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The Second Lieutenants went in search of the "Company Cookers" to "draw"
their tea (in a washing jug), while the Senior Subaltern effected a
felonious entry into the room allotted to the General, and purloined all
the drinking glasses he could lay hands on, making his departure just as
that worthy Officer was coming up the stairs.

The house was evidently of the "nouveau riche" type. If there was in it
nothing that could actually offend the eye, there was certainly nothing
to satisfy it. There was a profusion of gilt mirrors, and an aching lack
of pictures: the lighting was too new and glaring: the upholstery too
flimsy. But there were baths and soap! It was too late for the baths,
but the soap quickly disappeared.

Just when they were settling themselves drowsily to enjoy a real sleep,
free from the fear of a morning attack, protected from the damp of dawn,
and with quilts of down to cover them, who should come in but the
Colonel!




CHAPTER XIV

THE OCCUPATION OF VILLIERS


"I'm sorry," he said, "but we've got to parade at two in the morning."

As soon as the door had closed behind him a perfect volley of abuse was
heard. They could not dismiss from their minds the thought that all this
sort of thing was unnecessary. And this was very natural, as no one had
had sufficient courage to tell the regimental officer how serious the
position was.

Even two hours' sleep, however, is better than none.

As soon as it became light the Subaltern saw that they were
counter-marching along the same road on which they had travelled the
previous night. What did this mean? Was a stand going to be made at
last? Apparently not, for the resting-place of last afternoon was
passed, and they continued to move eastwards. On consulting the map, he
judged that they were marching on Meaux on the Aisne. He had often read
of Meaux; was it not the Bishopric of Bossuet, the stately orator of
Louis XIV? The interest he felt in the question helped to take the
weight from his weary limbs.

At last they crossed the bridge. Sappers had been at work on it for some
time, and the preparations to blow it up after they had passed were
almost complete. The first sight of interest was the railway station,
which was filled with what appeared to the Subaltern to be double-decked
trains. Evidently a French army had detrained here.

The Column swung suddenly round a corner and they were almost staggered
with the sight of the cathedral towering above them. To an eye used
exclusively to the sight of the dour British edifice, there is something
very fascinating about a foreign cathedral such as this. There is
something more daring about the style of architecture, something more
flamboyant, and yet more solid. The cathedral seemed vaguely indicative
of the past grandeur of the Catholic Church. Bathed in the early morning
sunlight it appeared to exult over the mean smallness of the houses that
clustered at its feet.

Beyond the cathedral there is nothing at all extraordinary about Meaux.
Many months afterwards one of his nurses told him in hospital that she
had spent a long time in that very street. She had been with her father,
the erstwhile Colonel of a line regiment, and a specialist in strategy,
who for the pure love of the thing had laboriously gained permission to
stay at Meaux and visit the famous battlefields of the Marne. She said
they had been in the very room where General Joffre met Field-Marshal
French, and had bought the very teapot in which their tea was brewed.
She rather wondered how many more of these "very" teapots had been sold
at fancy prices!

If Von Kluck made a forward thrust at Paris before his sidelong movement
to the south-east, it was undoubtedly made at Meaux, which was the scene
of some terrific combats.

Emerging from the town, the Column branched off in a south-easterly
direction, and ascended the sides of a very steep plateau. Having
reached the flat ground at the top, a midday halt was made in the
pleasant grounds of yet another chateau.

This fresh move was discussed a great deal as the men lay at full length
in the shade of the trees. Evidently there was to be no siege of Paris.
They were marching directly away from Paris. What did it mean? They
would get to Marseilles in a fortnight at this rate, and then the only
thing to do would be to wire for the Fleet, and be taken safely home to
their mammas!

The march went on through the stifling heat of the afternoon, and the
Subaltern knew that he, and most of the men as well, were feeling about
as bad as it is possible to feel without fainting. They marched through
a very dense wood, and then out once more into the open. Even the
longest day has its ending, and at last they found themselves halted in
the usual lines of companies in the usual stubble field. A Taube flew
overhead and all sorts of fire were concentrated on it.

It was already sunset. After the edge, as it were, had been taken off
his exhaustion, the Subaltern extracted the before-mentioned piece of
soap, and having, as usual, scraped it ready for action, washed his feet
in a little stream. He did it under the impression that marching for
that day was over. It is very comfortable to wash your hot, tired feet
in a cool stream provided there is no necessity to put your boots on
again. If something happens that forces you to do this, you are in for a
hard and painful job. You would not believe it possible for feet to
swell like yours have swelled. They do not seem like your own feet at
all. They have expanded past recognition, and their tenderness surpasses
thought.

The Subaltern was sitting by the stream edge gazing at the flush of
golden light in the west, when he was awakened by the Major.

"Well, young feller, I've been looking everywhere for you. You've got to
take your Platoon out to this village, Villiers, and occupy it till
further orders--a sort of outpost position--you will be too far from the
main body to establish touch; you have really just to block the roads,
and if you are rushed, retire here the best way you can."

Having made sure of the position on the map, and asked for a couple of
cyclists to accompany him, the Subaltern began to put on his boots. But
they would not go on. It was like trying to get a baby's boots on to a
giant's feet, and the more he tugged the more it hurt. The precious
moments of daylight would soon be gone, and in the dark it would be ten
times more difficult to find the village and block the roads. There was
nothing for it but to cut the boots, so, unwrapping a fresh Gillette
blade, he made a large V-shaped gash in the top part of each. It was
annoying to have to spoil good boots, and in addition his feet would get
wet far sooner than hitherto.

All superfluous articles of weight had long since been thrown away, and
consequently he had nothing except matches with which to read his map in
the dark and windy night. The difficulty was increased by the fact that
the way lay across small tracks which were almost impossible to
distinguish, but eventually, more by luck than judgment, he brought his
men into a village. Was it Villiers? It took him some time to find out.
There were plenty of people in the village street, but the Subaltern
could not get coherent speech out of any one of them. Fear makes an
uneducated Englishman suspicious, quickwitted and surly. It drives the
French peasant absolutely mad. That village street seemed to have less
sense, less fortitude, less coolness than a duck-run invaded by a
terrier. The Subaltern caught a man by the arm and pushed him into a
doorway.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est, le nom de cette village?" he said, with as much
insistence and coolness as he could muster. The poor fellow broke into a
tirade in which his desire to cut German throats, his peculiarly
unfortunate circumstances, and his wish to get away literally tripped
over each other.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est, le nom de cette village?" Followed a flood of
words apparently about the village. A third time. "Qu'est-ce que c'est,
le nom de cette village?" At last: "Ah, M'sieur, Villiers," with an air
of surprise, as if he thought the Subaltern had known all the time, and
had asked merely to start a polite conversation.

He let the man go, and turned his attention to the village street, which
presented a terrible spectacle of panic. It was obviously unwise to
allow this mob to leave the village, as they seemed to wish, and
disperse, shouting and shrieking, over the countryside. Very possibly
there were spies amongst them, who would bring the enemy about his ears
in half an hour. More likely still, the whole excited crowd would wander
straight into the arms of the Germans, and be treated with the
well-known restraint of Huns towards the unprotected. So he hurriedly
placed guards at the chief outlets of the village, with orders, in
addition to the usual duties towards the enemy, to prevent the French
from leaving it.

He then returned and tried to pacify the inhabitants. But his kind,
soothing words in execrable French did not succeed in dispelling the
panic and fear. He had to draw his sword (for the purpose of
intimidation only) and literally to thrust them into houses. And he had
to get three men with fixed bayonets to help him. He did his best to
make it generally understood that any one who came out of his house and
made a noise would be summarily disposed of. Any sounds of confusion
would inevitably have drawn the fatal attentions of the enemy.

He then made a hurried survey of the roads leading out of the village,
placed sentry groups at various places of advantage, and established the
picket in the centre of the village in a large barn. This done, he sent
the cyclist orderly to try and get into touch with the village on the
right, which, he had been told, was to be occupied by a platoon from
another regiment. The cyclist returned to report that the village was
deserted by the French, and that there was no sign of the Blankshires.
Evidently the O.C. Platoon had not been so fortunate in finding his way
in the dark.

Dawn broke, and the expected order to retire did not come. The men slept
on, intent on snatching as many moments of precious sleep as possible.

Still no orders came. At about eight o'clock the Subaltern finally
awoke, and went the rounds of his groups. There was nothing to report,
all had been quiet.

When he got back he found that the men had collected quite a good number
of eggs from abandoned farmyards, had lighted a fire, and were busy
making a sort of stew out of bully beef and swedes, and (he strongly
suspected) a stolen chicken. As no orders came still, when he had
finished his breakfast, he lay down in the shade of an apple tree and
continued his sleep. He woke up later, at about midday, and ate the
remainder of his rations, and then fell asleep once more.

* * * * *

He was awakened by the Major. It was about four o'clock, and the
remainder of the Brigade was already on the move. The posts guarding the
roads were hastily drawn in, and his Platoon took its place in the
Company as the Battalion marched by.

He felt extremely pleased with the whole adventure of Villiers. It was
the first and only time that he had had a completely detached command.
He had felt the intoxication of undisputed authority; there had been a
subtle pleasure in the thought that, as far as help or supervision were
concerned, he was absolutely alone and that the responsibility for
anything that might happen hung exclusively on his shoulders. The whole
day had seemed like a Sunday to him--the first real Sunday since ages
and ages ago he had left England, the easy land of peace.

There had been an air of quietness about that afternoon which is
peculiar to Sundays, and he congratulated himself on the hours of sleep
that he had been able to put in.

From his own point of view the whole war began to seem like an organised
campaign of things in general to hustle him about in the heat until he
died from want of sleep!




CHAPTER XV

THE LAST LAP


On every side the results of long marches were only too plain. Spirits
were damped. There were fewer songs, and no jokes. The men were not by
any means "downhearted," and would rather have died than admit that they
were depressed, but the brightness was all rubbed off, and a moroseness,
a dense, too-tired-to-worry taciturnity had set in that was almost
bullet-proof.

Although the familiar sounds of artillery boomed away quite close to
them they were not deployed, and when it was dark they bivouacked along
the side of the road.

That night the Colonel addressed the Officers at some length. "The old
man" always had an impressive way of speaking, and darkness and
overwrought nerves doubtless magnified this. He spoke in subdued tones,
as if awed by the intense silence of the night.

We all could tell where we were, he said--a few miles east, or even
south-east by east of the French Capital. Our base, Havre, lay to the
north-west, with the enemy in between. It was unnecessary to say
anything further. The facts spoke for themselves. The British Army was
up against it, none could tell what would happen next. One duty,
however, was self-evident, and that was to watch the food-supply.

Things were going to be serious. Henceforward the army was to be on half
rations, and he knew what that meant. He had been on "half rations" in
the South African War, and he had seen a man give a franc for a dirty
biscuit, and he knew what it was for soldiers on active service to be
hungry. He ordered us, he begged and prayed them, to spare no energy in
stopping waste of any description, and making their men realise the
gravity of the position. No Officer was in future to draw any rations
from the Company Cookers, and the Mess Sergeant had somehow procured and
victualed a mess-cart.

That night must have been the most fateful night in the history of
France. All the world was watching with bated breath, watching to see
whether France was really a "back number"--whether the Prussian was
truly the salt of the earth. If Paris fell, the French Armies in the
field were cut off from their base; defeat was certain, and the national
history of France, or, at any rate, the glory of it, would be stamped
out for ever under the Kaiser's heel. The fate of France was in the
balance, and also the fate of the Russian Armies. If Paris fell, Europe
might be as much the slave of Prussia as it had been a century ago of
Napoleon. As for England, if her Fleet could master the German, well
and good. But, if not....

It looked as if the enemy were within an ace of victory. He had flooded
Belgium and Luxembourg with his armies, and, at the first clash of arms,
had hurled everything before him in a manner which to the civilian must
have appeared terrible in its completeness. Several times had the
defenders apparently attempted to stand, and as many times had they been
hurled with even greater violence southwards. And now, before the
campaign was a month old, the enemy were within an ace of the most
complete victory of modern times. Many men will never forget that
night--men on either side with high commands.

How the Kaiser must have chuckled when the French Cabinet left for
Bordeaux! Bombastic phrases were perchance chasing themselves through
his perverted mind. How fine he would look at Versailles, strutting
about the Hall of Victories. He would sleep in the bed of the "Grand
Monarque"--and in Les Invalides how he would smile at the tomb of
Napoleon! Perhaps his statesmen were that very night drafting the terms
of peace that a crushed adversary would be only too thankful to accept.
His day had come at last! Henceforward how he would laugh at Democracy
and Socialism. He would show them that he was master. The best weapon in
all the world was sudden, bloody war. He would show his people that he
was their Master, their Salvation, their War Lord. He was the greatest
man in history, so he thought that night.

There may come a time when he will realise that, after all, he was only
the most contemptible and pitiable. But that is by the way.

His Generals could not have been so sure. They must have seen the
exhaustion of their men. Von Kluck must have already felt the weight of
the army, rushed out of Paris by General Gallieni, that threatened to
envelop his right flank. Von Heeringen must have realised that the
offensive was being wrenched from his grasp. And the Crown Prince was
throwing himself in vain upon the forts of Verdun and Nancy.

That night, too, somewhere behind the French lines, a man of very
different stamp from the Kaiser was putting the final touches to the
preparations of the greatest counter-attack in History. He knew that the
enemy had literally overstepped his lines of communications, was
exhausted, and nervous of failure so far from his bases. He knew that as
long as de Castelnau clung on to the heights around Verdun, his centre
and left were safely hinged upon a fortress under cover of which he
could launch his counter-offensive with all the weight of his now
completely mobilised reinforcements. Moreover, the army that had hurried
pell-mell from Paris in taxicabs, in carts, in any form of conveyance
that the authorities could lay hands upon, was now completely
established on the left of the British, and if Von Kluck, lured on by
the prize of Paris, pushed on, he would be outnumbered on his front and
very seriously menaced on his right, and disaster would be certain.

Not that the Subaltern knew or cared much for these things. He and his
men were past caring. Continuous retreat had first evoked surprise, then
resentment, then, as fatigue began to grip them like a vice, a kind of
dull apathy. He felt he would not have cared whatever happened. The
finer emotions of sorrow or hope or happiness were drugged to
insensibility. With the exception of odd moments when, absolutely
causelessly, wild anger and ungovernable rage took possession of him and
seemed to make his blood boil and seethe, he seemed to be degenerating
into the state of mind commonly attributed to the dumb beasts of the
field--indifferent to everything in the wide world except food and
sleep.

That night a draft commanded by one Subaltern arrived to fill up the
gaps.

The next day the retreat continued. The men's nerves were tried to
breaking-point, and a little detail, small and of no consequence in
itself, opened the lock, as it were, to a perfect river of growing anger
and discontent.

This was how it happened. The Colonel had repeated the previous night
the order about looting, and the men were under the impression that if
any of them took so much as a green apple he would be liable to "death
or some such less punishment as the Act shall provide." They talk about
it and grumble, and then suddenly, without any warning except a
clucking and scratching, the Mess Sergeant is seen by the greater part
of the Battalion to issue triumphantly from a farm gate with two or
three fat hens under his arms. Smiling broadly, totally ignorant of the
enormity of his conduct, he deposits his load in the mess-cart drawn up
to receive the loot!

The men did not let the opportunity slip by without giving vent to a lot
of criticism.

The Subaltern's ears tingled at the remarks that he heard. Never in his
life had he felt so ridiculous.

Luckily, another similar incident relieved the situation, shortly
afterwards. During a few minutes' halt, a cow near the road stood
gazing, with that apathetic interest peculiar to cows, at the thirsty
men. It was not for nothing, as the French say, that one of the
reservists had been a farm hand. He went up to the cow, unfastening his
empty water-bottle as he went, and calmly leant down and began to milk
the neglected animal until his bottle was full. It was not in itself a
funny proceeding, but there was something about the calmness of both the
cow and the man, and something about the queerness of the occasion, that
appealed to the sense of humour of the dourest old Puritan of them all.
They laughed, they roared, they shouted, in a way that reminded the
Subaltern of the last "soccer" season.

The noise must have mystified the pursuing Uhlans not a little.

But the laugh did not last long on their lips. Directly afterwards they
swung into a road already occupied by a train of refugees. After the
sight of a good strong man struck down in his strength, this, perhaps,
was the saddest sight of the whole war. How miserable they were, these
helpless, hopeless people, trailing sadly along the road, the majority
with all they had saved from the wreckage of their homes tied in a
sheet, and carried on their backs. Some were leading a cow, others
riding a horse, a few were in oxen-driven wagons. They looked as if they
had lost faith in everything, even in God. They had the air of people
calmly trying to realise the magnitude of the calamity which had
befallen them, and failing.

Here and there the Subaltern thought he saw a gleam of reproach in their
faces. It hurt him not a little. Only a few days ago the British had
been advancing, as they thought, to certain victory. All had been
sunshine, or at any rate hope. How the villagers had shouted and cheered
them! How the women had wept with sheer joy, and shy young girls had
thrust flowers into their buttonholes! What heroes they had felt
swinging forward to meet the enemy, to defend the homes of their friends
and Allies, and avenge their wrongs!

The role had been melodramatic, superb! But here they were, skirting the
very gates of Paris, apparently fleeing before the enemy, and this
without having made any very determined effort at resistance. Poor
protectors they must have looked! Those simple peasants would not
understand the efficacy, the necessity even, of running away "to live
and fight another day," with a greater chance of success.

The Subaltern often used to wonder what the poor wretches thought of
troops, which, though in possession of arms and ammunition, still
retreated--always retreated. They could not understand.

The march came to an end about one o'clock. A halt of half-an-hour for
dinner was ordered in the shade of some huge trees in a park. The
mess-cart and Cookers arrived, and a meal was soon in progress. The
Regimental Officer of what is now referred to as the "Old Army" was
perhaps the best-mannered man one could possibly meet. His training in
the Mess made him so. He was the sort of man who would not have done
anything which so much as even suggested rudeness or greed. He was as
scrupulous of his Mess Rules as a Roman Catholic Priest is of his
conduct at High Mass. To the newly-joined Subaltern, Guest Night
conveyed the holy impression of a religious rite. But here was a comic
demonstration of the fact that the strictest training is only, after
all, a veneer. Two Senior Officers were actually squabbling about a
quarter-pound tin of marmalade! The Subaltern could not help smiling.
The incident merely showed how raw and jagged the Great Retreat had left
the nerves of those who survived it.

An hour's halt passed only too soon, and its later moments were made
uneasy by the instinctive aversion which every one felt for the sound of
the whistles that would mark the end of it. The Battalion, however, had
no sooner swung into the road, than the Colonel, who had been reading a
message with an expression of surprise, held up his hand to signal the
halt. The moment was historic. Although none knew, it was the end of the
Great Retreat.




CHAPTER XVI

THE TURN OF THE TIDE


The next day the Battalion linked up with the Brigade, and instead of
proceeding in the usual direction--southwards--they turned to the north.

There was a great deal of subdued excitement. They were not going to
move off for a precious hour or so, and, as "battle seemed imminent,"
the Subaltern did his best to make up the "deficiencies" in his
equipment.

Another Subaltern lay stricken with dysentery in one of the regimental
wagons, and he "borrowed" his revolver and ammunition. Apart from the
fact that the poor fellow was in too great pain to dispute the robbery,
he declared with embellishments that he never wanted to see the ----
thing again. "Take it, and be ---- to it!" he said.

Curiously enough, the Subaltern was able to stick to the loan through
all the troubles that followed, and was eventually able to return it to
its owner, met casually in the London Hippodrome, months later.

Soon afterwards, when they were marching through a village called
Chaumes, he learnt that in the forthcoming battle they were to be in
General Reserve, and this relieved the nervous tension for the moment.
There was a feeling that a great chance of distinguished service was
lost, but as the General Reserves are usually flung into the fight
towards its concluding stages, he did not worry on that score.

The four Regiments of the Brigade were massed in very close formation in
a large orchard, ready to move at a moment's notice. There they lay all
day, sleeping with their rifles in their hands, or lying flat on their
backs gazing at the intense blue of the sky overhead.

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