The battle-line now," he said, "is a right angle running north from Dinant to Namur and then west from Namur to Condé. The south to north line, where we are now, is held by the Fourth French Army, under General Langle de Cary. We're protected by the gorge of the Meuse, and it's our little job to try and keep the Boches[13]from crossing.

"Namur is the bend of the angle. It is strongly fortified, with nine forts in ring formation, and is held by the Belgian army under General Michel. From Namur westward through Charleroi to Binche is held by the Fifth French Army under General Lanrezac, and is protected by a narrow river, the Sambre. Westward from Binche, through Mons to Condé, is held by the British Expeditionary Force under Sir John French, only lightly protected by the Mons barge-canal. The first attack will fall on Namur. I hear it has already started."

"It won't last long," interjected Croquier, "for the lad and I saw the 42-centimeter guns (16.5-inch howitzers) on their way to Namur. Once those siege-guns get into position, the forts are gone. They won't be able to stand ten shells apiece."

"The forts will hold for a week," the veteran answered, for he discounted the rumors which had come of the power of the great siege-guns. "In any case, they'll hold for three days, and that's as long as necessary. So, you see, the English face Von Kluck, the Belgians face Von Buelow—and we're holding Würtemberg's army."

"All very well," said the hunchback, "but, asI've told you, we saw another army coming up through the Ardennes."

"If there were, our airmen would have seen it," said the veteran, "and our staff would know all about it. You're mistaken, that's all. The battle-line is just about the way I've said it and the real clash is between the French and German systems of strategy."

"Are they very different?" asked Horace. "I should have thought that strategy was pretty exact and every one worked in more or less the same way."

"Don't think it for a moment!" the veteran replied earnestly. "German strategy and French strategy are as far apart as the feelings of the two races. They are the result of different principles. They work in different ways. The German depends on massed force, the French on individual courage; the German thinks mainly of attack and his favorite word is 'annihilation,' the French thinks mainly of defense and his favorite word is 'France.' It is for this war to show which of the two is the stronger—German aggression or French defense.

"German strategy," he explained, "begins with the formation of an extended line. In action itplans heavy massed attacks at various points along a battle front, in order to keep the whole of the opposing line engaged, while, at the same time, at least a full army corps is thrown out on each end of the battle-line, two or three divisions of cavalry being thrown out farther still, to act as a screen and hide the movements behind it. This maneuver is for the purpose of curling round the ends of an enemy's line, flanking it and, by cutting its line of communication in the rear, rolling it up and annihilating it."

"That, I should think," said Horace, "needs a lot of men."

"It does," the veteran agreed, "and that is one of the reasons that Germany never advances unless she has a big preponderance of men. Don't think that because Germans seldom attack with equal forces they must therefore be cowards. It is because their tactics are based on the principle of flanking, enveloping and securing a decisive victory, rather than the principle of saving men, taking advantage of natural conditions and winning a number of small engagements. It is terribly wasteful of men, but it produces big military results—when successful—and an appalling human sacrifice, when unsuccessful.

"A German attack, therefore, my boy, means that you will have to suffer a succession of driving blows directed at two or three points of the main line, reënforced by a concentration of artillery far greater than is possessed by any other army, coupled with wide flanking movements by huge bodies of troops supported by cavalry and a very mobile field artillery."

"All right," said the boy; "I understand that clearly. Now what's the French idea?"

"French strategy," the veteran replied, "always presupposes the necessity of being compelled to fight having an army less in numbers but superior in individual dash and bravery. It is the problem of winning a battle with a smaller number of men than the enemy. The principle is that of a spring bent back to the utmost, which, when released rebounds forward with tremendous force. We call it the 'strategic lozenge.'"

"I've heard of that," said Horace. "It's sometimes called the 'strategic square,' isn't it? It seems something like our baseball diamond," and, with boyish animation, he explained the position of the bases.

"It is very like," said the bearded poilu, smiling at the comparison of military strategy with abaseball game; "perhaps I can explain it to you in that way. In this strategic lozenge, the whole army is divided in four parts. The rear, or the reserve army, is where you call 'home base.' The fighting or operative corner is at 'second base,' and the other two armies are at 'first base' and 'third base' respectively. You understand the positions?"

Courtesy of "Panorama de la Guerre.""Our Enemies Showed Great Gallantry."German gunners saving their 77-mm. piece in the teeth of a French infantry attack in the Argonne.

Courtesy of "Panorama de la Guerre."

"Our Enemies Showed Great Gallantry."

German gunners saving their 77-mm. piece in the teeth of a French infantry attack in the Argonne.

"Of course," said the boy, "that's quite easy. But it doesn't look particularly strong. I should think a long line, like the German one you were telling me about, could come on both sides of that point, or 'second base' army and gobble it up."

"So it could," said the veteran, nodding appreciation of the lad's perception, "if the 'second base' army stayed there to be gobbled up. That, my boy, is exactly what it doesn't do. When the enemy line advances, it is halted by this sharp point. The flanking movement is impossible, because if the long line bends round the corner, it would take several days for the ends to close in, and, when they did close in, they would only be confronted by a new army, let us say at 'third base.' Long before they could reach there, the fourth army, at 'home base,' could have marched up to reënforce the operative corner and smashedthe weakened middle of the opposing line, which, with its wings gone, would have no reserves on which to fall back."

"Great!" cried the boy. "Then the German army would be cut in half!"

"Precisely! It would! And, my boy, if the line be cut, then our armies, which had broken through, could fall on the line of communications and cut off the enemy's provisions and supplies.

"If, on the other hand, the German commanders saw this danger, which, of course, they would, they could halt all along the extended line, reënforcing from either side the masses thrown against the operative corner."

"Ow!" said Horace, "that would be awkward."

"Yes," the veteran responded, "if there were no strategical reply. But when the line halts, the three armies in reserve in the diamond can be swung either to right or left. So, since they have only a short distance to go, they can force the battle on their own chosen ground much more quickly than the opposing troops—which are stretched out in a long line—can come up to defend it."

"I don't see that," said Horace.

The veteran smiled.

"You don't see it," he said, "because you don't realize that the Wonder of War is not the machines used by the men who wage it, but the men themselves and the handling of them. Modern war, like ancient war, consists only in the spirit of the fighters and the skill of the commanders. There's not a great deal of difference between a bayonet and flint knife, a rifle is but an explosive form of bow and arrow, and the great 42-centimeter siege-gun of the Boches is only a sling-shot made a little bigger and throwing a little farther. The morale of men, my boy, and the strategy of generals are the wonders of war, as they were in the days of Rameses, Cæsar and Napoleon. It's more difficult, now, because you're moving millions of men and tens of millions of tons of munitions and material.

"Let us take the strategy of the present situation, as the greatest armies of the world face it this sunny summer morning. Namur is the 'second base' or operative corner. Paris is the 'home base.' Verdun is 'first base.' Condé, to the extreme left of the English troops, is 'third base.' The German long line is bent round the angle. This has been very skillfully done, for it enables the line to attack at any point. But, see,we could throw our reënforcing fourth army on either the left or the right wing in two days' time. Suppose we threw it on the western wing. It would take at least two weeks before the enemy's eastern wing could march up, even if it were good tactics to do so."

"Why?"

"Because of the enormous difficulty of moving hundreds of thousands of men. No civilian has any idea of it. Suppose you want to move five army corps—that's a quarter of a million men—how long do you think it would take? Your easternmost corps would have to begin the march by retreating at least thirty miles before they could begin to turn, in order to leave room for the rest to turn inside them. The first army corps would have to wait until the second countermarched in line with it, both first and second would have to wait for the third, and four corps would be idle while the fifth corps came into position.

"To deploy them in line would take weeks. Then, even after they had been got in order and were marching from south to north, the corps nearest to the battle line would have to mark time while the rest pivoted on it. That would mean a couple more days' lost time. The same delaywould arise when it was necessary to pivot the line in position for attack. In addition to that, my boy, there would be the waste of time in strategical handling caused by the change of direction. New lines of communication would have to be established, new supply depots built, new routes mapped out, rolling stock shifted to other railway systems, all the plans which the General Staff had made before the opening of the campaign must needs be altered and the huge body of officers would have to receive new orders so that they might learn the entire change of tactics in detail. Meantime, the battle would be over."

"Well, then," said Horace, scornfully, "German strategy is all nonsense."

"Don't jump to conclusions," warned the veteran. "There's another side to it. Suppose that the operative corner is attacked so fast and so furiously that, instead of being able to retreat upon its reserves in good order, it is annihilated, what then? In that case, the enemy can plunge right in between the supporting armies, going to what, I suppose, you would call the 'pitcher's box,' cut the dissevered troops apart and deal with them one at a time.

"Everything depends upon the operative corner,especially on its tenacity. This strategy is possible in the French Army, where individual courage and resiliency is the highest of all armies of the world. It is only equaled by some of the Irish and Highland Scotch regiments of the British Army, and the Bersaglieri and other corps of the Italian Army. It is not suitable to the bulldog tactics of the English, which depend on wearing down the enemy; nor to the 'wolf-pack' system of the Germans, which depends on mere weight of numbers."

Horace leaned forward, thoughtfully.

"There's a good deal more to this than I thought," he said.

"The operation of war on land," said the veteran, "is one of the most marvelous processes known to the human brain. There is no machine so enormous, none that requires so much detail and fineness of adjustment. I've studied it from a soldier's point of view, ever since I've been in the army, and now that I'm trying to get my commission, I'm studying it all the closer.

"Men don't win a war. Guns don't win a war. Food and munitions don't win a war. You can have ten million men and a hundred million tons of food and munitions and what good will they beunless the food gets to the men, the munitions to the guns, and the men and guns to the front? What good will it do then, unless the men have, first, the spirit to fight, and second, the skill to fight?

"You say that the prophecy about the bird declares that America will have to join the war. Perhaps. But if the United States had started to prepare ten years ago, she would still have been twenty years too late. To expect to make an army by waiting until it is needed, is just about as sensible as to wait for the sowing of wheat until the harvest-time when the crop is needed. And when you get back to America, you can tell them so."

The poilu wiped his forehead, for he had become thoroughly roused on the point. Then, after a moment, he continued:

"To return to our strategy question. The present position of the French and English armies, supporting Namur, is that of an operative corner. Probably we will be driven back, but it is on the springiness of our resistance that the campaign hangs. The more we retreat, the stiffer grows the spring, for we are falling back on reënforcements and shortening our lines of communication andtransport all the time. The more the enemy advances, the weaker his line grows, for he is losing men which he cannot replace and is lengthening his lines of communication and transport all the time. Sooner or later, the rebound of the spring is stronger than the force pressing back, and then, if the pressure is weakened the least bit, the spring darts back. That is the rebound or recoil. It is the rebound which will save France."

"Then you expect to retreat?"

"What would be the use of an operative corner if we didn't retreat on the masses of maneuver?" the veteran retorted. "We all know that. The public won't understand it, of course, and a good many of the younger soldiers are apt to lose their heads over it, but the statesmen know, the generals know, the officers know, and arrangements are already made for it in advance. We are well prepared.

"The two greatest armies that the world has ever seen are facing each other, and the two great principles of strategy are to be fought out, as well as the moral principle between a nation that breaks its word and one that keeps it. Within a month will be settled, perhaps forever, the greatest question in military tactics—which is better,the massed line and flanking movements of the Germans or the strategic diamond of the French.

"If Namur holds, you will see the supporting armies swing up against one or the other side of the long German line and send it flying back. If Namur falls resistingly, you will see the whole operative corner from Condé through Mons, Binche, Thuin, Charleroi, Namur, Dinant, Givet, and Montmedy to Verdun narrow its lines, shorten its communications and draw closer and closer in. The spring will be stiffening for the rebound. If the corner is smashed and the Germans break clear through—the whole war is lost, the whole world is lost!"

FOOTNOTES:[9]Report of Belgian Royal Commission.[10]Report of French Commission of Inquiry.[11]This happened in the village of Lourches, near Douchy. The boy's name was Emile Despres and he was fourteen years old.[12]"Poilu" means hairy, and conveys the sense of shaggy strength.[13]The Germans are called "Boches" by the French and "Huns" by the British. The origin of the word "Boche" is disputed; the word "Hun" is used to denote ruthless barbarity.

[9]Report of Belgian Royal Commission.

[10]Report of French Commission of Inquiry.

[11]This happened in the village of Lourches, near Douchy. The boy's name was Emile Despres and he was fourteen years old.

[12]"Poilu" means hairy, and conveys the sense of shaggy strength.

[13]The Germans are called "Boches" by the French and "Huns" by the British. The origin of the word "Boche" is disputed; the word "Hun" is used to denote ruthless barbarity.

THE DISPATCH-RIDER

"Do you suppose," said Horace, after the veteran had gone, "that they'd let me join in the fight? It may begin any time, some one said."

"You wouldn't be any use," the hunchback answered, shaking his head. "What could you do?"

"I could try the cavalry, I ride pretty well," suggested the boy. "I used to live on a ranch when I was a kid."

His companion smiled indulgently.

"What do you know of bugle calls? What practice have you had with a saber? How much do you know about cavalry maneuvers? Why, boy, you'd bungle up a cavalry charge so badly that the kindest thing they could do would be to tie your hands together and let the horse do all the work."

Horace looked crestfallen but he knew his comrade was in the right.

"I'd like to be in the artillery, too," he said,"but I don't know anything about guns, and that's a fact. But the infantry?"

"You'd be no better there," Croquier answered frankly. "You couldn't even pack your kit. You don't understand the orders. You've never drilled. You don't know the first thing about it. With continuous work eight hours a day, it takes at least two years to make a real soldier. You don't know how to use a single weapon. You couldn't fix a bayonet. You don't know the workings of a Lebel rifle, which, by the way, is the only repeating rifle used in modern armies."

"What are all the rest?"

"Magazine rifles."

"What's the difference?"

This time Croquier was at fault. He called to a soldier who was strolling near by, smoking his pipe.

"As a matter of fact," the soldier said, when the question was put to him, "all magazine rifles are repeaters, though they are not called so. The Lebel is an old type and has a tube fitted in the rifle under the barrel, the cartridge being fed onto the carrier by a spiral spring and plunger, the advancing bolt carrying the cartridge into the chamber."

"And the other armies, what gun have they got?"

"Germans and Belgians have a Mauser, Austrians use a Mannlicher—and the British have a short Lee-Enfield. All of them have magazines under the bolt way for containing cartridges and can be loaded with a clip, which is quicker."

"Which is the best?"

"The Lee-Enfield, by far, so the experts say," the rifleman answered, "because it's shorter, easier to handle, and carries ten cartridges in its magazine against the Mauser's five. But," and he patted his rifle affectionately, "I like my Lebel better than any of them, maybe because I'm used to it. The Mannlicher, though, is very accurate. It's a good weapon for sniping."

"This lad," the hunchback remarked, "wants to jump right into the fighting-line without joining the army or ever having handled a gun."

"You'd get shot for nothing, boy," the soldier replied, halting as he strode off. "One trained soldier is worth fifty raw civilians. The greenhorn wastes ammunition, eats food, and is no manner of good. He's sick half the time. When there's an advance he wants to lead the way and runs into the fire of his own artillery. Whenthere's a retreat, he starts a panic. When he's on sentry-duty he hears a suspicious noise about once in every three minutes. When he's told to do something he doesn't like, he tries to argue about it. If you want to be a soldier, boy, join it in the right way and learn your soldiering like a man. Then, if a war comes, you can do your duty until you're killed; or, if you're invalided home crippled, or blinded, or with a serious wound which will prevent you from further fighting, you can thank your stars that you were born lucky."

"And I did so want to fight!" said Horace mournfully, as the infantryman moved away.

"You may have the chance," remarked the hunchback, a curious glint in his eyes. "How long do you think the war will last?"

"A month or two?" hazarded the boy.

"I shouldn't be surprised if it lasted a year or two," came the reply, "that is, unless the Germans smash our lines before we have a chance to stiffen them."

"Well," said Horace, "if it lasts a year or two, I can learn!"

"Yes," said Croquier, "we'll all learn."

That afternoon, the officer sent for Horace and his companion.

"Namur has fallen!" he said, as soon as they were alone.

Croquier's jaw fell.

"Already, sir!" he said. "I thought it wouldn't hold out very long."

"Yes," said the officer, "Von Buelow seems to have learned from Liége. You were there, were you not?"

"I was, sir," the hunchback answered; "we lived just a mile from Fort Embourg."

"Did you see any of the fighting?"

"Only the bombardment."

"Or hear any details?"

"Yes, sir," Croquier replied, "mainly from the wounded. I was in hiding, though, and the lad, here, heard more than I did."

Thus prompted, Horace told all that he knew of the story of the attack on Liége, of the fearful loss of life in the massed attacks and of the valor of the defense, as he had been told by the wounded officers and men nursed by Aunt Abigail.

"They never gave us a chance like that," the officer sighed. "Namur had no defense. Von Buelow's too wise a fox of warcraft to waste men when guns will do the trick. It seems he brought his 42-centimeter guns into position five miles fromNamur about sundown yesterday. All the ranges had been tested out by the bombardments during the two days before with the lighter guns.

"Last night the real bombardment commenced. The shells were directed into the trenches, first, where General Michel and his men were eagerly awaiting the chance to mow down Germans as Leman did at Liége. They never saw a German. The hail of death on those trenches was so furious that no troops could live through it. There was no resistance. The guns of the forts could not reply, they were outranged. There was no possibility of a counter-attack, for scouts reported the Germans in force. For ten hours a scythe of shells swept the defenses. Not a man lifted his head above the parapet but was killed. The trenches were leveled flat. Few officers survived.

"By morning," the officer continued, "the Belgians could stand the tornado of slaughter no longer. The decimated troops fled from the trenches, leaving a gap between Forts Cognelée and Marchovelette. The Germans then turned their fire on the forts. Fort Maizeret received 1200 shells, at the speed of twenty to the minute, but was only able to reply with ten rounds. In that sixty minutes, the fort was reduced to amass of crumpled masonry and a few shreds of armor-steel. Others of the forts, on which the 42-centimeters were turned, were blown to atoms with less than half a dozen shells. By ten o'clock this morning, five of the forts were silenced and the German infantry poured through the gap.

"We sent a cavalry brigade, mainly of Chasseurs d'Afrique, and two Turco and Zouave regiments up to stiffen General Michel's defense, but they arrived too late to be of any use to the Belgian infantry. It would have been madness for Michel to have faced that fire any longer.

"Before the war, we had expected," the officer continued, "that the forts of Namur would hold the enemy back for three weeks. After Liége, we hoped that they would hold out three days. They did not hold out three hours. Apparently there is nothing made by the hands of man that can resist the incredible destructiveness of those huge high-explosive shells. Our point of defense will have to be at Charleroi. Our airmen report a gap between the armies of Von Buelow and Würtemberg. You said, this morning, that you had seen troops in between. It is excessively important. Tell me again, exactly, and with all the detail that you can remember."

Croquier repeated his information of the morning, Horace supplementing from time to time. When he had finished, the officer tapped his fingers meditatively on the table.

"You're sure you can't tell me where they came from, who commands them, or what regiments they are?"

Croquier was silent.

"I'm not sure," said Horace, after racking his brain, "but I think the woman whose boy was killed, said that Saxons had done it."

"Saxons, h'm! Well, that's a slight clew. I hope you're wrong, because the Saxons are about the best troops in the German Army, pretty clean fighters, too, as a rule. I hope you're wrong," he repeated; "we're in a desperate position and we need three days' time."

Little, however, did the officer, with all his special information, suspect the nearness of the impending blow. Even at the time that he was speaking, a detachment of German hussars had crossed the Meuse near Namur, ridden through Charleroi and trotted on towards the Sambre. At first they were mistaken for British hussars, to whose uniform theirs was similar. Soon, however, they were recognized and driven back, withthe loss of a few killed and wounded. Simultaneously, an artillery engagement began between the armies of Lanrezac and Von Kluck at the bridges above and below Charleroi.

In the afternoon, that part of Langle de Cary's army to which Horace and Croquier had irregularly attached themselves moved north. The two fugitives followed, not because they were wanted, but Croquier had been told to stay and Horace, although he had been told to go back with the refugees, had not been served with a point-blank military order. He decided to chance it, not being punishable for disobedience as a soldier. The boy was wild to see a battle, if there should be one, but Croquier forbade his attaching himself to any infantry regiment. He, himself, had made friends with one of the gunners of a "Soixante-Quinze" and the battery was delighted with being chosen as the escort of the "captive Kaiser." The battery-commander took the boy under his protection, feeling that this was better than setting him adrift and took on himself the responsibility of seeing that the lad should be sent on to Paris that night.

"But I won't see the fight, back here with the artillery," persisted Horace.

A gunner looked round at him with his mouth twisted on one side.

"I hope you're right, my boy," he said. "I'm thinking we'll see too much of it."

"I don't want to see a lot of battles," reiterated the lad, "I just want to see one!"

As though his words had conjured it up, with startling suddenness, rifle-fire broke out near by. It sounded like the crackling of dry wood in an immense bon-fire. Horace looked up eagerly and listened for the heavy booming of the artillery. None was to be heard.

"Don't they use big shells, except on forts?" he asked.

"They'll come before long," the gunner answered. "Something's going to happen. I feel it in the air."

Infantry regiments swung by, marching north, with the quick, French step.

Though late in the afternoon, the sun was hot, the air sultry. The men were tired, grim, and silent. The faces were young, but every man had white eyebrows and either a gray beard or a gray stubbly chin. It took a moment's thought to realize that this was the effect of dust and not a regiment of old men. So thick was the dust that eventhe red of the breeches was absolutely hidden as the men marched on.

From over the hill, a machine-gun began its continuous death-bark.

"That means close action," said the hunchback. "They must be on us."

Horace felt his desire to see a battle slipping away quite rapidly.

"Probably action against cavalry," Croquier continued. "I hope so. We're considerably too close for an infantry attack to be comfortable."

Then, with majestic grandeur, the heavy artillery began to speak. As it opened, the crackling of the rifle-fire spread all round the horizon and the machine-guns yapped from a hundred points ahead. But, over all, the great guns boomed. It was as though, in the middle of a fight between terriers, two lions had sprung into the arena and deafened all other noise with their roars.

"Clear for action!"

At the words of the battery commander, every man of the crew of the "Soixante-Quinze" sprang to his post. The gun-numbers, who had been clustered about the "captive Kaiser," reached their places with a single spring.

"Attention!"

French Official Photograph.French Infantry Advancing.

French Official Photograph.

French Infantry Advancing.

From "Illustrirte Zeitung."German Infantry Advancing.

From "Illustrirte Zeitung."

German Infantry Advancing.

Horace watched the deft movements of the artillerists, as they made sure that the sighting-gear was in place and that the training and elevating levers were working smoothly.

"You wanted to see fighting, Horace," said Croquier, pointing with his finger, "well, look!"

In the dull, hot afternoon haze, the boy saw black figures which seemed no larger than ants run up the hillside, far, far ahead and then suddenly disappear as they threw themselves down. Jets of up-thrown earth showed where the shells were striking, and a rising cloud of dust, like to that raised by a tooth-harrow being dragged over plowed land on a dry day, told, to accustomed eyes, the terrible tragedy of the curtain of leaden hail.

"Gun-layers—forward!" came the sharp command.

A pause.

"That twisted willow, two points this side of the church-steeple."

"We see it."

"Use that!"

The commander gave the elevation and the range.

The guns were laid, the breeches returning smoothly to rest with their burden of death.

"All ready, sir."

"First round!"

Fear lay heavy on Horace, but an overmastering desire to watch the modern gladiatorial arena, drove him to look.

The firing number bent down to seize the lanyard.

"Fire!"

His experience at Beaufays had taught the boy to put his fingers to his ears, but it was the first time he had heard a .75, the famous "Soixante-Quinze" which the French believed—and rightly—to be the best field-gun in the world. It cracked deafeningly, stridently. The flame which darted out of the muzzle was long and thin and seemed to lick the air as though envious of the shell's flight. The smell of the powder was acrid and bitter, somewhat like the taste of an unripe persimmon, Horace thought.

"One thousand, five hundred!" the battery commander called.

And Number One of the gun crew repeated:

"One thousand, five hundred."

"Fire!"

The men worked as in a frenzy, loading, extracting, and loading again.

The shells, twelve to a minute, poured out of the flame-belching muzzle of the gun.

The gun-crew fell back to mechanical automatic speed, muscle and sinew moving with the precision of things of steel. Cartridge-cases littered the ground in irregular piles, smoking for a minute where they fell.

"Cease firing!"

The gunners drew their hands over their foreheads, black with dust and sweat.

"Hot work!" said one.

On the hillside, far away, the little dots who were men jumped up to run ahead and then fell to earth once more. Some never rose again.

"Is the enemy on this side of the hill?" Horace asked.

"No," answered Croquier, "on the other side."

"Then the Germans can't see us?"

"No."

"Why, then, do our fellows go ahead in short bursts? If they're not in sight of the Germans, what difference does it make if they stand up or lie down?"

"The difference between being shot and not being shot," replied the hunchback. "A modern rifle, using smokeless powder, will send a bullet700 yards with an almost flat trajectory, that is to say, the bullet does not have to curve upwards much in order to reach its mark. Therefore every man standing up, within the distance of 700 yards, who is in line with that bullet, can be hit by it. A man, lying down, can only be hit by a bullet which is dropping to earth, so that the zone of danger is low. For example, a man standing at 1000 yards range is in a danger zone 65 yards wide, within which he will be shot; if lying down, the danger zone is reduced to 13 yards, or, in other words, he is five times as likely to be shot when standing up, irrespective of the fact whether the enemy can see him or not."

The sonorous tumult of the battle increased steadily. The dome of the sky beat like the parchment of an angry drum. High-explosive shell and shrapnel was bursting overhead, filling the air with splinters of shell and bullets. Now and again a clang on the gun-shield of the "Soixante-Quinze" told of some fragment that would have brought death to the gun-crew in default of such protection.

Horace, crouched down behind the gun-shield, watched a tall thistle, swaying in the breeze a couple of arm's-lengths away, and found himselfwondering what would happen to him if he were lying there.

He never saw the answer to his question. Suddenly, the thistle was no more to be seen, probably cut athwart by a splinter of shell.

In the heat of that August afternoon, Horace shivered. He was not precisely afraid, his experience in the woods near Embourg had freed him of fear, but death seemed very near. If this were battle, he had seen enough.

"Ah!" muttered a gunner, "they're falling back."

The wooded hill became alive with columns of infantry. They broke out of the woods, some still holding their formations under the orders of their officers, others scattered and disorganized. The roar of the artillery took on a wilder howl, as the high-explosive shells gave place to a larger proportion of the shriller-voiced shrapnel.

"They think they have us on the run," remarked the gunner.

"They have!" said Croquier gravely.

The infantry drew nearer, passing on the road just below the gun position, stricken, beaten, war-dulled—and dismayed. It does not take many minutes of fighting in the open against machine-gunsto break the spirit and numb the hope of victory. A machine-gun spitting 600 bullets to the minute, swaying its muzzle from side to side like a jet of murder, is the material embodiment of the very spirit of slaughter. These men had seen it and terror had taken up its dwelling in their eyes. Panic and discipline struggled for the mastery.

But, as always, blood tells. The guns belched death behind them and carnage rode, shrieking, on the blast, but their officers were there, cool and masterful. On the very verge of disgraceful rout, the French steadied to the words of command from leaders whom they not only admired and respected, but loved.

In spite of the magnificent evidence of courage, Horace groaned.

"We're licked!"

Tattered remnants of troops, wounded, half-delirious, many without rifle or pack, surged back. The torrent of smitten humanity filled the road. The weaker were pushed into the ditch. Not a man but had bleared eyes looking wildly out of sweat-rimmed sockets. The way was littered with mess-tins, cartridge belts, kepis and broken rifles. But training, only a little less strong than the instinctof life itself, came to their aid. The sight of an officer brought the hand to the forehead in salute, and the gesture brought back the sense of control. Even as the regiments fled, they reformed.

Horace bit his parched lips.

"Are we going to stay here and be killed?" he cried.

The hunchback, his iron will unmoved by the imminent peril, answered in a perfectly even tone,

"None of the guns have moved."

Harsh and wild, the air overhead screamed like a living thing. Men dropped on every side. The road of flight was a shambles.

"Won't they even try to save the guns?" gasped the boy, battling with panic.

"Second round!" remarked the battery commander, as calmly as though on maneuvers.

"A man!" declared Croquier admiringly, under his breath.

"But everything's lost!" gasped Horace.

"Is it?" said the hunchback.

"In echelon!" came the order, followed by correction and range for each gun.

"Eight hundred and fifty!"

"... and fifty!"

"Fire!"

The battery had scarcely fired, the first shell was but half-way on its mission of revenge, when, as though at a signal, a dozen other batteries replied.

A cloud of men in iron-gray uniforms topped the hill, met the concentrated fire of those batteries of seventy-fives and melted into a gray carpet on the earth which would never stir again.

Sweeping up through the scattered and broken troops, as jaunty and full of fight as though they had not been marching for hours and had not encountered the débris of a defeat, came the French reserves. They cheered as they passed the battery.

"Back us up!" they cried.

"Third round," said the battery commander.

The guns roared again, and under their fire, the Germans broke and fled, deserting some of their guns. As they wavered and gave way, the French cavalry, who had been waiting their chance, charged down and cleared the hillside of the last invader.

"Cease firing!" came the order.

The gunners threw themselves down on the grass to rest.

Then, from the rear, came a new sound, a whip-likecrackle, of little sharp explosions, rapidly coming nearer.

"That's a queer machine-gun," said one of the gunners, listening.

"It's not a gun," put in Horace, whose composure had begun to return when the cavalry made their triumphant dash, "it's a motor-cycle. I used to ride one in Beaufays."

The dispatch-rider whizzed by on the road below. The men watched him, and, ignoring their own dangers, one of the gunners remarked,

"It takes a hero or a fool to risk his neck in that part of the work!"

A dragoon galloped up with orders for the officers of the battery.

"Limber up!"

Instantly all was excitement. The gun was to take up a new position. The German infantry rush had failed, but the artillery halted not its tempest of shell.

Three of the horses had been killed. This left only five for the gun. They strained at their collars, but the wheels had sunk in the soft soil.

The shrapnel whined murderously. Another horse fell.

"Peste!" cried the hunchback.

He thrust the cage into Horace's hands, ran up to the wheels of the gun, where two gunners were lifting, shouldered the men aside, stooped and put his tremendous strength into the heave and the gun jerked forward.

"Hey, but you are strong!" said the sergeant.

"But yes," the hunchback replied, "I am almost as good as a horse."

The guns moved off at a sharp trot.

Horace and the hunchback jumped on the rear of the ammunition wagon. They had not gone a hundred yards when a shrapnel bullet struck one of the gun-drivers in the head and he fell.

The horses commenced to plunge.

There was a moment's confusion, and, before any one could say a word, Horace had dropped from the wagon, run forward to the gun and leapt on the plunging horse. Old memories of the ranch came back to him and the rearing animal quieted at once.

The gun-team trotted on.

The keen eye of the major caught the strange figure on the horse.

"Where do you come from, boy?"

Horace saluted, trying hard to do it with military precision, and explained.

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