Told in Gallant Deeds

CHAPTER IV THE BATTLE OF MONS

On Sunday, August 23, 1914, there was fought what will rank as one of the great Battles of the Ages. For on that Sunday the whole flower of the German Army, including the pick of their famous cavalry, was hurled against the British Army in the proportion of six to one!

I had hoped not to sully with the Kaiser’s now notorious address to his troops the pages of a book in which were to be recorded only gallant deeds. But 87alone it explains the strong preponderance of numbers at the Battle of Mons.

This is what the German Emperor evidently thought to be an inspiring and dignified message to his generals. I must tell you it was issued on August 19, that is, only four days before our first contact with the enemy:

“It is my Royal and Imperial command that you concentrate your energies, for the immediate present, upon one single purpose, and that is that you address all your skill and all the valour of my soldiers to exterminate first the treacherous English and walk over General French’s contemptible little army.”

How hard the Kaiser’s legions tried to obey his commands you will shortly see. Also how completely they failed, and that although, as I must again remind you, the great outstanding feature of the Battle of Mons was the overwhelming number of the enemy compared to our forces.

The simplest and most homely account often brings a fact more truly home to us than any fine language would do, and I doubt if we shall ever read a more vivid picture 88of the opening of this terrific fight than the following passage in a letter written by a young British soldier to his father, who is a gardener: “You complained last summer, Dad, of the swarm of wasps that destroyed your fruit. That will give you an idea of how the Germans came for us!”

Yet another who took part in this terrific battle, wrote: “It looked as if we were going to be snowed under! The mass of men who came on was an avalanche, and everyone of us must have been trodden to death, if not killed by shells or bullets, had not our infantry charged into them on the left wing, not 500 yards from the trench I was in.”

A non-commissioned officer also shows how our side was outnumbered: “No regiment ever fought harder than we did, and no regiment has ever had better officers; they went shoulder to shoulder with their men. But you cannot expect impossibilities, no matter how brave the boys are, when one is fighting forces twenty to thirty times as strong.”

Everyone of the great battles in the world’s history has some outstanding heroic action to its credit. The 89heroes of Mons were British cavalry, for the 9th Lancers made there a charge every whit as gallant and glorious as the famous Charge of the Light Brigade.

A German battery of ten guns had been posted inside a wood, each gun having been skilfully made to look like a small haystack, which caused the British to approach them unsuspectingly. When the guns opened fire, terrible havoc was caused in our ranks, and it seemed impossible to silence them.

It was then that the 9th Lancers made their splendid charge.

The whole regiment rode straight at the German battery, cut down all the gunners, and put the guns out of action. As was the case in the Charge of the Light Brigade they lost more men as they rode back than on their way in.

I think the best account of this wonderful cavalry charge was written by one who was wounded in it. “We were flying at one another as hard as the horses could go. It was a charge such as you see in a picture, every man hoping he would not get his knees crushed by the fellows on each side of him.” Does not that remind you of Sir Walter Scott’s splendid lines?

There were at least two Frenchmen in this historic charge. The Vicomte de Vauvineux, a French cavalry officer, who rode with the brigade as interpreter, was killed instantly—a gallant officer whose death many in England mourned. Captain Letourey, the French master at Blundell’s School in Devon, rode by the side of de Vauvineux, but escaped death as by a miracle. His horse was shot under him, but he caught another, riderless, and rode off unscathed.

While the bulk of the brigade swerved to the right, riding for a hundred yards across the face of the machine guns, a few rode desperately on, bearing charmed lives. But only for a few yards. The trap, baited by the desultory fire of the artillery, was complete. Wire entanglements were buried in the grass thirty yards in front of the guns. Riding full tilt into these, the few who kept their line to the guns fell, and were made prisoners.

Of the 9th Lancers, not more than forty gathered 91that night in a village hard by. Others came in next day, and finally some two hundred and twenty in all mustered out of the entire regiment.

A trooper of the 9th Lancers in writing home mentioned a fact which I thought very touching, and the admission of which showed that he was really a brave man. He said that when going into action he found himself crying out “Mother!” “Mother!” and then suddenly he felt courage, as he strikingly put it, “loom” up in him.

I think, without boasting, we may say that it is characteristic of both armies that whereas the German soldiers are played into action by a band, the British march into action singing. During the present campaign they seem to have preferred “It’s a long way to Tipperary,” and it is on record that an Irish regiment sang that stirring old song “God save Ireland.” The Manchester Regiment sing “Killaloe,” the Rifle Brigade are fond of that fine old ballad “Colonel Coote Manningham’s a very good man.” The Fusiliers have their own song, “Fighting with the Royal Fusiliers.”

We must not allow ourselves to forget that other regiments of our cavalry were also engaged in this 92great battle, among them the 18th Hussars and the 4th Dragoons, who performed noble feats of valour and suffered severely.

Another historic “scrap” was that between a regiment of Irish infantry and three regiments of German cavalry splendidly horsed, equipped, and armed. The Irishmen, who had been joking and smoking, rose up to meet the oncoming rush of horsemen, and one who was there said they looked like a bristling bulwark of giants, holding weapons of steel in steel grips.

For a few minutes there was an awful chaos of horses, soldiers grey and soldiers yellow, glittering lances and bayonets, the automatic spit of machine guns, the flashes of musketry. Amidst it all the men in khaki stood steadfast. Grimly and without budging they threw back, at the bayonet’s point, in utter demoralisation, the cavalry of the Kaiser. While they fought they sang “God save Ireland,” and “Whistle to me, said I.”

Martial songs have always had a very great effect on armies taking the field. The British have a great many battle songs. The French have only the “Marseillaise.” The most famous German battle songs are “Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles,” and “Die Wacht am Rhein.” 93The marching song of the troops who fought under Marlborough was “Lillibullero.”

In the American Civil War there were many splendid songs sung by the men going into action, of which perhaps the best known is “John Brown’s body lies a’mouldering in the grave.” It is probable that nowadays, invoking the shade of Lincoln, Americans would swing into battle singing “We are coming, Father Abraham.”

There is a touching story to the effect that on one occasion when the two great opposing armies—the strenuous North and the chivalrous South—were actually only separated by a river, the soldiers on one side began singing “Annie Laurie,” and suddenly the refrain was heard floating over from the other side. Long after the deadly conflict which took place the next day was forgotten, the incident of the song was remembered in both Northern and Southern homes.

The instinctive fear felt and shown by the Germans of our cavalry, and the great deeds of valour performed by them in the Battle of Mons, recalls an exciting incident which occurred in the Indian Mutiny, when what was known as the Volunteer Cavalry, raised by Sir Henry 94Lawrence from among the unattached officers and civilians of Lucknow, did a marvellous feat of arms while on their way to that beleaguered city.

There came a moment when Lawrence saw himself in danger of being surrounded. He gave the order to retreat, a retreat which soon degenerated into a rout. On approaching the Kokral stream which ran across the road to Lucknow, about four hundred rebel cavalry were seen prepared to dispute the passage of the one bridge on which depended the safety of the fugitives. The situation was saved by the Volunteer Cavalry. Without a moment’s hesitation some thirty of them with their commander, Captain Radcliffe, at their head, hurled themselves at the dense mass in their front, and before they could strike a blow the enemy broke and fled, leaving the bridge free. To this splendid charge alone was due the fact that a remnant of the British force finally reached Lucknow in safety.

Let me recall in the same connection another tale of the Mutiny. It was during the night of the 19th of June, when an especially determined attack was made on the British position outside Delhi. Hope Grant, in command of the cavalry, kept back the fiercest attacks of the enemy 95on the rear of the British camp. At last, unhorsed, surrounded by the foe, he must have fallen, had not his sowar, or native orderly, Rooper Khan, ridden up to him saying, “Take my horse, sir, it is your only chance of safety!” Hope Grant refused, but taking a firm grip of the animal’s tail he was dragged by his sowar out of the mass of fighting men.

The British cavalry have been celebrated from the days of Julius Cæsar. In his famous Commentaries, Cæsar remarks of his brave British foes, “They display in battle the speed of horse with the firmness of infantry; and by daily practice and exercise attain to such expertness that they are accustomed, even on a declining and steep place, to check their horses at full speed and manage to turn them in an instant.”

The British cavalryman regards his horse as his friend. It is recorded that after each of the great cavalry charges at Mons the men, though in considerable danger of being “sniped,” went round and shot the poor wounded horses, so that they might be at once put out of their misery.

Those of you who have ponies of your own may like to hear how kindly and tenderly our battle-horses are 96treated. The Army Veterinary Corps, officered by fully trained veterinary surgeons, always accompanies our troops in the field. Immediately after an engagement these officers attend to those horses which are only slightly wounded, and send them along to a horse hospital if it be necessary.

As to what care horses should have on active service, opinions differ curiously. In a letter written by the Duke of Wellington to a cavalry officer, he begged him when in the field not to allow his men to dress their horses’ skins. “You have no conception how much warmth the animals derive from the dust which accumulates in their coats.”

Cavalry horses love the stir and din, even perhaps the danger, of battle. The story goes that one day a milkwoman passing in her cart near where a regiment of cavalry was manœuvring, heard the trumpets sound. Her horse pricked up his ears and started off at full gallop towards the sentries, dragging the cart after it in spite of the poor woman’s efforts. It did not stop till it had joined the ranks!

We will now go back to the Battle of Mons—to the firing line, and to a remarkable act of gallantry performed 97by Captain Grenfell. The tale, as told by a corporal, cannot be improved on:

“The gunners had all been killed by shrapnel, and there were the guns with no one to look after them, and a good chance that the Germans might get them. The horses were safe enough, but there was no one to harness them. Captain Grenfell stepped out. ‘We’ve got to get those guns back,’ he said. ‘Who’s going to volunteer for the job?’ He had a couple of dozen of us before he had finished speaking. Since our chaps have seen him in the firing line, they would go anywhere with him.

“Well, we went out. There were bullets flying all round us and shrapnel bursting all over the place, but Captain Grenfell was as cool as if he was on parade. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘They can’t hit us. Come along!’ We got to the guns all right, hitched up the horses, and brought them back, and only three of our chaps were hit. It’s a wonder the whole lot of us were not wiped out.”

It was later in that same day that this gallant Captain Grenfell was wounded. He got a bullet in the thigh, and a couple of his fingers were hurt. His men brought him back from the firing line and sent for an ambulance 98to take him away, but while they were waiting for the ambulance a motor-car came along. “That’s exactly what I want,” said the Captain. “What’s the use of an ambulance to me? Take me back to the firing line.” And he got into the motor-car and went back, leaving the doctors to make what they liked of it!

Here is another story, of which the hero this time is a cavalry sergeant. This man had been badly wounded three times, but was still going on fighting. Suddenly he heard a corporal shouting to be taken out of the line. Turning round, he bound up his comrade’s wounds, set him on his own horse and sent him back out of the way. Then, regardless of his own condition, he limped along to his regiment, and started fighting again.

And now for a very pathetic little incident.

In the middle of the battle, in a beautiful cornfield from which the men fighting could see all over the country, one of the drivers of a battery was badly wounded. He asked to see the colours before he died. His officer told him that the guns were his colours, and he answered: “Yes, that is true. Tell the drivers to keep their eyes on their guns, for if we lose our guns we lose our colours.”

99These brave drivers have the strongest feeling of affection and loyalty for their guns.

On one occasion, also at Mons, two drivers brought a gun out of action, the shells bursting all round them. They had noticed that the gunners had all been killed, so they walked their horses down to save the gun. One driver held the horses under a fearful fire while the other “limbered up.” The gun was rushed safely back, neither men nor horses being hit. Their comrades, watching them from the trenches, thought it quite impossible for them to escape death, for shot and shell were ploughing the ground up all round them.

So many were the brave, chivalrous, and merciful deeds in this battle that it is difficult to make a choice. I should like, however, to tell you of one such performed by a lieutenant of the “A” Company of the 1st Cheshires, whose nickname is “Winkpop.”

He was shot through his right leg, and on the road some of his men cut off his boots and tried to bandage his wounds. As he rose to his feet, he saw a private in distress about fifteen yards away. Seizing a rifle he hobbled forward and managed to bring him in on his back under a murderous fire from the enemy.

100This gallant deed recalls a splendid act of valour performed by two non-commissioned officers, who were among the first group of V.C. heroes. They were among the very few to return unscathed from the Charge of the Light Brigade. Regardless of their own danger, they remained by one of their wounded officers, and at last, by making a bandy-chair with their arms, they actually brought him in safety to the British lines.

The cool courage of the doctors and of the ambulance men whose duty it is to rescue and then to attend to the wounded must never be lost sight of in what may be called the more showy deeds performed by our soldiers and sailors.

The story you have just read recalls the astonishing coolness and bravery of the man who, I believe, was the first doctor to receive the V.C.—Surgeon Mouat of the Inniskillings. He dressed the wound, under fire, of Captain Morris, of the 17th Lancers, who had just taken part in the Charge of the Light Brigade, thereby saving his patient’s life.

The Middlesex Regiment, who bear the glorious nickname of “The Die Hards,” greatly distinguished themselves 101on those eventful days, August 23 and 24. They were much pleased by a communication received by them, containing a statement by Mr. J. B. Dolphin, British Vice-Consul at Liège, in which the following passage occurred:

“A German general said that he had never dreamt of such magnificent bravery as that displayed by them. The accuracy of their firing was a revelation: their coolness was wonderful, and their trench work splendid.”

As you will see later in this book, “The Die Hards” also distinguished themselves in one of the later battles of the war.

In the first public speech made in England by a British officer wounded at Mons, Captain Buchanan Dunlop, he paid a fine tribute to the French non-combatants, as people who are not soldiers are called in a country at war:

“I think England might get a very good lesson from the inhabitants of France and Belgium. All the way as we proceeded through that country all the inhabitants turned out and did all they could for us. They brought us coffee, bread and butter, cigarettes, and anything they could think of. The ladies even turned out balls 102of string in case the men might find them useful, and handkerchiefs. We advanced up through this country, and then had to retire through it. You can imagine our feelings going back through the same country that we had previously traversed. This did not make the slightest difference to the way we were treated by the inhabitants. They brought us coffee and other things as before.

“Fugitives flying from their homes were eager to give us of the food which they were carrying back for their own consumption. What struck us the whole time was the thought, If this was England? What an awful thing it would be to have an invading army in England, and everything happening here that is now going on in France!”

Captain Buchanan Dunlop also told two splendid little stories to show what pluck and fight our men have in them:

“I was talking to an officer of my own regiment in town yesterday. He was also wounded, and he told me about a fight on Wednesday week when one of his men lying just in front of him under heavy shell fire, turned to him and said: ‘Sir, may I retire?’ ‘Why?’ asked 103the officer. ‘Sir,’ replied the man, ‘I have been hit three times.’”

Here is the other little incident:

“On the very first day we were holding a canal bank, and during the night we had orders to retire, having held off the enemy all day. We were to blow up the bridges. By some mishap a sergeant with ten men was left on the wrong side of that canal with the Germans about two hundred yards in front. We could hear the Germans talking. The next morning, when we called the roll, we expressed sorrow at thinking that this sergeant and his men must have been captured. But in the morning, when they found they were cut off, what did they do? They did not put up their hands, but blazed away at the Germans, with the result that the Germans fled and the sergeant and his men got away.”

The following story shows how many sides there are to a modern battle.

It was at Mons that a fight occurred for the possession of a canal bridge, and a handful of British soldiers held at bay the enemy, who were in force a hundred yards away. The odds were overwhelmingly against our soldiers, 104and the Germans were preparing to rush the bridge, when an engineer sergeant perceived that if the enemy succeeded our men would be cut off.

Urging the men to concentrate their fire on one particular point, this cool, brave man proceeded to dynamite the bridge. But as time was short he could only employ a few inches of fuse. This meant that he went to certain death. Sure enough, he and the bridge blew up together, and as an eye-witness quaintly said, “Another Victoria Cross was saved.”

A young Isle of Wight gunner named Butchers, from the pretty village of Brading, was the hero of a magnificent episode.

A half battery in rather an exposed position was galling the enemy by the accuracy of its aim. Several of the German batteries therefore made a combined attack on it. It was a fight between a David and half-a-dozen Goliaths. One by one its guns were silenced. The men who had been serving them were shot down till at last only Butchers was left. He went on doing his best, working steadily and to all appearance calmly, till an officer called him away.

105One of the first letters received from the fighting line contained the following striking tribute from the writer, a private, to one of his officers:

“You know I have often spoken of Captain ——, and what a fine fellow he was. There was no braver man on the field. He got knocked over early with a piece of a shell, which smashed his leg. He must have been in great pain, but kneeling on one knee he was cheerful and kept saying, ‘My bonnie boys, make sure of your man.’ When he was taken away on the ambulance he shouted, ‘Keep cool and mark your man.’”

You have already heard how splendidly our soldiers were welcomed by the women and children when they landed in France. Well, during the Battle of Mons the French peasant women showed their gratitude in an even more practical way. It was very hot during those hours of fierce fighting, and these valiant women brought water, and luscious cooling fruit, right into our trenches and firing line. “I can assure you they are the bravest souls I have ever met,” wrote a British private to his mother.

During the Battle of Mons the Germans may be credited with having performed at least one act of kindness.

106Lieutenant Irwin, of the South Lancashire Regiment, was wounded by shrapnel at the end of the day’s hard fighting. He lay all night in a turnip field. In the morning some German soldiers discovered him and one of them brought a bundle of hay for Mr. Irwin to lie on till the stretcher came up. He was taken to Valenciennes, and the German commander most kindly allowed him to write home to his friends. There were many French doctors and nurses in this hospital, and the German officers behaved well to them also.

Very different was the experience of Private Charles Baker, of the 20th Hussars.

After being wounded, he was taken into a cottage which had been turned into a temporary hospital and where there were already twenty men, including three Germans, in charge of an English doctor. Suddenly this poor little hospital was raided by a party of fifty Germans, all more or less drunk. Roughly they ordered the British wounded to say where their regiment was, but, as Private Charles Baker wrote home to his people, “Not one of us would give the game away.” Thereupon they were threatened with death, and as Private Baker very honestly remarks: “I can tell you I began to 107shake. I was really afraid then. I thought my number was up!”

Suddenly a most unexpected thing happened. The three wounded Germans implored their comrades to spare the British, pointing out how very kindly they had been treated by the English doctor. So the fifty Germans went off as quickly as they had come in, and the next day the wounded were all moved to another hospital.

Those of you who know anything of the Crimean War are aware what a terrific battle was Inkerman. The British losses at Mons were the highest for any single battle since Inkerman. On the other hand, there were probably ten times greater forces engaged at Mons than at Inkerman, when the numbers on either side were fairly even.

Now one last word as to where this battle was fought.

Very few English people who had not actually been there were familiar with the name of Mons, and yet the town which gave its name to the first big battle of this war, is not only the centre of the French “Black Country,” but it has had a long and romantic history, and was founded by Julius Cæsar.

108A certain King of Spain, to whom Mons once belonged, must have been very like the Kaiser. The latter, as we know, has with magnificent lavishness, bestowed the Prussian V.C., the great decoration of the Iron Cross, on some fifty thousand of his men. This King of Spain was once so pleased with the inhabitants of Mons that he conferred a peerage on every member of the Town Council!

CHAPTER V THE GREAT RETREAT

You will remember that the Battle of Mons was fought on the 23rd of August, a Sunday.

On the Monday the whole world, with the exception of Germany and Austria, heard with dismay that the famous Belgian fort of Namur had fallen, after holding out as long as it could against the great German guns.

Now Namur was in a sense the key to France, so you can understand how very very serious a matter for the Allies, as the French and British forces were henceforth to be called, was the fall of this great fortress. In these days it is rather curious to remember that fourteen British regiments, including the Grenadier Guards, the Scots Guards, the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, the Coldstreams, the 110Royal Irish, and the King’s Own Scottish Borderers, bear the honorary distinction, “Namur, 1695,” upon their colours, for having captured this stronghold two hundred and nineteen years ago.

Through the town of Namur flows the Meuse, a lovely river, shared by France and Belgium, which has already seen some of the hardest fighting of this war.

On the banks of the Meuse, Joan of Arc, as a little girl, must often have played, for in France it laves the village of Domrémy. When it reaches Belgium, this storied river flows by the grave of an extraordinary man who in some ways had certain affinities with Joan of Arc—I mean Peter the Hermit, who is buried in the gardens of the old Abbey of Neufmoustier.

The most beautiful description of the Meuse at Namur was written by William Wordsworth:

Terrible fighting took place over that “smooth meadow-ground,” and at last the fortress surrendered.

Now let me tell you something of a happy and inspiriting nature.

While Namur was falling, the gallant little French fortress of Longwy was holding out against the Germans, and that though it was what is now called a fortress of the second class.

Longwy has always been regarded as of considerable importance, owing to its position on the Franco-German frontier. In the middle of the Great Revolution it was taken by Germans, and its fall very much upset the citizens of Paris. It put up a splendid fight in 1815, and was then besieged for three full months before it fell.

In the Franco-Prussian War it resisted for one week. 112But in this war it held out, against infinitely greater numbers and far more formidable siege artillery than in 1870, for twenty-four days! The enemy congratulated the French officer who had conducted the defence on his bravery and skill.

The fall of Namur forced the Allies back, and it was then that there began the British rearguard movement which was so brilliantly, skilfully, and successfully conducted by Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien that it is considered worthy to rank with the great retreat of Sir John Moore at Corunna.

I should like here to tell you something of the soldier to whom Sir John French paid a grand tribute in his official despatches concerning those first momentous days of the War.

General Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien is a younger son of a family which has given many distinguished soldiers to the Empire, and for generations has held feudal sway over the Scilly Isles. Those of you who know Cornwall may have visited the beautiful tropical gardens surrounding his old home.

Before he obtained his high command in the Expeditionary 113Force, Smith-Dorrien had seen a great deal of fighting, and one likes to quote now what he once said during the South African War:

“Give me a thousand Colonials, men well acquainted with the rifle and expert in horsemanship; let me train them for six months; and I shall then be ready to lead them against an equal number of men drawn from any Continental army with absolute confidence.”

Sir Horace has also had experience with another type of splendid soldier of the Empire; for at one time he commanded the 4th Infantry Division of the Indian Army, which includes some of the finest troops in the native ranks.

During the South African War, Smith-Dorrien performed one of the pluckiest deeds ever done by a British officer.

His brigade was moving forward to take a main Boer position, when two battalions, one of the Gordons and the other of the C.I.V.’s, lost touch. The Gordons, to put it shortly, rushed up the hill at Doornkop with such impetuosity that they got cut off, and the General saw that there was great danger of their being surrounded. Without wasting a moment, and under an awful fire which 114was being kept up by an invisible foe, he galloped straight across the enemy’s front and turned the Highlanders back.

When Smith-Dorrien rode in unscathed, a brother officer protested against the awful risk he had run. “Someone had to stop the Gordons! I couldn’t send anyone else to face that fire, could I?” was his only answer.

It must have been hard for so brave a man to have to organise a retreat, but he knew that it had to be done—and done fighting.

You will have heard of—you may even have known—someone whose name was included in the list sent home after a battle as “missing.”

Now there is something terrible and disturbing in the thought of a man being missing. It makes one feel that anything may have happened to him. But we must always remember that this disturbing word does not necessarily mean that any harm has come to the soldier in question, still less that he is killed. It very often means that he did not hear the order to retreat and so was left behind in the trenches to be taken prisoner by the enemy. Not a pleasant fate, but from the point of view of those 115who love him, better than if he had fallen, as the French proudly put it, on the Field of Honour. Also it is well to remember that the number of the missing, especially in what is called a rearguard action, is always greater than the number of killed or wounded.

A retreat has been well described as disheartening and painful, but in strategy it is an operation like any other. Very often, as in the case of Smith-Dorrien, it is the way to win in the end.

What is strategy? Strategy is another name for arranging your forces like chessmen on a chess-board with the object of winning in the end. Great strategists are born, not made. Cæsar was a great strategist, so was Napoleon, and so was Lord Roberts. Just as a composer can write a piece of music without the help of a piano or any other instrument, so the born strategist can work out the plan of a battle, and even make a shrewd guess as to who is going to win, when sitting in his study with a good map before him.

It may interest you to know that before each of his great battles Napoleon spent the night in his tent studying a number of large maps laid out on the floor. Lying flat on 116his stomach, and with a little stick in his hand, he would work out the dispositions of his troops and of the enemy. When he had made up his mind what was going to happen, down to every detail, he would call in his generals and explain to each of them exactly what he was to do the next day. His generals soon found that though he was not always certain what his own side would do, he could always foresee the plans of the enemy.

I have already spoken of Sir John Moore at Corunna. At the time that great soldier made his famous retreat, he was much criticised, but now all military historians regard it as having been a most wonderful piece of work, if only because it forced Napoleon to alter his whole plan of campaign.

Just as General von Kluck wished to obey the Kaiser and destroy the British Army, so Napoleon was most eager to destroy Sir John Moore’s forces. Fresh from a series of brilliant victories, at the head of a splendid host, Napoleon dashed into Spain, but Sir John Moore, by his masterly retreat, defeated all his plans.

The first of his contemporaries to realise the splendid thing Moore had done was Napoleon himself. While the British commanders—Moore’s own contemporaries and 117even his own friends—were criticising the dead man, for he fell at Corunna, Napoleon was putting on record his unbounded admiration of his foe.

How our gallant soldiers felt when ordered to fall back was graphically described by Private Harman, of the King’s Royal Rifles:

“We did not like the order to retire, for we knew we were doing better than the Germans, and inflicting heavy losses upon them. Our officers also knew we were disappointed. On the fifth day of the retreat—which was the last I was in before being knocked out—our commanding officer came round and spoke to us, saying, ‘Stick it, boys, stick it! To-morrow we shall go the other way and advance.’”

And in time, as we shall see, they did advance, but before that glad moment came they had to retreat, fighting.

Listen to this, written by another private:

“On one occasion seven of us were left to cover a Maxim gun while it was being limbered up to take some other position farther back. We had to take up the position of the gun, and we kept firing rapid so as to make it appear that the Maxim gun was still there. The Germans 118were shelling the position on both sides of us. Then we had to go at the double for about five miles to catch up to the others. It was a hard jog-trot all the way.”

It was during this skilful retreat that there came the first of those wonderful duels in the air which established, as Sir John French so well put it, the personal supremacy of our flying men, and proved that they are quicker and sharper in the air than those of the enemy:

“Our man got above the German, who tried his hardest to escape,” wrote an eye-witness. “The Englishman was firing his revolver, and the German seemed to plane down in good order, but when he got to the ground he was dead.”

Little by little, in some cases not for many weeks, came through stories of the daring and quenchless heroism which illumined the dark night of the great retreat.

A solitary grave, each day strewn with fresh flowers, is the last resting-place of an English soldier who, quite alone, fought his last fight till overwhelmed by numbers.

During the first rearguard action he had strayed from his comrades, and fallen exhausted from fatigue. Unable to find them, he took up his quarters in a deserted carriage. 119Thirty-six hours later the Germans appeared and fired at him. Undeterred by the fact that he was utterly alone, he replied, and such was his determination and accuracy of aim that he accounted for six German officers, one of them a general, before he fell under a volley.

The French from a village near by buried him where he had fought, erected a cross, and in honour of his gallantry, laid fresh flowers each day on his grave.

His name was David M. Kay, and he belonged to the 5th Lancers.

Hearken to another exploit, of which the hero was Corporal Shaw, who for three years was the twelve-stone wrestling champion of the Army in Ireland.

He saw a comrade in difficulty with his horse in the first retirement from Mons. The pack had slipped round to its side, and the rider was endeavouring to straighten it. Shaw dashed up and helped the soldier to straighten the pack. Bullets rained round the plucky champion, one darted into the soft part of his shoulder, another killed one of his comrades near by, but the man he was helping rode off clear.

CHAPTER VI CAMBRAI, LANDRÉCIES, ST. QUENTIN

The first place to which our troops fell back (fighting hard all the way) was Cambrai, where cambric was first made, and where, in days of peace, much exquisitely fine linen is still woven. Cambrai and Le Cateau are practically one, and a very fierce engagement took place there.

121Here I must tell you of a brave Englishwoman who had lived for fifteen years at Le Cateau. She kept a little restaurant, and during these terrible hours when such hard fighting was going on close to the town she went on cooking eggs and bacon for her fellow-countrymen. Both her French friends and the English soldiers begged her to leave the town, but, as only answer, she observed that she wouldn’t move “for all the Germans.”

It is to be hoped that her little house was saved, but the English soldier, who told the story of her pluck, fears that it must have been destroyed.

At the Battle of Cambrai, the charge of the 12th Lancers and Royal Scots Greys is said to have been the equal of anything seen at Waterloo. Indeed finer; for at Waterloo, in one cavalry charge at any rate, the men, after their first success, got out of hand, went too far, and suffered grievously in consequence.

An heroic passage of arms, in which the 2nd Battalion Connaught Rangers were concerned, was splendidly described by a private in a letter home:

“It was understood we were to pass the night at Cambrai, but we got a report that the Germans were 122approaching, and were close on us. Every man was called to stand to arms, and soon the German shells were falling amongst us. Our colonel was a perfect gentleman, and under his gallant lead the Rangers set a bold front. In the midst of the bursting of the German projectiles his clear, stentorian voice rang out: ‘Rangers of Connaught, all eyes are upon you to-night. While you have fists and a heart within you, charge them. If you don’t, never face me in this world nor in the next!’

“Our boys were greatly encouraged by the bravery shown by Colonel Abercrombie. Bayonets were fixed, but at the sight of the steel the enemy turned about. We were, however, completely outnumbered, and in a subsequent attack some of our men, including our brave commander, were taken prisoners.”

It must have been that same night that a brave deed was done for which the hero, had he survived, would surely have been awarded the Victoria Cross.

The British took the offensive against the Germans who were holding a bridge spanning a canal. It was very dark, and when our men reached an embankment running sharply down to the river, several failed to secure a foothold, and fell into the water.

123Four of the men, who were unable to swim, were in imminent danger of drowning, when Corporal Brindall, an excellent swimmer, plunged into the river and rescued all four in turn. He was clambering up the embankment himself, when a German shell exploded near him, killing him instantly.

Even in the stir and din of battle funny and curious little incidents are always taking place.

Take the odd case of Private Joseph Davis, of the Dorset Regiment, a well-known footballer, who, at Cambrai, received a shrapnel bullet in the shoulder.

Now, strange to say, Mr. Davis has tattooed on his chest a gorgeous portrait of Queen Victoria. While he lay wounded on the field of battle, his one dread was that the Germans would see his chest and want to have a dig at the Queen! Happily his fears were not realised.

It was at Cambrai also that another amusing and most unexpected little incident took place.

An English governess who happened to be spending a holiday in a village on the route of our Army rushed for protection to the British lines during a skirmish. For four days she remained with the troops, marching, 124bivouacking, and sheltering during fights, until she was placed on a conveyance which ensured her safe passage to a port.

During her enforced visit to our gallant troops, she was continually exposed to danger, but she maintained an iron indifference to the inconveniences of her situation, and the soldiers met with such good luck in those four days that they came to regard the lady as a mascot, and were genuinely sorry when she departed.

A terrible toll of death was exacted during this awful battle, and as at the Battle of Mons, so many were the gallant and noble deeds that it is difficult to make a choice.

To Lieutenant Noel, a young officer killed in action, the following moving tribute was paid:

“Always cheerful, ever thoughtful for others, the best of companions with the kindest of hearts, Jack Noel endeared himself to all who knew him, and those who were privileged to be called his friends were bound to him by ties far stronger than those of common friendship.”

His death was a singularly heroic one, and in wonderful keeping with what we know of his life. A wounded corporal of his regiment, who was near him when he fell, says that “Lieutenant Noel, despite the fact that he was 125hit in or near his left eye by a shot that broke the half of his field-glasses, promptly picked up his glasses again, and, finding the right half of them still workable, continued to direct the fire of his platoon with his right eye, until a few minutes later he was killed by a shot in his left temple.”

Not the British only fought at Cambrai; deeds of unparalleled valour were done by the French, and also by France’s Arab troops, the Turcos. It was at Cambrai that the Turcos first saw fire. They were singled out, five hundred of them, to do a desperate piece of work on which the fate of thousands of men depended.

Straining as if at a leash, they waited for the order to advance. At last it came. They swung round and faced the foe. Onward they went, right up to the guns, and against what seemed to be an impregnable line of trenches.

Of the five hundred, only twelve survived; of the twelve, only one was unwounded. But the enemy’s guns were silenced, and the Germans had fled from their trenches. The men who fell were buried shoulder to shoulder as they fought.

The French peasant women, as we have seen, are wonderfully brave in the matter of going under fire. 126One of these showed herself possessed of a quieter type of courage, but courage nevertheless, during the retreat. Hear the tale as told by a British officer:

“After the Battle of Mons we were billeted at a large farmhouse, the occupants of which did not seem very pleased to see us. We had not touched any eatables for several hours, and I made the housewife understand that we wanted some food. She looked at us in a way which was not altogether an expression of friendliness, and, pointing at the table, round which a number of workingmen were gathered, to whom she was serving their meals, she said, ‘Après les ouvriers.’—‘After my work-people.’

“We waited patiently till the men had finished their meal, and then asked once more for food. But the woman merely remarked, ‘Après nous.’ ‘After us.’ And she and her husband subsequently prepared to eat their supper. It is rather trying to see somebody making an attack on a hearty meal while one has not tasted any food for a long time. So I demanded, in the name of the King, that we should be supplied with foodstuff immediately, the more so that the woman seemed so unwilling to grant our wishes. The only answer she made was that, if we were in want of food, we should have to look for it ourselves and try to prepare it.

127“The situation was rather awkward, and I was wondering why these French peasantry were so extremely unkind towards British soldiers!

“Suddenly it entered my mind that perhaps she thought we were Germans! At the same time I had something like a happy thought in order to prove that we were not. One of our men, a tall, heavy chap, who was still outside the house, was ordered to substitute a German helmet for his own cap, and to knock at the door. He did, the door was opened, we dashed forward, and made ‘the German’ a prisoner.

“The whole scene changed all of a sudden. The whole family embraced us, almost choked us. Food and wine and dainties were supplied at once, and we had a most glorious time.”

August 26, a Wednesday, saw perhaps the fiercest hand-to-hand fighting which had yet taken place. All day our gallant men fought at Landrécies against fearful odds. There two companies of the Coldstream Guards held 3000 Germans at bay for four hours. Lieut. Percy Wyndham (a direct descendant of the great Irish rebel-hero, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and of his wife, the lovely Frenchwoman who lives in romance under the name of 128Pamela) stood up and fired a hundred rounds from his revolver so that his men could form up quietly behind him. He then shouted out to them: “Fall in, and die like Coldstreams!” This gallant young soldier fell in action a week later at Soissons.

Listen to the heroic end of yet another officer of the Coldstreams. Lieutenant Allan William George Campbell lost his life through a successful attempt to rescue a comrade who was in a worse plight than himself. He had already been wounded, when he noticed Captain Tollemache fall. Together with Colonel Ponsonby he went out and carried Captain Tollemache over a mile under fire to a position of safety; but while he was doing so, he was again terribly wounded, and he only lived a few days.

We get a touching glimpse of Lieut. G. C. Wynn, killed in action at Landrécies, in a letter from one of Mr. Wynn’s men, written to the young officer’s father:

“The last day he was alive we had got a cup of tea in the trenches, and we asked him to have one. He said, ‘No, drink it yourselves, you are in want of it’; and then with a smile he added, ‘We have to hold the trenches to-day.’ At Mons we had been fighting all day, and someone brought 129a sack of pears and two loaves of bread. Lieut. Wynn accepted only one pear and a very little bread. We noticed this. I had a small bottle of pickles in my haversack and asked him to have some. But it was the usual answer, ‘You require them yourself!’ He died doing his duty like the officer and gentleman he was.”

In a letter written from hospital after this engagement, a corporal told of how he had been saved from a lingering death on the field:

“They blazed at us from 350 yards, and as fast as we shot one lot down, another came up. At last I got a bit of shell in the calf of my leg. We retired all together. My captain put me on his horse and led it for miles, until we got to a train.”

St. Quentin, with which will ever be associated the name of a terrible battle, one of the three rearguard actions in which our army fought with such splendid bravery and against such fearful odds, is a beautiful old town. It was part of the dowry of Mary Queen of Scots, and all through her long, sad captivity, she still received money from the faithful city.

Long before this great war, St. Quentin saw terrific 130fighting. Spaniards, British, Germans and Flemings there defeated the French, who were led by the brave Coligny and the famous Constable Montmorency. That old Battle of St. Quentin was fought on St. Lawrence’s Day, and it was because he believed that God had helped him to win this victory that the sinister King of Spain, Philip II, built the Escurial, a marvellous Spanish palace formed in the shape of a gridiron.

The great charge of the Black Watch took place at St. Quentin. The men had marched close on eighty miles before word ran through the ranks they were going into action. Unmeasured was their joy! At once they put themselves in good skirmishing order, and, under cover of the guns, got closer and closer to the enemy. Not till they were within a hundred yards of the German lines did they receive the longed for command.

The Black Watch and the Scots Greys charged together. The Scots Greys galloped forward, the Black Watch hanging to their stirrups. On the horses flew through a cloud of bullets, but every sound was drowned by the thunder of the horses’ hoofs as they careered wildly on. Saddles emptied quickly as the charge closed on the German lines, 131and man and horse were on the German gunners before they knew where they were. Down the enemy went in hundreds, and still the deadly work of the bayonet continued. Soon the Germans broke and fled “like rabbits before the shot of a gun.” It is said that there were 2000 British against 20,000 Germans. Close on 4000 prisoners were taken, as well as an immense number of guns.

Many years ago a famous historian of the Scottish Highlands wrote concerning the Highlander words which hold as good to-day as they did in the ’45. “He is taught to consider courage as the most honourable virtue, cowardice the most disgraceful failing; to venerate and obey his chief, and to devote himself to his native country and clan; thus prepared to be a soldier, he is ready to follow wherever honour and duty call him.”

There is a fine little story concerning the men of the Black Watch on their first visit to England. The then King had never seen a Highlander at close quarters, and as he wished to do so, three men who were noted for their dexterity in the broad-sword exercise and with the lochaber axe were sent to St. James’s Palace. So pleased was the King with their performance that he gave them each a guinea, which they in turn gave to the porter of the gate 132as they went out. “Doubtless,” they observed, “the King has mistaken our character and condition in our own country.”

It is interesting to note that it was the gallantry of the Highlanders in covering the retreat of the Allied Forces at Fontenoy which received the special praise of the Commander-in-Chief. Fontenoy was their maiden experience of a foreign foe.

I want you specially to remember what our soldiers in this war have owed to what is called the Army Service Corps. You will recollect my telling you that Napoleon said an army marched on its stomach. All that is necessary for the physical well-being of our men is done quickly, quietly, and very bravely, by the officers and men of the Army Service Corps. Their adventures are often as perilous and exciting as those which befall the fighting soldier. They all have to bear the weight of considerable responsibility and ever-present anxiety. The enemy always does his best to harass, intercept, and, if possible, destroy the food which is on its way to our men. Not food only for the men, but forage for the horses is under the care of this wonderful Corps.

133Never was the triumph of their organisation shown to such advantage as during the fighting retreat with which we are now concerned.

On one occasion the Germans, who, remember, were close on the heels of the British motors and waggons, were particularly anxious to get hold of a train of forty motor lorries stocked with food and ammunition. In addition to these were also several hundred horsed waggons similarly loaded.

At last, when close to St. Quentin, which was to be the next great stand, the men in charge of this huge convoy were informed that the Uhlans were only a mile away. The colonel in command made certain inquiries. To his dismay, he learnt that not only his men but their horses also were so dead tired that they could not go on any more. He, therefore, made up his mind to stay in the little village where they found themselves, and if attacked to put up a stout fight.

Wearied though they were, each was sent with a loaded rifle to a place on the line he was to defend. The waggons were all drawn up in the funny little narrow winding streets which make a French village not unlike an old Scottish town.

134In a very short time everything was in order to receive the enemy.

I have not yet told you much of the fate of ordinary people during a great war, but you can fancy for yourselves how the inhabitants of this village felt when they realised that their home was about to be made into a battle-ground.

The wise colonel of our forces advised that all the village people should go into the church, and there the curé arranged to hold a service. The lady who generally played the organ eagerly gave her services, and soon the English soldiers guarding the convoys were heartened by hearing the sweet singing of French and Latin hymns.

Time went on. The horses got very restless, and a stampede was feared. Had that happened all would have been lost. But it did not happen, and at last day broke. No attack had been delivered, and it was clear that the enemy had gone to the right or left of the village, pressing onward in the belief that the British convoy was ahead.

Yet another exciting incident, which shows the kind of adventures the Army Service Corps takes as being all part of its day’s work.

A convoy had been drawn up some way from the firing line, and in the early morning rations were just about to 135be issued to a brigade of artillery who were going into action at 3 A.M., when the word went forth that the convoy was being quietly surrounded by a troop of German cavalry.

At once it was arranged that if it could not be got away it must be burnt. But before doing that the officers resolved to make a push for it.

Lorries and horses started off at top speed till they got to a railway bridge. There all the transport, with the exception of thirty motor lorries, passed over in safety. Another determined effort was made, and out of the thirty, twenty-eight got over safely. Then the bridge was blown up. A moment later the remaining two lorries were in the hands of the Germans, together with two officers and eight men, who were, we may suppose, taken prisoners.

A wonderful stand was also made by our retreating troops at Tournai, when 700 British soldiers resisted 5000 Uhlans. They stood their ground to a man, till of the 700 less than half remained. Even then there was no panic. Calmly, harassing their pursuers with a murderous fire, “all that was left of them” retreated with the wounded, their convoy intact. As for the guns, though some were lost, many more were put out 136of action. The enemy showed reckless bravery, hurling themselves on to the very muzzles of the British field guns.

A soldier always admires a brave man, no matter what his uniform is. Here is a fine tribute paid by a wounded British artilleryman to the enemy:

“The grandest thing I saw out there was the fight of a handful of good fighting men in German uniforms. These chaps were the last of a regiment to cross a stream under fiendish rifle and artillery fire.

“They were hotly pursued by French cavalry and infantry, and when they saw that it was all up the remnant made for a little hill and gathered round the regimental flag to fight to the last. The French closed round them, and called on them to surrender, but not they! They stood there back to back until the last man went down with the flag in his grasp and a dozen bullet wounds in his body.

“Then the flag was captured by the French, but there was no shouting over the victory, and every soldier who passed that way and knew the story of those brave chaps bared his head to the memory of brave men.”

During the last stage of the great retreat, the British 137fought splendidly at Compiègne. It was there that three non-commissioned officers in the Royal Horse Artillery won the V.C. in recognition of a deed of extraordinary bravery. Taken by surprise by the enemy, the now famous “L” battery fought their guns until only one remained, and the three men who became the V.C. heroes were the sole survivors of the battery working the gun. The story may be briefly told thus:

The battery was waiting for the order to retire; it was limbered up ready to move at a moment’s notice. There was a thick mist, and when it lifted the battery was suddenly subjected to a terrible fire from the ridge which they had supposed to be occupied by the French, but which was now occupied by the Germans. The first burst of fire killed nearly all the horses of the British gun teams, which made it impossible to retire with the guns, so the men, splendidly directed by their commanding officer, Captain Bradbury, unlimbered and began to reply to the German fire. Many of the gunners had been killed during the first few moments. Those remaining coolly replied with such good effect that one by one the German guns were put out of action. So terribly outnumbered were the British gunners that in a short time two out of the three of their guns in action had been 138silenced, and only one remained to defend the position. Officers and men went on serving this one remaining British gun till all were killed or wounded with the exception of three. At last they had put all the German guns out of action but one, and then an exciting duel began, till at last behind the shelter of their gun the three were found by a strong force of cavalry and infantry which had come to their rescue.

CHAPTER VII BATTLES OF MEAUX AND THE MARNE

You all know what it is to be in a hurry. You have all said on some occasion or other, “I must get that done quickly or I shan’t be able to do it at all.” It is an anxious, worrying mood. Well, the Germans, when they started on this war, were one and all of them in that kind of mood. They all knew, from the Kaiser to the humblest soldier, that time was all-important in the French campaign. I think you will guess at once why this was so, but in case you have already 140forgotten, I may remind you that it was owing to the fact that the Germans have to fight in this great war, which they themselves provoked, not only the French and the British, but also the Russians. You know that this was their excuse for breaking their word of honour, and rushing through Belgium. This was also the reason why they made that astonishing, and we must admit, that magnificent rush towards Paris during our retreat from Mons.

But all the time they were pushing forward, deep in the heart of every German soldier there must have echoed the dreaded tramp of the Russian legions. The poet Marvell expressed in exquisite English exactly what the enemy must have been feeling during the whole of the French campaign:

A retreat, in ordinary language, means a falling back. There are, however, many ways of falling back; indeed, as in everything else, there is a right way and a wrong way. Sir John French’s gallant army, and the French forces under General Joffre, accomplished their retreat in 141the right way. Although at the time the enemy was quite unaware of it, everything was done according to a well-thought-out and careful plan; and, as you have seen, while this falling back movement was going on, our retreating army constantly turned, harried, and even forced back the advancing enemy.

The object of the Germans may be told very shortly. It was to reach Paris, to enter that great city in the guise of conquerors, conclude a hasty peace with France, and then rush back by train and motor lorry to fight the Russians. It will interest you to know how and why this plan miscarried.

What I am going to tell you illustrates the soundness of the wise old saying, “Speech is silvern, silence is golden.” Even Paris remained all unknowing of the clever plan formed by the Allies. That great and beautiful city believed herself to be doomed. The awful fate of the inhabitants of Louvain was thought by many Parisians to be the forerunner of what would happen to themselves. The French Government, that is the President and his Ministers, left the capital for the distant town of Bordeaux, and orders were given that all those inhabitants 142of Paris who had babies and little children should leave the city.

Though to the great majority of French people Paris is in a sense the capital of the civilised world, the nation made up its mind to sacrifice this beloved and beautiful city if the good of the country as a whole required it. They did not say anything of their resolve. They simply made it, and waited grimly for the end.

At last the German Army was within a day’s march of Paris. Pretty American girls who had acquaintances among the German officers actually received letters from them arranging to come to tea with them! Every soldier in the great German Army believed that in twenty-four hours he would be comfortably resting in the most luxurious quarters in Europe.

Then suddenly, it will never be known exactly how, but probably through their clever airmen, the enemy’s commanders learnt that, hidden safely in the Palace of Versailles and under the great trees of the park surrounding that palace, was a new French army of fresh troops. Had the Germans penetrated into Paris, this army would have cut off their retreat and caught them, according to the proverbial saying, “like rats in a trap.” So it was 143that, instead of making their triumphal entry into Paris, the rushing, oncoming hosts swerved to one side, and very soon there developed close to Paris the great fights which will live in history under the names of the Battle of Meaux and the Battle of the Marne.

Superior people rather despise those who believe in omens, but sometimes even the holy and the learned find great comfort in them.

The most notable scholars in France belong to the Academy of Inscriptions in Paris. Now, in spite of the fact that war was raging and the enemy close to the gates of their city, these learned men decided to hold their usual monthly meeting. The proceedings opened with the statement that there had just been presented to the Louvre a Greek statue of surpassing charm and interest, the first gift made to the Louvre Museum since the outbreak of the war. After a short pause, the speaker added the words, “Gentlemen, the statue is that of the Winged Victory.” And all these grave old scholars rose to their feet and cheered the omen to the echo!

It was near Meaux that the German Army, commanded by the skilful and resourceful General von Kluck, seems 144to have met quite unexpectedly the large reserves of men—perhaps it is a mistake to call them an army—which had been brought up there by General Joffre. There are certain other notable facts about this battle which make me wish you should specially remember it, and that though its glories were somewhat dimmed by the greater and more important Battle of the Marne.

The Battle of Meaux turned the tide of the first German campaign. By a strange irony of fate, Von Kluck seems to have first got wind of the new French army on September 1. It was on September 2, 1870, that the Battle of Sedan was fought, the French suffering a crushing defeat at the hands of the Germans. The Germans confidently expected to enter Paris again on September 2, 1914, and celebrate there the anniversary of their great triumph. Not only was this confident expectation disappointed, but it was on that very day that they were forced to begin their retreat.

Before I begin to tell you of some of the deeds of valour and heroism performed during these two battles, I should like to tell you one or two interesting things about the town of Meaux.

145Bossuet, who spoke so beautifully that, like St. Chrysostom, he was called “the golden mouthed,” was Archbishop of Meaux; he was also a brave and fearless man, and one of those who leave the world in which they live—in his case, a brilliant, frivolous, selfish world—better than they find it.

The present Bishop of Meaux is a worthy successor to Bossuet. When the Germans entered the town, the bishop was the only man of authority who remained at his post. The Mayor had advised the inhabitants to leave as soon as the Germans drew near. He and the other officials all went. The bishop refused to join them, saying, “My duty is here. I do not think the enemy will harm me, but if they do, God’s will be done. I cannot leave my cathedral. I cannot leave those of my flock who remain.”

When the Germans arrived, the bishop parleyed with their commanding officer and exacted a promise that his men should behave well. And they did. So we may well exclaim, “Bravo, brave bishop!”

In a little town close to Meaux called Château-Thierry, where much fighting took place, was the cheerful home of another Frenchman whose name some of you certainly 146know. I mean La Fontaine, who wrote the delightful animal fables. The hotels of Château-Thierry are very happily and appropriately named: they are called The Elephant, The Giraffe, and The Swan. The poor Giraffe was battered all to bits during the great battle, I am sorry to say, by the shells of the French, who with their help successfully dislodged the Germans. But the owner of the Giraffe is such an unselfish patriot that when showing his wounded house to an English gentleman after the battle, he exclaimed, “See how splendidly true our gunners’ aim was!” pointing out with pride that every single window had been neatly smashed.

I think most of you will envy the two Eton boys who were on a bicycle tour in France when the war broke out, and who, when the tide began to turn, suddenly found themselves in the fighting zone! By luck more than anything else they stumbled on to the French General Staff, and there came across an English officer. Both implored him to help them to get into the French Army, and, amazing to tell, they were both made honorary sub-lieutenants. Soon they were put on the Commission which had the business of examining the villages improperly devastated by the enemy, for sad to say, as soon as the Germans began 147to get the worst of it, they wreaked their vengeance on the innocent inhabitants of the villages and small towns through which they were retreating.

Mean people always suspect others of being as mean as themselves. The Germans believe that the taking of an unfair advantage is quite the right thing to do in war. But in the end these practices recoil on their doers and keep them in a miserable state of constant fear and suspicion.

A worthy French priest and two innocent little boys very nearly fell a victim to the enemy’s terrors. The Germans were having a rest in a village, when their commander noticed that the church clock was stopped. He sent for the priest, and demanded that the clock should be set going again. The curé, accompanied by two of his choir boys, went to wind it up; and as was natural, when once it was wound up it began to strike. The German commander, in a great fright, decided that this was a dodge invented by the curé to warn the French that a number of weary Germans were in his village. At once he had him arrested, and the two little boys as well. Without more ado all three were sentenced to be shot the next morning.

148All three were brave, but we can imagine what a sad night they must have spent, and how especially sad the old priest must have been that, owing to the fact that he had allowed the two lads to accompany him, they were to have their young lives cut short in such a dreadful way. Early in the morning, an hour before they were to have been executed, the news reached the Germans that the French were on them. They rushed out of the village, forgetting all about their captives. Meanwhile, the priest was so convinced that his last hour had come that he himself opened the door of his temporary prison and went to the village green in order to await the firing party, and to make a last appeal to them to spare the two lads. You can imagine his joy when he saw the familiar blue and red uniforms of his fellow-countrymen.

This great war has been illumined by star-like deeds of beautiful, simple humanity, performed, in many cases, by men who were unconscious of their own heroism. One such still shines forth from the Battle of Meaux.

A Scottish regiment was occupying a trench, swept by violent rifle and artillery fire, when two privates noticed that a Frenchman, attached to the battalion as interpreter, occupied the most exposed place in the trench.

149“The Frenchman is awkwardly placed,” observed one of them, “let us widen his trench.”

At once the two Scots, paying no attention to the hail of bullets and shrapnel, set to deepening the trench, after which they calmly went back to their own stations.

I expect some of you will envy a certain French boy named André. He lived in Paris, and on the declaration of war he watched with very mixed feelings his brother and most of the grown-up men he knew start off for the front. In France every man between the ages of eighteen and forty-five is, in time of war, a soldier, ready to defend his dear country to the last drop of his blood.

André was only twelve years old, but when he heard that the enemy was now close to Paris, he decided that he must go and defend his country too. So he suddenly disappeared, leaving a letter which ran:

“I am starting for the war. Don’t worry about me. I have my savings bank money.”

After nearly a fortnight a sunburnt André reappeared in Paris, and told all that had befallen him. It had been quite easy for him to find the army, and the soldiers hadn’t 150had the heart to send him away. Marching with them by day, and sleeping in their bivouacs or billets at night, he stayed with them until the battalion reached Meaux. There the colonel began to ask questions. André’s soldier friends had to confess that they had adopted him as a human mascot. The colonel sent for André, and although at first very angry, soon relaxed into a broad smile, but insisted that the boy’s share in the campaign must now come to an end, and so André went sadly home.

In these days when hundreds of thousands of soldiers are pitted against one another, a battle consists of a number of separate fights, or, as we call them now, engagements. It was in one of these, during this same battle of Meaux, that a perambulator figures in a grand deed of heroism.

The hero of this story is an infantry officer, one who had only just left St. Cyr (the French Sandhurst, and once, funnily enough, the most famous girls’ school in the whole world), and who first went under fire at the Battle of Meaux. Looking round in the thick of the fight he saw his major, who was a very small man, lying severely wounded in a field swept by the fire of the German guns.

There were some houses close by. Into one of these 151Lieutenant Gesrel ran, and he came out wheeling a perambulator. The men lying about him, taking what shelter they could, looked at him in amazement. He wheeled it briskly, but without appearing to hurry, out into the bullet-swept open space, until he came to where the major lay.

The men could hear the wounded officer protest. “Go away,” he said. “Leave me; I shall be all right. It’s madness to expose yourself like that.”

The lieutenant took no heed of this, but picked his major up, put him in the perambulator, and started to wheel it back to the edge of the little wood. At last he reached safety with his precious burden. Then he ran and joined his men in the fight again.

I expect you have heard how, at Fontenoy, the French called out to the British, “Fire first, gentlemen.” But the latter refused to fire, shouting back at once rudely and politely, “No, gentlemen and assassins, you begin!”

This famous exchange of courtesies is recalled by the action of another French lieutenant, who, during a sharp fight which took place round a small railway station near Meaux, pursued a German officer into a locomotive shed, 152and found him under the tender of an engine. The two looked each other up and down, and by tacit agreement took up a duelling position at fifteen paces. “Please fire first,” cried the French officer. The German fired and missed. Then the Frenchman fired and hit.

The last human quality one would naturally associate with war is kindness. Yet it is not too much to say that every great battle, every scene of carnage, is brightened by truly wonderful acts of kindness. By this I do not mean deeds of heroism, the saving of one gallant soldier by a pal, but simple, homely kindness. Such was the following:

Trooper Philippe, of the 2nd Chasseurs, under heavy artillery fire, bullets and shrapnel falling thickly, not only brought his captain in, but after that went back eight times more to take water to the wounded.

A French soldier, wounded in this same battle of Meaux, had with him a dog nestled in his coat while the fighting was going on, as it was apparently terrified at the noise of the firing. The soldier fed it from his rations, and after he was wounded smuggled it in the train which took him to the hospital.

153Our own soldiers have always had a special fondness for dogs. It is said that when a dog once enters barracks he never afterwards seeks to change his quarters.

At Vittoria the Guards made a poodle puppy a prisoner, and it became their pet. At Bidart, when Colonel Ponsonby was encouraging his men to advance, they were delighted to see the poodle jumping and barking, much amused at the bullets which rained round him. Colonel Ponsonby and the poodle were wounded at the same moment, a bullet breaking one of the dog’s legs. He was, however, tenderly nursed, and the rest of his life was happy, although spent on only three legs.

CHAPTER VIII THE BATTLE OF THE AISNE

After the German army had fallen back a long, long way, close on a hundred miles, they suddenly came to a stop, and prepared for a new and desperate stand.

Gradually, those of us who were watching anxiously from far off, learnt what the men at the front knew almost at once; General von Kluck had decided to turn and face his pursuers along the line of the river Aisne. It was an excellent choice. This river, broad and deep, was one of the easiest to defend in the whole of Europe. Moreover, von Kluck was well aware that in days of peace cunning 155Germans, masquerading in many cases as quiet wine merchants, had prepared there a series of almost impregnable trenches. Now the word impregnable means “impossible to take,” and when our officers, later, saw the trenches out of which the Germans had been driven, they declared that our men would have held them for ever!

It was there, in the beautiful country of vineyards and of the low, swelling hills which surround the famous town of Rheims, that began what has come to be known as the Battle of the Aisne.

I expect most of you know the meaning of the word “fortress.” Those of you who don’t will understand it best if I tell you that in old days every castle was a fortress. It was so built with ramparts, battlements, and little narrow windows, that every stone of it could be defended, either by archers with bows and arrows, or with men and guns.

Now the most striking fact about the great Battle of the Aisne, which, beginning on September 10, was to last longer than any previous battle in the history of the world, was that on the German side it was exactly like fortress or castle fighting. I mean that the Germans, with 156a foresight which did credit to their cleverness, had evidently thought it possible, though not probable, that they might be pushed far back, as in fact they were. They had, therefore, prepared long beforehand trenches and quarries which, from a little way off, actually looked like the battlements of a castle. There, snugly hidden behind natural and artificial ramparts, they were able to keep the British troops and those of our ally at bay during many long weary days.

The German trenches were all ready for the enemy to step into them, but every British and French trench had to be dug out and prepared at short notice. This, however, was soon done, and then there began that strange “life in the trenches,” of which so many vivid accounts were written home by officers and privates.

You will certainly want to know what a trench is like. A one-man trench is best described by its other name, “dug-out.” It is a large, neat hole, cut so deeply in the ground that a man can stand upright in it without being seen.

There is a great art in digging a trench. When finished it should be not unlike a tiny cottage room; the floor, 157however, is quite unlike that of a room, for instead of being flat it is slightly sloped, so that any rain that gets in may run away quickly. At the side there is a step, so that the occupier, when he cares to do so, can cautiously raise his head above the ground and look round. The best trenches have a kind of roof or head-cover. This protects the man inside, not only from rain and sun, but also from the awful bullets which come out of the shrapnel shells.

It is interesting to know that the shrapnel shell, which has done such deadly harm in this war both to ourselves and to the enemy, is called after a distinguished English soldier, General Henry Shrapnel, who invented it. On the park gates of the ancestral home of the Shrapnel family near Trowbridge are still to be seen inscribed the names of over twenty battles won with the aid of this shell. Sir George Wood, who commanded the artillery at Waterloo, declared that we owed to shrapnel the recovery of La Haye Sainte, on which part of the battle depended.

As to what trench life was like during the long Battle of the Aisne, it was in some ways like playing at keeping house.

158When I was a little girl I often played at keeping house with my brother, but as we were very fond of soldiers, and lived in a stretch of beautiful country which was very suitable for la petite guerre, as military manœuvres were then called in France, our house was always a tent.

In those days we knew nothing of trenches, or it would have been a trench. Into our little house—we always called it a house though it was really a tent, for the roof was always made with a sheet, and the door was a big towel—we used to bring all the sort of things that we thought soldiers would want. But in these days a soldier’s requirements have grown, if only because he has to live in his trench for far longer than the soldier of long ago used to live in his tent.

I think it may interest some of you to know both what an officer generally has, and what he would like to have, with him, when he is in a trench. He generally has a canteen containing a knife, fork, and spoon; also a sponge, a tooth-brush, a piece of soap, and an extra pair of socks. As to a change of clothes, boots, and sleeping bag, they form part of his equipment. He also has a water-bottle, a revolver, a pair of field-glasses, and a compass. Only 159if he is lucky does he possess as extras a waterproof sheet, a torch with re-fills (many on the Aisne preferred candles), a canvas bucket, notepaper and envelopes, and an air pillow. There should be six thick pairs of socks made of good wool, twelve coloured handkerchiefs, four thick flannel shirts (khaki colour), a good wide comforter, and two sleeping caps (in case one gets wet). Any pencils sent to a man on active service ought to be indelible. Valuable, too, is a tiny medicine chest.

Very few people realise what an important part food—good, hot, and plenty of it—plays in war. Napoleon, who was the first great general to study closely the comfort of his troops, would have admired and envied the British commissariat.

However fierce the fighting during the Battle of the Aisne, there was in each trench or dug-out “the dinner ’ush from twelve to one.” The shells might continue to roar, and men be hit by bullets, but out fifty yards behind the trench the battalion reserves had their fires alight and were cooking dinner. Fifty yards of shell-swept ground behind men in trenches is, however, a long way off.

There were, however, always plenty of volunteers ready to rush to the belt of trees and return triumphant 160with mess-tins riddled with shrapnel bullets and some of their number on the ground, but with dinner safe for the famished battalion.

I wonder if you can guess what is the worst thing connected with life in the trenches? It is not the cold or the heat. It is not the damp or the wet. It is not even the fact that the soldier, however cleverly he may be entrenched, is in perpetual danger of death, or if not of death itself, then of some terrible and painful wound.

No, the worst thing about life in the trenches is the noise! All day long, and very often all night too, the boom of the great guns, and the long drawn-out screaming whistle of the shells, went on, backwards and forwards, across that narrow valley of the Aisne. Who can wonder that many of our brave soldiers were made temporarily deaf?

And yet, in spite of the distracting noise, a good deal of reading was done, for quite a number of books had been brought to the trenches.

One of the officers of the 1st Hampshire Regiment actually read Sir Walter Scott’s poem of “Marmion” 161aloud to his men while they were being subjected to a continuous fire. This fact becoming known to a retired naval officer, Commander Henry N. Shore, he wrote the following interesting letter to a paper:

“Curiously enough, the same thing happened a century ago during the last great war in which Great Britain was engaged. While Wellington’s army held the lines of Torres Vedras, a captain in an infantry regiment wrote to Sir Walter Scott telling him that while his men were waiting for an attack by the French he excited their martial ardour by reciting aloud to them a canto of ‘Marmion’ which had recently been published. Thus does history repeat itself.”

The French soldiers during this long drawn-out battle were astonished at the tidiness and cleanliness of their British comrades. Every morning our soldiers did their best to perform their toilets in the trenches, and that however hard the night had been. Each man had a little bit of looking-glass which he put up on the chalky earth, then he got his water and soap to hand, and shaved and washed as though for a parade! There was no compulsion; it was done because each man wanted to do it, and knew he would feel the better for it.

162This kind of siege battle is very wearing to those engaged in it. The dogged courage, day and night, which it requires, seems to me every bit as splendid as those more striking deeds of gallantry for which men win the V.C. As a private wrote:

“We don’t care tuppence for shrapnel, which flies back and hardly ever hits us. What worries us is that the Germans have been turning their heavy siege guns upon us. The shells they fire are no joke. They rip a hole in the ground big enough to bury an entire regiment. One man standing near me was hurled into the lower branches of a tree by the concussion. We got him down, and strange to say he was comparatively unhurt.”

That makes one think of Sir Walter Scott’s lines:

It was early in the Battle of the Aisne that a British gunner, already slightly wounded, went on serving his gun, when suddenly down whizzed a shell and severely injured his leg. He picked himself up and calmly went on with his perilous job. The action was then very hot, 163and he refused to receive first aid. At last, when it became clear he could go on no longer, he was forced by his comrades to leave his post of duty and danger, but it took two of them to hold him down on the ambulance stretcher!

The Russians have an excellent proverb, “The bullet is a fool, but the bayonet is a brave fellow.” The bullet, however, especially when shot by one of our British soldiers, is by no means a fool, as our enemies have again and again found to their cost. The German soldiers usually fired their rifles at random from the hip. But our men are trained to take aim steadily from the shoulder, and so not many British bullets are wasted.

The modern bullet has a tremendous range. Before the Battle of Omdurman a wounded officer was placed at what was thought to be five thousand yards from the nearest point of fire. Yet a stray bullet traversed those three miles of desert, and striking him on the head killed him.

One is glad to know that the latest type of bullet usually inflicts quite a small, clean wound, which heals up quickly. In old days it was thought that no one could survive being shot through the heart, but it has now been 164proved that a bullet may actually puncture the heart without doing any permanent harm.

Sometimes—and this is a very piteous and woeful thought—a wounded soldier has to lie out a long time on the field of battle before he can be carried in. I am sorry to say that the Germans often fired on the men sent out to pick up wounded. As an example, I will tell you of the case of a soldier whose left thigh was fractured and right foot wounded in a very fierce engagement. He lay alone among the dead and dying, unseen, and apparently without any power of attracting the attention of the ambulance men. At last he plucked up enough strength to crawl along towards the British trenches.

“I was about finished,” he wrote afterwards, “when a man of the Welsh Regiment saw me and came out for me. That man ought to get the Victoria Cross. I didn’t ask his name, and I don’t know what it was, but he was a real good one, and no mistake. He got me up on his shoulders and he carried me right in. The Germans were firing all the time, and I was so near finished that I wanted him to drop me and let me die. It didn’t seem right for him to be worrying about getting me in. All he said was, ‘You 165hold tight, old man; I’ve got you all right, and I don’t intend to let you go!’”

Wherever the British wounded passed they were loaded with gifts by the French peasants. Old men and women, children even, brought them the best they had. They would bring the milk kept for the baby’s bottle, or their only and much valued bottle of champagne or old wine.

A Lancashire private showed his comrades an agricultural medal an old man had given him. “It is not much in itself, I dare say,” he said, to excuse the tears in his eyes, “but I could see it was what the old fellow was proudest of, so you see I have to keep it careful.”

Some of you, when walking through one of our beautiful, peaceful, country churchyards, may have cast a sad thought to the lonely graves where so many of our bravest soldiers lie in France. But let me tell you that one of the best traits in the French character is respect for death. A tramp found dead on the wayside near a French village will be given a decent funeral, and what is more there will be women present, not only at the Mass said for his soul, but also at the grave side.

That being so, you will readily imagine with what 166reverence and care the British dead who have died fighting for France have been treated by the people whose sad fate it has been to live close to the great battlefields of this war. After each action the dead were sought for, and after their personal possessions had been put aside for their relations, they were buried on a strip of ground called “The Field of Honour.” There French and British lie side by side, as you will see from the following letter written by a lieutenant of the Royal Army Medical Corps serving with the 2nd Seaforth Highlanders:

“Poor Colonel Bradford! I can’t tell you how great our loss is. He was brave, and a born commander, but in the twinkling of an eye, while trying to safeguard his regiment, a shell carried him off. We could not fetch him in during daylight because of drawing fire, but at midnight, on September 14, we laid him with two other officers and men to rest in their champ d’honneur, on a hillside overlooking a fair river and valley.

“It was a sad but glorious moment for us to stand and hear the padre tell us that they had not shrunk from duty, and had fallen for the sake of comrades. The next day I found some Scotch thistle growing close by. I plucked the blooms, and formed a cross over our chieftain’s grave.”

167In a letter to Miss Rose-Innes, of Jedburgh, Colonel Richardson-Drummond-Hay, writing from the regimental quarters of the Coldstream Guards at the Battle of the Aisne, paid a splendid tribute to a Scots surgeon, named Dr. Huggan. It told how two days before the young man was killed he was recommended for the Victoria Cross for organising and leading a party of volunteers to remove a number of wounded from a barn that had been set alight by the German shells. The work was carried out under very heavy fire, and all the wounded were saved.

Dr. Huggan, who was killed at the Battle of the Aisne on September 16, was a member of the Royal Army Medical Corps, attached to the 3rd Battalion Coldstream Guards. He was a native of Jedburgh, and played Rugby with the Jedforest Club for some years.

The doctors on both sides have taken a splendid part in this great war.

Let me tell you here of an exceptionally kind and delicate-minded action on the part of a German doctor.

In a French town temporarily captured by the Germans, a certain French gentleman lay very ill. He was an old man, too old for fighting, and just now too ill 168to be moved away by his friends. There were no French doctors left in the town. Hearing of this case, one of the German doctors took off his uniform, put on an overall, and pretended to be a captured English doctor, in order to go and see the sick man. He took all this trouble because he thought the excitement (hatred of the Germans by his patient) would be bad for the old gentleman. This was all the kinder, inasmuch as, being an Army doctor, he was, of course, under no obligation to treat people in the town.

I am sorry that I cannot tell you the name of one of the bravest men mentioned in this book. There is, however, one fact about him which can be stated. He is a private in the West Yorkshire Regiment.

This soldier was in the trenches when suddenly he saw that close to the German lines a number of his comrades had been struck down while in the act of charging the enemy. He took off his coat and equipment, and walked over to where they lay under a perfect hail of bullets. Beginning with the adjutant, he made altogether eleven journeys, bringing in also his colonel and nine men. Small wonder that he is said to have been recommended for the Victoria Cross.

169During the first two months of the war, the British Veterinary Corps, which, by the way, was first formed after the South African War, had 30,000 horse patients through its hands. Horses, in spite of motor transport, have already played an important part in this great war, and it does not require much thought to know that their supply in almost every country is limited. Russia alone seems to have an inexhaustible number—in fact, it has been asserted that there are no fewer than thirty million horses at the disposal of the Tsar.

Our horses are better looked after than any others in the field. The wounded ones are cared for most tenderly, and are often cured of quite serious wounds. Not only have they their comfortable hospitals, but there have actually been set apart for them splendid convalescent homes. Some of these consist of the fine racing stables belonging to well-known Frenchmen whose colours are often seen on English racecourses.

I have been told that one of the strangest and, in a sense, most pathetic sights on the battlefields of the Aisne was the loose horses which rushed hither and thither aimlessly while shells whistled overhead. Another curious sight is the terror of the birds when an aeroplane flies low. 170They swirl about, beside themselves with fright, and evidently believe that the flying machine is a huge monster of their own kind bent upon their extermination.

A private of the Royal Irish Fusiliers described how he and his comrades once went under fire:

“As we stood up, there was a ghastly shower of bullets, and shells burst all round. Into it we had to go, and as I looked ahead one of our chaps said, ‘I think we’ll have to get our great-coats, boys; it’s raining bullets to-night, and we’ll get wet if we’re not careful.’ Men of “C” Company started laughing, and then they took to singing ‘Put up your umbrellas when it comes on wet!’ The song was taken up all along as we went into the thick of it, and some of us were humming it as we dashed into the German trenches.”

During the retreat from Mons a slightly wounded Scot, an artilleryman, asked a German for water, and was refused. Long afterwards, during the Battle of the Aisne, the artilleryman recognised the same German among a party of wounded whose cries for water couldn’t be attended to quickly enough.

The recognition was mutual, and the German stopped 171his moaning, thinking he was sure to be paid back in his own coin. But the Highlander took out his water-bottle and handed it to the German without a word. According to one who was there, the German had the grace to look very shamefaced indeed.

Our flying men played a most important part in this Battle of the Aisne. What they did, and how they did it, was excellently described in the following letter written by Lord Castlereagh from Champagne. As you read it you will feel as if you were there, watching the wonderful and inspiring sight:

“The thing that has impressed me most here has been the aeroplane service, a splendid lot of boys who really do not know what fear is. The Germans shoot shrapnel at them, and you see the aeroplane like a dragon-fly in the air, and then a lot of little puffs of white smoke, which are the shells bursting. Luckily the shots are very wide, and so far none have been brought down. One man was shot in the thigh by a German airman whom he was chasing.

“I watched for twenty-five minutes an aeroplane doing what is called ‘ranging’ for a battery of heavy guns. The aeroplane watches where the shells drop, and then 172signals to say where the shells are falling, whether too far or not far enough. This aeroplane was being shelled by the enemy with shrapnel, and three times it flew round and showed the battery where they were shooting. The Germans must have fired forty shells.

“The aeroplane, about five thousand feet up, and easily in sight, looked like an eagle, and about the same size, and the shells made a cloud of white smoke and looked about the size of a cabbage. It was a wonderful sight, and if such a picture appeared in an illustrated paper no one would think it was anything else but an imaginary one.”

On September 22 a daring exploit was performed by a group of British aviators. They flew off and made a successful raid into Germany. Flight-Lieut. C. H. Collet dropped three bombs on the Zeppelin shed at Düsseldorf, and as the whole shed burst into flames it is clear that his object was accomplished.

Both this gallant airman and his companion were most careful to do no harm to private or public buildings in the towns through which they flew. In fact, they could have destroyed another Zeppelin shed had they not thought it wrong to run the risk of injuring innocent 173women and children in the misty weather which then prevailed.

I cannot help contrasting this behaviour with the conduct of German airmen, who killed or mutilated with their bombs numbers of women and children in open towns like Paris and Ostend.

Some of the most gallant deeds of this great war have been done some way from the fields of battle, and in what may be called cold blood. A fine story of Irish heroism was told by a trooper of the Irish Dragoons:

“There was a man of ours who carried a chum to a farmhouse under fire, and when the retreat came got left behind. A German patrol called and found them. There were only the two, one wounded, against a dozen Uhlans. Behind a barrier of furniture they kept the Germans at bay. At last the Germans made off and brought a machine gun to the house and threatened to destroy it.

“The two soldiers were not unmindful of the kindness shown them by the owners of the farm, and rather than bring loss on them or the village they made a rush out with some mad idea of taking the gun. Just over the threshold of the door they both fell dead.”

174Among the most moving and beautiful stories of this great struggle is one that also has as hero a nameless Irish private. What happened was perfectly told by a wounded corporal of the West Yorkshire Regiment:

“The regiment was approaching a little village near Rheims. We went on through the long narrow street, and just as we were in sight of the end the figure of a man dashed out from a farmhouse on the right. Immediately the rifles began to crack in front, and the poor chap fell dead before he reached us.

“We learned that he had been captured the previous day by a marauding party of German cavalry, and had been held a prisoner at the farm where the Germans were in ambush for us. He tumbled to their game, and though he knew that if he made the slightest sound they would kill him, he decided to make a dash to warn us of what was in store.

“He had more than a dozen bullets in him, and there was not the slightest hope for him, so we carried him into a house until the fight was over. We buried him the next day with military honours, but as his identification disc and everything else was missing, we could only put over his grave the tribute that was paid to a greater: ‘He saved others; himself he could not save.’”

CHAPTER IX OUR ALLY RUSSIA

I should now like to tell you something of our great ally, Russia, and of the gallant deeds performed by her soldiers in this war.

Valour does not belong to one nation more than to another, but each country, and this is rather a curious fact, has its own kind of valour. The British excel in what I should call the “forlorn hope”—the kind of valour that stood our soldiers in such fine stead at Mons, and during Sir John French’s magnificent retreat. The Marquis of Montrose embodied the spirit of 176England and this peculiar stoical type of valour when he wrote:

The Briton never fears his fate too much to put it to the touch—that is why he generally gains it all!

Now the Russian has a singularly splendid kind of valour. It is the kind that faces certain death for love of country, with joy rather than with resignation. Never in the history of mankind was a finer thing done than the sailing of the Russian Fleet to certain doom, during the Russo-Japanese War. Every man, from admiral to stoker, knew of the fate awaiting him, and every man went cheerfully to the encounter for the sake of “Holy Russia.”

This courage of the Russians is part of their grand passion for romance, or what people now call idealism. A great many years ago a writer quaintly and truly wrote in Blackwood’s Magazine: “I have seen the unromantic drop like sheep under the rot of their calamities, while the 177romantic have been buoyant and mastered them.” So never let anyone laugh us out of being romantic. Too often those who try to do so are in the sad case of the fox who, having lost his tail, could not endure to see any other fox with one.

It was this same peculiar strain of magnificent, romantic courage which made the Governor of Moscow, after having given orders to burn the city, when Napoleon and his Grand Army were approaching, himself set fire to his own beloved house. This great deed will live in the long noble history of human sacrifice and valour as long as the world endures, for it was the burning of Moscow which turned the tide against the greatest conqueror Europe had known since Julius Cæsar.

The Russians are as mighty with the pen as with the sword. The finest story ever written on war was written by a Russian named Count Tolstoi. It is called “War and Peace.”

And now to the Russians this great war with Germany is a crusade, a holy war. They are fighting for their fellow-Slavs, who like them belong to the Greek Church, 178and who if they became Germans and Austrians would be most cruelly oppressed by their conquerors. So strong is this feeling in Russia that it has united everyone—from the Tsar to the poorest moujik—in one great passion for justice and freedom.

The following moving letter from his mother was found on the breast of a Russian officer killed in action. It will show you more than anything I can tell you how Russia feels about this war:

“Your father was killed very far from us, and I send you for the sacred duty of defending our dear country from the vile and dreadful enemy. Remember you are the son of a hero. My heart is oppressed, and I weep when I ask you to be worthy of him. I know all the fateful horror of these words, what suffering it will be for me and you, but we do not live for ever in this world. What is our life? A drop in the ocean of beautiful Russia. We must die, but she will live for ever. I know we shall be forgotten, and our happy descendants will not remember those who sleep in ‘brothers’ graves’ (soldiers’ graves).

“With kisses and blessings I parted with you. When you are sent to perform a great deed, don’t remember my tears but only my blessing. God save you, my dear, 179bright, loved child. One word more; it is written everywhere that the enemy is cruel and savage. Don’t be led by blind vengeance. Don’t raise your hand at a fallen foe, but be gracious to those whose fate it is to fall into your hands.”

What a noble and beautiful end is that to this letter, but how one’s heart aches for the writer now that the dear, bright, beloved son sleeps in “brothers’ graves.”

Of all the Tsar’s soldiers the most typically Russian is the Cossack. Now the Cossack has been well described as being a man of war from his youth upwards. He is always the child of a soldier, and his mother cradles him with war songs. When he gets a little older and begins crawling about the floor, his games are mimic battles, and his father takes him off to the stables for at least an hour every day that he may regard horses as his friends and playfellows.

At seventeen he becomes a Cossack, and after a very few weeks’ training he is ready for war. The Cossack’s equipment is most peculiar, and it is so arranged that he can creep along, even when on horseback, quite noiselessly. A proverb in Russia runs: “One dragoon makes more noise than a regiment of Cossacks!” The Cossack’s 180claim is that what mortal man can do he will do, and a great deal more besides. As a rule he is a small man and his horse is a small horse, in fact what we should call a pony. No cavalryman is on better terms with his mount, and many and many a time a Cossack has given his life for his horse. But a Cossack never allows his mount to know what the inside of a comfortable stable is like; the Cossack’s horse has to learn to be as hardy as his master.

Small wonder therefore that the Cossacks are the most amazingly clever horsemen in the world. One of their favourite manœuvres, when on active service, is to swing down beneath their horses’ girths, thus causing the enemy to believe that they have before them a number of runaway horses.

The story goes that a patrol of ten Cossacks lately came upon a German squadron who, to avoid a fight at close quarters, opened fire. The Russian horsemen swung round under their horses; the Germans mounted and set forth to capture what they believed to be runaway horses. When they came close up the Cossacks reappeared in the saddle, and attacking them with awful fury, cut them to pieces!

181The Cossacks have retained their old, picturesque uniform—not for them the sober khaki—and an action in which they engage recalls the verse of Robert Burns:

The Cossack trooper has a great deal of that simple, resourceful cunning which is so important an asset to all sportsmen and fighting men.

This was shown in the present war by the adventure of one such brave horseman called Polkovnikoff, who was taken prisoner by the Austrians.

His captors treated Polkovnikoff kindly, and asked him many questions concerning his famous corps. “How do you manage to unsaddle just in front of the enemy’s entrenchments, and attack them on foot? Is not your horse a drag upon you?” they asked.

Polkovnikoff volunteered to show how it was done, so they lent him a fine horse, belonging to an officer, to enable him to make an exhibition of his skill. Conscientiously and artistically he went through some vaulting exercises. Then, in order to put the finishing touch to one of his 182feats, he went the furthest possible distance from the assembled company, and, before they realised what was happening, he had put spurs to the horse and was galloping madly away!

This delightful little sketch of a Cossack officer will show you how fortunate these Russian cavalrymen are in their leaders. It was written by a British war correspondent on his way to the front.

“At Pavlodar a Cossack officer came on board, who will ever stand out in our memory as a great little man. He was clean-shaven, fat, and jolly-looking. Within two hours he had the reservists under his thumb to such an extent that had they been asked to storm, unarmed as they were, a German position, they would have gone without hesitation! His treatment was paternal, almost to the extent of the schoolroom. He read to them, and he told them funny little stories. Then he made them sing choruses, and wound up by warning them that upon their arrival at the great concentration camp of Omsk they must remember to treat all strangers with courtesy.”

A Cossack never “retires” from active service. He goes on being a fighting man as long as he can ride well 183and straight. A Cossack whose leg was amputated clamoured for a quick recovery that he might go back to the front. The doctor asked him what he could do in the war with only one leg. He replied proudly, “Have I not still my strong right arm with which to strike down the enemy?”

All grown-up people hope that among the very best consequences of this great war will be the restoration of freedom and happiness to heroic Poland. It is the unhappy fate of this valiant country to be, as it were, a buffer State. I expect you know that a buffer is something wedged in between two contending forces. India-rubber, which is at once hard and yielding, makes an excellent buffer. Poland is between Russia and Germany, and before the war she had been divided between them. Neither had treated her well, but for many years past Germany treated her part of Poland with far more harshness than Russia treated hers. As a consequence of this, even German Poland now sides with Russia, the more so that the Tsar, very early in the war, issued a general proclamation in which he promised the Poles their freedom after victory.

184Poland has been the scene of some fierce conflicts, and the Poles have had the opportunity of performing many gallant deeds. The Polish villagers have also been very good to the wounded of both sides. In one village a little girl of seven years old went up to a wounded man and saw that he was bleeding dreadfully from a wound in his head. She tried her best to staunch the blood with her pinafore, but as it went on coming through she put her hand tight down on the place, and sent her baby brother to fetch an ambulance man.

You will remember how more than one French boy managed to get to the front. This has also happened in Russia. Indeed, it is said that there boys as young as eight years have run away from home in the hope of fighting for Holy Russia.

Touching stories of the kind are being told in Petrograd concerning not only boys but girls.

Very soon after the war broke out, four little girls made their way to a police station. Each had a bundle on her back, each wore a Red Cross armlet. The police inspector was much surprised to see them. “Has someone sent you with these things?” he asked, pointing to their bundles. “If so, you must go on to the hospital.” 185“No, indeed,” said the boldest of the four; “we have come here on our way to the front. We intend to nurse the soldiers ourselves.” Proudly they exhibited their bundles, which contained bits of old linen and cotton wool. The inspector did not like to make fun of these valiant and patriotic little girls, so he kept them there while he sent out men to look for their parents. At last these arrived. The spokeswoman of the party then turned on the inspector and, with a look of grave reproach, exclaimed, “We trusted you with our secret, and now you have given us away!”

And here I must stop and tell you that very early in this stupendous war, where whole nations and their manhood are engaged, Russia did a very noble thing by her allies. Knowing that Germany had thrown her full strength into an effort to defeat, once for all, the British and the French armies, the Russian Commander-in-Chief made up his mind to create what is called a diversion. Although he was not yet really ready to meet so powerful and fully prepared a foe, he threw a large force over the German frontier.

Filled with alarm, the enemy hurried a big army to meet the oncoming Russians. This successfully relieved 186the rush on the British and French, but at a heavy cost to Russia. In a very real sense thousands of Russians then laid down their lives for their friends. Had they not been idealists and romantics, they could not have brought themselves to do it, for it requires a kind of courage differing from every other courage (and there are ever so many other kinds), deliberately to face defeat.

Very soon the Russian Army, completely ready by now to face their formidable foe, showed how temporary had been the check her commanders had knowingly courted and endured.

The Russian peasant is noted for his kindness of heart, and when he becomes a soldier this beautiful human quality stands him in good stead. In one instance four classes of the Order of St. George, which is like our Victoria Cross, were conferred upon a Hussar trooper, the orderly of a dangerously wounded officer, whom he rescued amid a hail of shot, and carried four miles. On the way he evaded numerous patrols of the enemy, and several times he had to swim broad streams, holding up the officer as best he could while they were both being “potted” from the banks.

187We in our country did not know at first of the fine things being done in Russia. Many people were surprised to learn, for instance, how very good is the Russian Army Air Corps.

You are of course aware that an airman takes his life in his hand every time he goes out to observe what is going on in the enemy’s lines. Putting aside all the ordinary—they ought to be called the extraordinary—dangers of air service, there are times when a great deal may depend on a flying scout being willing to give his life for his beloved country. How true that is was shown by a grand exploit performed by Captain Nesteroff, the Russian Pegoud, one of the first men in Russia to loop the loop.

During a fierce battle with the Austrian troops, Captain Nesteroff was able to convey information of extreme value to the Russian commander. He was resting after his exertions, when he observed two Austrian aeroplanes making their way towards the Russian positions. Aware that at the moment of their appearance a strategic move of the utmost importance to the safety of the Russian Army was in progress, and that it was absolutely necessary to prevent information from reaching the enemy, he took the air and flew towards them.

188By skilful manœuvring he succeeded in getting so close to one of the aeroplanes that he was able to fire his revolver almost point blank at the pilot. The latter was wounded, and fell with his machine to the ground, where he was captured. As soon as he had fired, Captain Nesteroff commenced a spiral upward flight, and he was at once followed by the second Austrian airman. Realising that it was, above all else, necessary to prevent the enemy aeroplane from returning to the Austrian lines with the valuable information that he had gathered, Nesteroff nerved himself for a supreme effort, and launched his aerial craft full tilt at his foe. The machines came together with a crash, and descended to the ground interlocked, both the gallant airmen being killed.

I have told you that the Russian peasant has a very kind heart. Kindness almost always implies sympathy and understanding. When the first trainload of wounded Austrians arrived on Russian soil they were treated at each place the train stopped with wonderful kindness and sympathy, and one poor woman was seen, while feeding a young Austrian soldier, to be crying bitterly.

“What is the matter?” asked one of the doctors. “Has he insulted or annoyed you in any way?”

189“No, indeed,” she answered; “I am crying because I cannot help feeling sorry to see a boy like this all alone in a foreign country, not even able to say a word in our language. I am mourning over what his mother must be feeling now. If you will allow me, I will take him home with me and nurse him back to health!”

And yet this peasant woman, simple as she may have been, must have known quite well that Austria has always had a peculiar dislike, and even contempt, for the Slav race to which she belonged, and for the sake of which Russia is at war.

The following little story illustrates the same beautiful qualities of mercy and of kindness, but this time the hero of it is a soldier.

An artilleryman’s battery, after hours of hard work, was at last ordered to retire. As it sullenly retreated, he saw a baby girl toddle from the doorway of one of the houses of the village right into the path of the battery. Amid a rain of shell and shrapnel, this brave fellow went to the baby’s rescue, while his comrades gave him up for lost. As he reached the child a shrapnel shell burst overhead, and, throwing himself down, the man shielded the child’s body with his own. One bullet passed through 190his back, injuring him so badly that he could not regain his feet. But two of his comrades immediately went to his assistance, and carried him, with his little protégée, to the battery, whence they were removed to hospital.

It has been said that every country has the Jews it deserves. Now Jews have never been quite fairly treated by the Russian Government. But during this war they have shown themselves to be true patriots and brave soldiers, and so we may hope that they will be treated as well as they deserve to be in future.

Very early in the campaign a Jewish soldier, named Pernikow, won the St. George’s Cross for valour. He was charged with the delivery of important secret despatches, and, though very seriously wounded on the way, he struggled on to his journey’s end, and fulfilled his mission.

We must not forget another of our Allies, the country which Russia regards as her small sister—I mean Serbia.

This gallant little country was the greatest help to the Allies, and especially to Russia. She had by no means recovered from the terrible Balkan wars of 1912 and 1913, when Austria fell upon her. But little Serbia not only 191drove away the enemy, but herself invaded Austrian territory. Thus she engaged and defeated large Austrian forces which would otherwise have been thrown against Russia.

Here is the story of a young Serbian officer who at one time was well known in London and in Paris, for his father is a diplomatist.

Lieutenant Voislav Grashanin was not only a keen soldier, beloved and honoured by his men, but he was also a very clever and many-sided man. A comrade thus described his gallant death:

“It fell to our detachment to lead the attack on Iverak and Golo Tchuk. Grashanin was first in the charge, and after a fierce tussle he reached the height of Golo Tchuk and ranged his men quickly in firing order once more. I saw him passing among the lines, and heard him say: ‘Now, brothers, show how straight you can aim! There is glory in store for us here if we know how to take it. Who cares for life? We’ve all got to die some day!’ Shortly afterwards the enemy began to fall back, and Grashanin called: ‘What did I tell you? See! A battery is offered us. A battery of our own. Forward, and seize their guns!’

192“Just then he was shot in the right hand. He bound up the wound where he stood, and lifted the other hand to give the signal, when that hand, too, was struck by a bullet. This time the wound was graver, his fingers being severed. We bound it up for him as well as we could, for he refused to go to the rear. He had taken off his coat for the hasty operation, and now the bandages were so clumsy that he could not pass his arm through the sleeve. We hung it by one button round his neck, and he went on giving orders as before.

“We advanced steadily, and again the enemy made a backward move. Then Voislav shouted, ‘Come on for the guns!’ At that moment a bullet lodged in his chest. He fell, but got up again on his knees to command: ‘The guns! Take the guns!’

“Our lieutenant was dead when we brought up the guns to where he lay. Still, I think he must have heard our ‘Hurrah!’ when we took the guns. Every man of us kissed him before we buried him, and we dug him the deepest grave I have seen in this campaign. We were very fond of him because of his kind heart and elegant manner of speech. Some had nicknamed him ‘the Parisian,’ but he was Serbian to the core.”

CHAPTER X OUR ALLY FRANCE — II — III

Among the many changes which this great war will bring about, it will certainly again make true Victor Hugo’s touching boast, “Two countries hath each man—his own and France.”

For nearly a thousand years this was true of all the gentlepeople in our three kingdoms. Scotsmen and Irishmen might be at daggers drawn with England, but always they remained not only friendly, but on the closest terms of intimacy with France. Charming French princesses married Scottish kings, and you will perhaps remember 194that when the great Scots wizard waved his wand, “the bells would ring in Notre Dame,” not, observe, in Westminster Abbey or in Old St. Paul’s!

There was a Scots College and an Irish College in Paris, and no one in Scotland and Ireland was reckoned a scholar unless he had studied in France.

The fact that England and France were almost always at war made no difference to this pleasant state of things, and now we like to remember that the one place where, till this year, British and French fought side by side, was in the Holy Land during the Crusades. In old days wars raged over years, not over weeks or months, and now and again great stretches of French country belonged to England. I know a beautiful parish church in the heart of France which was built by the British in the thirteenth century—seven hundred years ago.

Those of you who have learned any history must know that poor Queen Mary exclaimed that when she died the word “Calais” would be found graven on her heart, so deeply had she felt its recapture by the French. Not long ago, speaking of the Germans’ desperate wish to get to Calais, a great English writer observed, smiling, “As 195to the effect which their occupation of Calais would produce on this country, they are three hundred years too late. Calais is not inscribed on the heart of our Queen Mary!”

Ill-fortune often brings countries far more closely together than does good fortune. After the execution of Charles I, English, Scottish, and Irish loyalists fled to France, and lived there long years of a not unhappy exile. Louis XIV gave them a magnificent welcome. He presented the Stuarts with one of his most comfortable palaces, one, too, within an easy distance of his own palace at Versailles; and when you read the enchanting, intimate letters of Madame de Sévigné to her daughter, you will see how much the two courts intermingled, and what a constant coming and going there was from France to England and from England to France. When Charles II became king he did not forget his French friends. In fact I think it may be whispered that he remained far more of a Parisian than a Londoner, and you will feel this too if you ever read the letters he wrote to his beloved sister, the fascinating Henrietta, who had married the brother of Louis XIV.

196England was very English in the eighteenth century, but, even so, there was constant intercourse between London and Paris. English names occur almost as often as French ones in the correspondence of the famous Madame du Deffand, and the best picture of the French society of that day is to be found in the letters of her old friend, Horace Walpole. Marie Antoinette had many dear English friends, and Englishwomen as well as Englishmen were made very welcome by her, not only in the Palace of Versailles, but at her own beloved Petit Trianon.

So close was the tie then between the two countries that they read as a matter of course each other’s books. Innumerable little girls in France are now called Clarisse because of a wonderful story, written by an English bookseller named Benjamin Richardson, called “Clarissa Harlowe.” Equally in this country, few, if any, children were named Clare or Julia before the publication of “La Nouvelle Héloise,” written by the Jean Jacques Rousseau to whom I alluded in my first chapter.

You might have thought that the great Revolution would have broken the old connection between the two 197countries and the two capitals. So far was this from being the case that there were many people in England who sympathised with the aims of the Revolution. Others, while regarding all that went on in the France of that day with horror, yet felt their affection for France and the French people become closer. An affectionate familiarity between the two countries was further encouraged by the sudden appearance in England of thousands of French people, who, known as the Emigrés, were largely composed of members of the French nobility who had escaped from France on the eve of the great Revolution. Many of them lived in England till after the Battle of Waterloo, and our grandmothers were all taught French, dancing, and the harp by lady Emigrées.

Even the Napoleonic Wars did not really break the links binding France and England. In some ways they may even be said to have strengthened them. Not only were our troops always on the Continent, but Napoleon occasionally made a great sweep of any English travellers he could catch, either in France, or in the countries which he successively conquered. These unfortunate people were what would now be called “interned” in various French towns, where in some cases 198they were compelled to remain for years. But I am glad to tell you that these forlorn creatures were treated most kindly by their French neighbours, and when they finally came back to England, so fond had they become of France that some of them used to go back there for two or three months of each year.

Gradually, it is difficult to say why, the two countries drifted apart. Indeed it began to seem that the nearer they grew together in a material sense—the less and less time it took to get from London to Paris, for instance—the less all that was best in French art and in French life, appealed to English people.

One thing that perhaps made the English nation distrust the French was France’s constant change of rulers. After France had had a king for a few years she would suddenly change about and have a republic; then would come a king again, another small revolution, and then an emperor! It was during the reign of an emperor, Napoleon III, that Paris became for the first time the playground of Europe, the place where foreigners went rather to amuse themselves in stupid ways, instead of to see beautiful things and to meet agreeable and interesting people.

199Then, quite suddenly, there came a terrible day, just forty-four years ago, when the playground of Europe became a battle-ground, and when, with surprise and horror, England saw that the French, busily engaged in amusing themselves and other people, had entirely neglected to get ready for the awful thing, War, which had suddenly come upon them. As a result of this neglect, Germany, for the first time in their joint history, conquered France.

So easily, so surprisingly quickly, was this conquest achieved, that it made the Germans get what is vulgarly called “swelled head.” It also undoubtedly led to their confident belief that everything must go well with them in the present war. But France, as Germany now knows to her bitter cost, had learned her lesson. Without spending nearly so much time and thought on war, and the terrible engines of war, as Germany had done for forty years, she yet prepared quietly and soberly for the big conflict which, unlike England, she felt quite sure must be coming on Europe, if only because of the extraordinary preparations which she noticed her bullying neighbour was continually making.

You may know that the beautiful provinces or counties of Alsace and of Lorraine were the heavy price France paid for her defeat at Germany’s hands in 1870. But these two provinces always remained French at heart, and their possession by Germany was like an open wound in France’s side. Small wonder, therefore, that when war was declared the first thought of the French Government was, unwisely and imprudently as many people now think, to throw an army into Alsace.

The rapture with which the people there welcomed the French advance was changed into terror when the fortunes of war brought about a temporary retreat. The Germans hate these Alsatians, and cruel was the vengeance they took on them. One terrible example of their revenge aroused deep feelings of pain and horror all over the world, the more so that they actually boasted of the act in the following words:

“The German column was passing along a woody defile, when a little French lad (Französling) belonging to one of those gymnastic societies which wear tricolour ribbons (i.e. the Eclaireurs, or Boy Scouts), was caught 201and asked whether the French were about. He refused to give any information. Fifty yards further on a battery suddenly opened fire from the cover of a wood. The lad was asked in French if he had known that the enemy was in the wood. He did not deny it. Then walking with firm steps to a telegraph post he stood up against it, with a green vineyard at his back, and received the volley of the firing party with a proud smile on his face. Infatuated wretch! It was a pity to see such wasted courage!”

But we know that his courage was not wasted, and that by their ill-advised recital of that little boy’s heroism, the Germans inspired innumerable Frenchmen, and Frenchwomen too, to show themselves even braver and more fearless for love of country than they might otherwise have done.

It was near a town called Nancy that there took place a touching incident two days after the outbreak of war.

A French detachment came into contact with German troops; soon the Germans retired, leaving behind them a young wounded officer. The French soldiers picked him up, and behaved, as I am glad to say our allies always do behave to their wounded enemy, not only with mercy but with kindness. He was, however, dying, and his last words were, “Thank you, gentlemen. I have done 202my duty. I have served my country, as you are serving yours.”

This young officer was Lieutenant Baron von Marschall, son of the late Baron Marschall von Bieberstein, who for a few months was German Ambassador in London. He had been, till a few days before the declaration of war, a happy and popular Rhodes Scholar at Oxford.

Duty must have been one of Nelson’s favourite words, for not only did he signal the word in his immortal message, “England expects every man to do his duty,” but the last words he ever spoke were, “I have done my duty; I praise God for it.” The French have some fine sayings concerning duty. Of these the oldest and the finest is, “Fais le droit, advienne que pourra.” “Do thy duty whatever may happen.”

It was in Lorraine that Georges André—one of France’s most famous runners, who is also a Rugby Internationalist, and scored against both England and Ireland in last season’s matches—won the Médaille Militaire (the French Victoria Cross). André, with his company, was surrounded by a large German detachment in a small village. They fought like lions, and he himself at last captured 203the enemy’s standard, regaining the French lines under a hail of bullets.

We have seen how the German Commander on the fall of Liège handed General Leman back his sword. Much about the same time that this was occurring in Belgium, a similar incident, on a humbler scale, was happening in Alsace.

A Uhlan patrol was surprised by French soldiers. They all took to their heels save one, who fought magnificently until finally overpowered by force of numbers. His French captors, much to his surprise (for the German soldiers had been told the infamous lie that the British and French gave no quarter to the wounded), shook him warmly by the hand, exclaiming, “Tu es un chic type!” a meed of praise which it is impossible to translate. They also showed their admiration of his pluck in a more practical manner, for though they were short of food themselves they supplied him with food and drink before he was taken to the General Quarters.

One likes to remember that in no great war have men had the monopoly of gallant deeds. In this book you have read, and will read, of many such performed by 204women. A lady can no longer defend a castle, as was done in mediæval Christendom by so many great-hearted wives whose husbands were away fighting. But she can risk her life, and lose it too, for her country, as the following pathetic story proves:

Madame Favre-Schwarz, of Basle, a young and beautiful French lady, married to one of the richest merchants in Alsace, was executed after a court-martial very early in the war. She had attempted to blow up an important tunnel on the line of the Rhine near Leopoldshöhe, in order to hinder the advance of German troops towards her beloved country. Madame Schwarz met her death bravely, and shouted “Vive la France!” as she fell.

After this war is ended, and indeed during the conduct of this war, I hope that no one will ever again sneer at a woman merely for being a woman.

Splendid work has been done to help the men at the front by the women of each of the countries—those of our enemies as well as in our own and those of our allies—during the course of this awful struggle. I was told by a wounded soldier, to whom I had the privilege of talking in a London hospital, that what struck him most during the first terrific battles in which he took part, was the way 205in which Frenchwomen of all ages, from aged crones to little girls, came into the trenches under fire with fruit and water. This was a true errand of mercy, for during the earlier part of the war the heat was terrible, and our soldiers suffered awfully from thirst.

When the enemy entered Soissons the Mayor of the town had already left it. Accordingly, a certain Madame Macherez, the widow of a former Senator—or, as we should say, of a former member of the French House of Lords—informed the Commander that she was quite ready to take over the government of Soissons.

He assented, and at once she took charge of the police, of the fire station, and of the hospital. She “ran” the town most successfully, and that though the German Commander began by making enormous demands on the unfortunate citizens. He asked for nearly 200,000 pounds (weight) of food, including preserved meats, smoked sausages, and flour, and 40,000 pounds (weight) of tobacco, adding the significant threat that if all this were not at once forthcoming Soissons would be burnt to the ground.

Madame Macherez bluntly told him that it would be just as reasonable for him to ask for the sun and the moon as for all these things. She offered, however, to give 206what she could, and not only was her offer accepted, but the town was spared the dreadful fate which befell many places in the North of France.

We can easily imagine this brave woman’s joy when, a few days later, the same troops who had behaved in an arrogant, if not in a barbarous, manner passed in full retreat through Soissons!

The French have a peculiar, passionate love for their flag—the Revolutionary tricolor which banished the old lilies of France and under which Napoleon led his soldiers from victory to victory.

Very early in this war a light infantry regiment, closely engaged by the enemy, saw over twenty men who in turn held the standard cut down; a fresh soldier immediately grasped the coveted trophy and held it aloft, while his comrades ringed him round with dead. So it went on until supports arrived, and the standard and the little remnant of gallant men were saved.

I must tell you what a London lady did to cheer and encourage the young men who were eagerly joining the colours. She lives in a street where recruits are constantly 207passing, and she felt sad to see how weary they often looked, and what little notice passers-by took of them. She therefore bought a large Union Jack, and whenever a contingent of recruits marched by she hurried to her front door and waved the flag, thus showing them that there was at least one person there who wished to do them a little honour and felt gratitude for what they were doing for England. In due course she was rewarded, for an officer, before then quite unknown to her, called specially to tell her how much his men had been cheered and touched by her action.

Some time before the British airmen’s daring raid into Germany, two French flyers, Lieutenant Cesari and Corporal Prudhomme, performed a magnificent exploit over Metz.

They left Verdun under orders to reconnoitre and destroy if possible the Zeppelin sheds at Metz. The two airmen flew over the line of forts, the lieutenant at about 8000 feet up, and the corporal at 6500. In the midst of a cloud of bursting projectiles they kept on their way, but a little before they arrived above the parade ground the lieutenant’s motor suddenly stopped!

Determined not to descend without having accomplished the task assigned to him, he proceeded to volplane, 208and it was in planing that he launched his bomb at the shed. A little later, much to his surprise, for he had given himself up for lost, his motor re-started. Corporal Prudhomme also dropped a bomb from his machine. On their return journey hundreds of shells were fired at them, but they reached headquarters safe and sound.

A French aviator is reported to have brought down from the skies a German rifle bullet which he had caught in his hand! He was flying at a height of about 7000 feet, when he suddenly became aware of a small black object close to his head. He thought it was an insect of some kind, and was enough of an entomologist to realise that a flying insect at such a height was a curiosity. So he stretched out his hand and grasped what to his amazement proved to be a bullet! It was evidently a rifle bullet that had been fired almost vertically, and had there reached its utmost elevation.

It has been said that this great war has been waged in a very pitiless manner, but there have been, as we have seen, merciful exceptions.

One of these was the reconciliation on the battlefield between a French and a German soldier, who lay wounded 209and abandoned near the little town of Blâmont. They were there all through the cold, dark night, with only the dead about them. When dawn came they began to talk to one another, and the Frenchman gave his water-bottle to the German. The German sipped a little, and then kissed the hand of the man who had been his enemy.

“There will be no war in Heaven,” he said.

Boys, as we know, have played a splendid part in the war. One of the bravest French lads, whose name I am sorry I cannot tell you, saved the town in which he lived from total destruction, and from French shells.

It was at Montmirail, where the German Headquarters Staff was for a few brief hours installed in the château of the Duc de la Rochefoucauld. When the first French shell burst, the Germans did not wait for a second; they quickly cleared out. But of this retreat the French could not know anything, so they went on firing. It was then that a brave lad, in order to save the castle, took his bicycle and rode out with the shells shrieking above his head to inform the battery that the enemy had fled.

Surprise was felt in our country when it was heard that quite young German boys were in the firing line, but 210in the great American Civil War there were lads as young as thirteen and fourteen, fighting. One of them, called John Rhea, performed an act of extraordinary bravery during the retreat from Fishing Creek. He recognised in a prostrate figure on the ground an old school friend, named Sam Cox. Although he knew that he faced almost certain death by trying to help the wounded lad, he bent down, managed somehow to get him on his back, and carried him into safety.

Here let me break off to tell you that German boys have not been backward in helping their beloved country.

At the end of August, Prince Leopold of Bavaria, who is thirteen years old, placed himself at the head of a corps of schoolboys, who not only helped to get in the harvest, but did other useful work.

One of the most remarkable dogs in the world is a French dog. His name is Tom (a very favourite name for a dog in France), and he has been trained to help the wounded by carrying their caps to the Ambulance Corps. He never touches a dead man.

A certain French soldier was struck by a fragment of shell in the arm. With a bullet in his jaw as well, and 211a sabre cut over the head, the wounded man was lying terribly alone amid a little heap of his fallen comrades, when he felt a light touch on his forehead. It was Tom.

The soldier knew that the dog was trained to carry to the camp the cap of every wounded man he found, but alas! the soldier had lost his. “Run along, Tom. Go and find my comrades. Get along and find them!” Tom understood. He dashed away to the camp, ran about among the men, pulling at their capes and barking, and succeeded in drawing two ambulance men to the spot where the wounded man was lying.

I think the story of French pluck which has touched me most was that of Denise Cartier, the little girl who was so terribly injured in one of the German bomb attacks on Paris. The first words which Denise said to the policeman who lifted her up after the explosion were, “Surtout ne dites pas à maman que c’est grave.” (“Above all, don’t tell mother that it’s serious.”)

But alas! her mother had soon to know the worst, for brave little Denise had to have her leg cut off. When she awoke after the operation, she found by her bedside a pile of most beautiful presents sent her by kindly Parisians who 212had heard of her misfortune. Among them was a gold medal, and what do you think was engraved on it? Her own brave words to the policeman, “Surtout ne dites pas à maman que c’est grave.”

Before going back to the fighting line, and especially before taking leave of our ally, France, I want to tell you of what was, perhaps, the bitterest blow suffered by her in the early weeks of the war.

That blow was the bombardment of Rheims Cathedral.

Round Rheims are the most famous vineyards in France. All the little hills are covered with grape-laden vines, and when the writer was in that lovely, peaceful province of the Marne two years ago, all the happy peasant people, men, women, and little children, were gathering in the fruit, singing and laughing as they went along the narrow, fragrant pathways cut through the vines.

Rheims is a beautiful city, as old as France herself. Once more, as in 1870, fierce fighting was taking place 213there at the time of the grape harvest, recalling the fine lines of Bret Harte:

And death did reap a brave harvest amid the vineyards of France. Not a human harvest alone, but one composed of cherished memories—memories composed of all the French nation holds dear in its glorious, shadowy past. Memories of every figure in the magnificent procession of France’s kings and queens, of her saints, her statesmen, her warriors—especially of Joan of Arc, the beloved warrior-maid. The Cathedral of Rheims was not only the most perfect building of its kind in Europe—it was the Westminster Abbey of France, respected by her enemies for a thousand years.

Rheims has been sung by many poets, but perhaps 214the most beautiful lines on the cathedral were written by James Russell Lowell:

It was with a feeling of amazement as well as of horror that one September day the world learnt of the bombardment of Rheims Cathedral.

The interior of the great church had been filled with wounded, most of them, be it noted, German, and a large Red Cross had been hung out from one of the towers. When the bombardment began, an effort was made to move these poor soldiers out, but they were lying on straw, the straw caught fire, and several of the people in the cathedral were killed by the German shells, including four Sisters of Mercy. Much of the floor became thickly 215littered with the stained glass, which fell in showers out of the great windows, six hundred years old, which were, perhaps, the chief glory of the Cathedral. To add to the horror of the scene the wounded, terrified by the sight of flames and smoke, began trying painfully to drag themselves out of danger.

As the unhappy German wounded appeared at the great doors, which someone had already flung open, there rose from the townspeople assembled outside a hoarse, insistent cry of “Kill them! Kill them!” For some of those in the crowd unjustly suspected these men of having set the cathedral on fire.

For a while it looked as if the German prisoners would be massacred, but at the critical moment the Abbé Andrieux, a gentle, quiet little priest, sprang forward, placing himself with outstretched arms before the great doors. Behind him pressed forward the terrified wounded, standing, crouching, and crawling—their one thought to escape the fire, smoke, and falling glass and masonry inside.

“Stand back! Don’t fire!” shouted the Abbé “If you kill them you will be far more guilty than they!”

Ashamed, the crowd shrank back. But they went on 216hissing and hooting while their enemies were carried to shelter close by.

The present writer is almost as grieved at the injury which was also done to the ancient Church of Saint Rémy, at Rheims, which is a hundred years older than the cathedral. It had already been built some time when Joan of Arc was born at Domrémy, the little village on the Upper Meuse, which was, in a sense, the creation of the Abbé and monks of St. Rémy of Rheims. The Abbé had a very kindly feeling for Domrémy, and he generously gave Joan’s father, Jacques d’Arc, a patent exempting the village from all taxes and tribute. This exemption was maintained until the French Revolution. In the registers kept by the tax-gatherers the blank space opposite the name of this parish was quaintly inscribed year after year, and century after century, “On Account of The Maid.”

During the bombardment, the people of Rheims kept up their courage, and that even when they had to live for many days in their cellars. An Englishman had a talk with one old French gentleman in a cellar dwelling.

“The one thing that keeps us going,” he said, “is 217my wag of a son, my seventh, for every time a shell falls, or bursts over the house-tops, he makes some fresh joke, the young beggar.”

“And where are your other six sons?” his English acquaintance inquired.

“They are all at the front, and I’ve heard from them too. They are as happy as happy can be, for, you see, Monsieur, we are daily gaining ground.”

This little anecdote will make you understand the great outstanding fact about France. It is that every one of her sons is, will be, or has been, a soldier! During the course of a great war, it is a splendid, inspiring thought that the whole manhood of a nation is in arms to defend her. No need of recruiting there—no need to remind the young men that their country needs them. The French soldier is the French Everyman.

In old days I often felt pained to hear English people, just returned from a holiday in France, smile—even jeer—at the rough, often unsmart, look of the French soldier. These same people do not smile and jeer now when they watch a rough, unsmart detachment of young Englishmen marching to their drilling ground. They are touched 218and thrilled—or if they are not, they ought to be. You cannot have smart uniforms when every man over eighteen and under fifty is a soldier—or if you do, you sacrifice the rest of the nation, as we now know Germany has done, to the awful, sinister War god, the evil genius who lies in wait for happy, peaceful, busy countries, which only arm, as France had done, not for attack, but for defence.

CHAPTER XI BELGIUM ONCE MORE

You will remember I told you that long before this great war Belgium had already been called for hundreds of years “the Cockpit of Europe.” This vivid phrase comes down to us from the time when cock-fighting was a favourite sport among Englishmen.

Belgium was indeed the pit in which the gamecocks of many nations—the Flemings, the Dutch, the Spanish, the English, and the French—battled furiously. There is no town, and there is scarcely a village, the name of which is not proudly borne by some regiment among its battle honours. From the British point of view the 220most memorable of these are Quatre Bras, Ramillies, and Waterloo.

The most famous, I need hardly tell you, is the Battle of Waterloo, which was fought within a few miles of Brussels, the capital of Belgium. That was one reason why a great many English-speaking and English-reading people all over the world felt very sad when they heard that the German Army was in Brussels. But there is another reason why many men and women who have never been there feel a familiar and affectionate interest in the town. That is because three of our greatest writers and romancers have chosen to lay scenes of their stories in Brussels.

The first of these was Laurence Sterne, of whose most famous character, Uncle Toby, I have told you.

The second was William Makepeace Thackeray. He showed an intimate knowledge of the Brussels of a hundred years ago in his account in “Vanity Fair” of what took place there before, during, and after the Battle of Waterloo. But those who claim to be true Thackerayans will tell you that even finer, even more firmly fixed on their minds, is the account of Esmond’s visit to his mother’s grave in the Brussels of the eighteenth century.

221It was, however, a lady, Miss Charlotte Brontë, who, in “Villette,” which good judges consider the best of her stories, has made many of us feel really intimate with the highways and byways of Brussels. In fact, it is not too much to say that there are many people (the writer among them) who, when before the War they heard the name of Brussels suddenly pronounced, immediately thought of “Villette.”

In every war certain men seize on what is called the popular imagination. Three such soon towered above all their fellows in Belgium.

The first was King Albert, who has shown himself the heroic defender of his kingdom’s rights and liberties, and who continually shared in the trenches the dangers and discomforts of his brave troops.

The second was General Leman, whose name will ever be linked with the magnificent defence of Liège.

And the third was Adolphe Max, the Mayor or Burgomaster of Brussels. This civilian hero might well take as his motto, “Peace hath her victories as well as war,” for his extraordinary moral and physical courage saved his beloved city from the fate which befell Louvain and Termonde.

222When the Germans were about to make their triumphal march through the Belgian capital, the Mayor insisted that as he was the First Citizen of Brussels he must ride at the head of the procession. In this way he proved that he was not the captive but the host of the rough intruders. And when the German General Staff arrived at the Town Hall, and, declaring that they meant to make it their Headquarters, commanded M. Max to provide them at once with three hundred beds, “I will provide three hundred and one beds,” replied the Mayor of Brussels, smiling, “for of course I shall sleep here too!”

“You will hand over to us a hundred of your notables as hostages for your people’s good behaviour,” said the German General. “I will be your hostage,” instantly replied M. Max, “and I will provide you with none other.” Small wonder that this brave, good-humoured man won the love as well as the respect of the people of whom he was the shepherd.

On one occasion the German General, trying to threaten and bully M. Max, laid his revolver on the table with what he apparently thought was a grand gesture. M. Max, with a smile, took up his pen and laid it beside the revolver. And never was there a better example shown of the fact that the pen can be mightier than the sword.

223At last, as punishment for his sturdy courage and his determination to protect his people’s legal rights, M. Max was suspended from his office, and put in what the enemy quaintly called “honourable custody” in a German fortress. Fierce were the grief and anger of the unfortunate inhabitants of Brussels, and the Germans soon found that it was far more difficult to govern the city in the absence, than with the help, of M. Max.

The Germans had not been at Brussels very long when it became known that British Marines had been landed at Ostend. They only stayed there a short time, but their temporary presence was a great comfort to the poor Belgians.

Ostend was then simply a pretty watering-place, but that was not always so. The town whose name, as you will see later, was to become a familiar one in this great war, was once besieged by the Spaniards for three and a half years, and it was said that the noise of the bombardment was heard in London! It was at Ostend that the Duke of Wellington, then plain Arthur Wellesley, first set foot on the Continent.

Early in the War Ostend became a place of desolation and distress, for the unfortunate Belgians, when fleeing 224from their burnt towns and villages, naturally made for the sea. There was no room in the town to lodge them all, and many of them lived for quite a long time in bathing-machines on the beach. It was mostly from Ostend that the Belgian refugees embarked to find kind new friends and homes in England.

Before the Germans marched on Brussels King Albert and his brave Queen had left for Antwerp, the beautiful old city and port which was, till this war, regarded as one of the best fortified strongholds in Europe.

The King and Queen, together with their little children, had not been there many days when one night the enemy basely sent a huge Zeppelin airship over the town. It tried to drop bombs over the Palace, where the Royal family were sleeping, but, missing the mark, only destroyed a small house, in which, however, a young mother and her tiny baby were killed. This cruel and unwarlike act shocked and disgusted all civilised people. But it seems to have delighted the Germans, who loudly proclaimed that London would be the next city visited. It is, however, a curious fact that during the first three months of the War no Zeppelin flew over French territory, although in this way a great deal of legitimate damage 225might have been done, not to women and children, but to soldiers and stores of arms.

At the time that I am writing, no Zeppelin has yet flown over London, but from the first day of the War a great many sensible people fully expected that the enemy would send one of these enormous aircraft over to England, if only to surprise and terrify us.

Now a Zeppelin is a most wonderful thing, and for my part I should very much like to see one. The day may come when we shall journey by air as easily as by road or rail, and in Germany for some time past anyone could take a short trip in a Zeppelin by paying a comparatively small sum.

I have already told you that it is a foolish thing to underrate an enemy; it is also a rather mean thing to do. Let us, therefore, give all honour to Count Zeppelin, even if he has allowed his invention to be turned to a despicable and inhuman use.

This remarkable man, like most inventors, was regarded for a long time as a dreamer, even as a madman. Undeterred by this mortifying fact, he worked on and on 226till at last he produced the airship which was known as Zeppelin I. It was not, however, till Zeppelin III, just seven years ago, made a successful flight, that the German Government agreed to purchase the ship, and further granted him a good sum of money in order that he might carry on his experiments. In the year following, in 1908, a much larger sum was given to Count Zeppelin, and he found himself, from being an obscure inventor, suddenly raised to a pinnacle as the most belauded man in his Fatherland!

When this war broke out the Germans undoubtedly counted immensely on their fleet of Zeppelins. But, fortunately for those of us who live in London, a Zeppelin is so huge and unwieldy that it can only be started with considerable difficulty, and it cannot alight and fly up again as can an aeroplane. Moreover, it requires an enormous shed for its protection when it is not in the air, for on land it is a very helpless machine. Once in flight, however, it is a most formidable-looking engine of war. It has been said that if a Zeppelin were stood on end by St. Paul’s, it would appear at least a third longer than that vast building.

227To return to Antwerp. The city has long been dear to many English people, and it is very easily reached from our shores. Perhaps that is one reason why it has been a favourite holiday place for a great many years. When the news came that it was to be fiercely attacked by the enemy, a wave of sorrow swept through our country.

It is a beautiful town, and the steeple of the Cathedral is so exquisite, so delicately lovely in design, as to have become one of the wonders of the world. Napoleon, who was not apt to admire fine architecture, said it was like a piece of old Mechlin lace. Antwerp is a city of churches, and in each church there are wonderful paintings, many of them the work of men born in the city itself.

The most delightful of Flemish painters was Quentin Matsys. He began life as a blacksmith, and the city possesses some fine ironwork done by him in youth. Fortunately for the world, he fell in love with an artist’s daughter. The artist would not give his daughter to a blacksmith, and declared that she must marry a painter. So Quentin Matsys immediately began to paint, and he very soon painted much better than his future father-inlaw! 228In the Cathedral is a tablet to his memory on which are inscribed the words:

Antwerp has always been one of the fighting fortresses of the world. We must, however, remember that it was far easier to defend the little old Antwerp of the Middle Ages than the big modern city.

I think the most interesting thing about the Antwerp of the past is that Godfrey de Bouillon, of whom I am sure some of you must have heard, started from there for the Holy Land, where he was to die bearing the fine title of “Baron and Defender of the Holy Sepulchre.”

Antwerp went through many terrible trials before this last siege—in fact, so cruelly was it treated about five hundred years ago that the episode still lives in history as “the Spanish Fury.”

In the middle of the French Revolution Antwerp became French. Napoleon delighted in its possession, and uttered the famous words, “Antwerp is a pistol aimed at the heart of England!” He found it, however, as we believe the Germans will find it, of as little or of as much use as an unloaded pistol; and in due course he 229had to give it up, just as the Germans will have to give it up.

It is strange now to reflect that a British Army besieged Antwerp in 1814, when it was splendidly defended by the French.

War is full of curious, funny, and terrible incidents.

Before Antwerp surrendered to the enemy, everything was destroyed that could possibly be of any use to the German hosts. Among other things so treated were hundreds of motor-cars. Some, of course, had seen a good deal of service and were old, but there were some splendid new ones too. An energetic Belgian officer had them all brought together in a square, and then he set strong men, including as many blacksmiths as he was able to find, to carry out the job of putting the motors out of action. They fell to their work of destruction with a will, puncturing tires, hammering cylinders, and wrenching gears.

Tons and tons of excellent corn were also emptied out into the river, and the cold-storage apparatus of the town, which enabled meat and all perishable foods to be kept for an indefinite time, was also destroyed. All the ships in the fine harbour were made useless by their 230boilers being smashed up. Thus, when the Germans walked in expecting to find everything nice and comfortable, they discovered that the town was but an empty husk.

The Germans began to bombard Antwerp on the second day of October, and they took the city solely because they had better and bigger guns than the defenders. The Belgians, headed by their splendid King, put up a valiant fight, and England sent a party of British Naval Volunteers to help in the defence.

Now very few people know about the British Naval Volunteers. They are a fine force, dating from the reign of Queen Elizabeth. It is a curious fact that Antwerp saw them for the first time under fire since the Napoleonic scare, which frightened quiet folk in England so very much more than the Kaiser with all his legions and terrifying threats has been able to do! It is, therefore, the more creditable that our officers and men acquitted themselves so excellently, showing remarkable firmness, discipline, and courage, and that though some of these Naval Volunteers had only been in training a very short time.

As Antwerp fell, some people regretted that this British 231force had been sent there. But they were wrong in so regretting. The presence of these volunteers heartened the defence, and in such a case as that we should all feel:

CHAPTER XII THE FAR-FLUNG BATTLE LINE

How long will the War last? No two people agree about this, and that however wise, however clever, even however experienced in war they may be. It will be very interesting to see who among our friends have proved right; those who say it will be over soon, or those others who believe it may last years.

There is one thing, however, about which even now we all are agreed. This is that, however long the war may 233last, Britain and her Allies will never give up the fight until victory is assured.

This great war has been full of surprises, which soldiers and historians will go on discussing for many years to come. Never before, as I have already explained, had such vast masses of men been engaged, never before had battle fronts extended for two hundred, and even three hundred, miles. Not so very long ago, battles never took more than a week or ten days at the most before what soldiers call a “decision” was reached. By “decision,” soldiers mean the complete defeat of one army or the other, so that it is unable to gather itself together and fight again. Even the Battle of the Aisne, which was really a row of battles on a line as long as from London to Carlisle, did not produce a decision of that kind.

Without going into a long explanation which you might not be able to understand, I will try to show how the Battle of the Aisne simply did not end at all, but gradually melted, so to speak, into what we may call the Battle of the Dykes.

One great reason for this singular result, or absence of 234result, is to be found in the use of aircraft. In the Italian War in Tripoli, and in the Balkan War, aeroplanes had done good service, but this was the first occasion on which they had been employed on a great scale, and the effect of their employment was that neither side could prepare those surprises for the enemy which, in old days, brought about decisive victories.

Napoleon used always to feel by means of scouts for the point at which his enemy was weakest, and against that point he would throw his whole strength. But if Napoleon were alive now, he could not wage war in that way. It is true that his aeroplanes would find out the enemy’s weak point quickly, but the enemy, in his turn, would quickly find out where Napoleon was bringing up fresh men, and would make arrangements to meet them.

This is the sort of thing that happened on the Aisne. Both sides pushed hard, and there was terrible loss of life in numerous battles along the whole front. Villages were taken and retaken, sometimes five or six times over, and on the whole the Allies gained a good deal of ground, and to that extent they defeated the enemy, to whom it was very important to get on quickly.

235England and France were not in such a hurry. They could afford to wait because fresh troops were constantly coming up, not only French, but also British, including the magnificent Indian regiments, while the New Army enlisted on the appeal of Lord Kitchener, and the Canadian and the Australian forces, were steadily forming and training, ready to be thrown into the battle. It was quite enough for the Allies simply to hold the Germans, and prevent them from getting to Paris.

There is reason to believe that the German generals, and the Kaiser in particular, determined at this crisis to make a great dash for the coast. If you look at the map you will see that on the Belgian coast, going westwards beyond Ostend, we come to Dunkirk, in France; and then, still further on, to Calais.

Calais has had such a long and romantic history that I cannot help being glad that it has played a part in this great war. The people of Calais are as brave now as they were in the days when the burghers, themselves behaving nobly, gave, as the doing of a noble action nearly always does, the opportunity for the performance of another. Long before the Kaiser set his heart on occupying 236the nearest port to England, mighty warriors had fought for Calais.

The Kaiser wanted to get to Calais for two reasons; one was to encourage the people in Berlin, and the second object was to frighten people here, in England, and to attack the British warships with submarines and destroyers, working from the harbour of Calais.

But a very disagreeable surprise awaited the Germans when they threw themselves towards the coast. This surprise was a number of British and French warships, which shelled them from the sea!

Among the British ships were three very strange-looking craft called monitors. You know well what 237a monitor means at school, though in some schools they are called prefects. The word exactly means a person who advises, and to whose words attention must be paid.

The Germans certainly had to pay attention to the observations of the three British monitors. These ships, named the Humber, Severn, and Mersey, are like nothing else in the Navy—I can only compare them to floating fortresses. Everything else is sacrificed in building them to having on board as big guns as possible. They are therefore shaped rather like barges, so that they may stand the violent shock when their big guns are all fired. Their speed is not great, and they do not lie deep in the water, so that they can come very near the coast. They are, indeed, meant entirely for coast defence.

These three curious-looking ships were being built in this country for Brazil, and our Admiralty very cleverly took possession of them, of course paying the full price, and very useful they turned out in this Battle of the Dykes.

You can easily understand that the German trenches and other positions had to be mostly, not alongside the coastline, but at right angles to it, so that the monitors could fire their shells lengthwise at the doomed 238Germans, and so they killed many more than they would otherwise have done.

The country in which the battle was fought is covered with little rivers and canals and dykes, and that is why I have called it the Battle of the Dykes. Parts of it also were flooded, and the German advance became extremely difficult. The British destroyers used to run up the rivers and canals and shell any German position which had escaped the shells of the monitors.

The loss of life was terrible, and not on the German side only. The gallant Belgian Army, though a good deal diminished in numbers, fought magnificently. The Germans, however, continually brought up fresh troops, regardless of the terrible slaughter. And there came a day at the end of October when the Belgian forces found that they were running short of cartridges and shells. It was then that the Germans had their great chance, but for some extraordinary reason they missed it. If they had pressed on, they must have driven their enemy before them and obtained an important success. Instead of that, to the astonishment and delight of the Belgians, they actually fell back, and the golden opportunity was gone.

239What a lesson this is in the value of perseverance! The Romans had an excellent proverb, namely, “Opportunity is bald behind”; meaning that when you have once allowed your chance to pass you, there is nothing by which you can catch hold of it to drag it back.

You may have heard the expression “the romance of war.” Even in this awful conflict, where there has been so much that was frightful, certain romantic facts have come to cheer the heart of the nation. Thus, under Rear-Admiral Horace Hood, who commanded the flotilla off the Belgian coast, was Commander Charles Fremantle. They are both descended from heroes of the Napoleonic wars. A Fremantle commanded a line of battleships at Copenhagen and Trafalgar. It was Viscount Hood who, in 1759, destroyed the transports which had been got ready by the daring of the French for the invasion of England. Another Hood served with Nelson in the Mediterranean; this was Samuel Hood. His elder brother, Alexander, commanded the Mars, which fought a duel with the French warship Hercule, and he died of his wounds just as the sword of the French captain was placed in his hands.

240The British Army never fought more bravely, more doggedly, and with more splendid cheerfulness than during this fierce, water-logged battle. The enemy, even with his great advantage in numbers and in weight of artillery, was no match for our men. The London Scottish, the first complete unit of our Territorial Army to fight by the side of Regulars, covered themselves with glory by magnificent charges, again and again repeated, at a place called Messines. It was at this time, too, that the Indian troops first came into action, with terrible results for the Germans.

It is difficult to select what to tell you about the Indians, there is so much that is curious and interesting. What struck me personally most was the fact that their batteries of mountain guns and Maxims, according to an observer who saw them in their French camp, are carried on mule-back. Being in Europe has made no difference at all to these wonderful people’s immemorial traditions. Thus, they have brought all their food from India, and they live when on foreign soil exactly as their ancestors lived. There are thousands of goats in the Sikh lines, and very well they bore the long journey from India.

241Some of the Indian troops cannot eat any food over which has passed even the shadow of a person belonging to another religious creed. Some of the Indians, also, can only take their food separately, and as it were in secret. But, with the help of the native officers and of white officers who had served in India, such difficulties were easily met, and these gallant Sikhs, Rajputs, Gurkhas, and Pathans suffered no injury to their religious faith, while at the same time they fought shoulder to shoulder with their white comrades in defence of the British Empire.

It would be a great mistake to suppose that the enemy was content only to fight in the cockpit of Europe. The far-flung battle line reached at last from Belgium to Switzerland, something like three hundred miles, and all along there was constant fighting. The struggle swayed backwards and forwards—indeed, for weeks it seemed like a joust between two determined wrestlers, each of whom, if he gave way an inch one day, got back an inch the next.

Particularly violent was the struggle round and for Arras. This quaint town has been described as the most picturesque in Northern Europe. This was partly owing 242to the fact that it still retained great traces of the old Spanish occupation. One square in Arras looked as if it had been lifted bodily out of Spain. Like so many north of France and Belgian towns, it also had a singularly beautiful town hall and belfry. Alas! all this beauty, including the little Spanish square, was bombarded and destroyed. But, sad as was the fate of Arras, it was shared by many other historic towns.

All along the battle line deeds of valour, of daring, and of quiet, unostentatious heroism were daily performed. Many of our soldiers and airmen earned not only the Legion of Honour, but the Médaille Militaire, which is only awarded for deeds of exceptional daring performed on active service.

Private F. W. Dodson, of Meadowwell, North Shields, serving with the 2nd Coldstream Guards, was recommended for the V.C. for saving a wounded comrade under fire. When writing to his wife on their wedding anniversary an account of what had happened he said:

“You will know by the time you receive this that I have been recommended for the V.C., an honour I never thought would come my way. I only took my chance, 243and did my duty to save my comrade. It was really nothing, but I shall never forget the congratulations and praise I received from our officers, my comrades, and our Brigadier-General. I shall ever remember them.”

Mrs. Dodson must have been a proud woman when she read this modest, manly letter, as also when she received yet another letter from the wife of her husband’s commanding officer, Captain Follett. Lady Mildred Follett sent her the following extract from a letter received from her husband:

“A thick fog came down, so I sent a group of three men out 100 yards to our front to warn us of an attack from the enemy. After they had been there an hour, the fog suddenly lifted, and they were fired on at close range by the Germans. One man was killed, one was wounded badly, and one crawled back. I didn’t know how to get the wounded man back, so I had to call for a volunteer, and a reservist, Dodson, at once responded, and went out and fetched him. He was heavily fired at, but not hit. He is quite all right.”

It is comforting to know that the bravest, even the most reckless, men constantly have marvellous escapes. Take 244the case of Lieutenant A. C. Johnston, the Hampshire county cricketer. The day before he was wounded, the nose of a shell hit a wall six inches above his head. Shortly after that a bullet hit the ground half a yard in front of him, bounded up, and hit him on the body, bruising his ribs. Then a bullet hit him over the heart, but was “spent” before reaching him. Finally, while he was sitting on the steps of a house, half the building was blown up, and he was not even touched!

You will often hear contemptuous allusions to “amateurs” and their doings. But amateurs have proved, especially in this war, that they often are just as good as those who have been carefully trained to do a special job.

One of the finest “amateur” corps in this war was that of the British Volunteer Despatch-riders. Thanks to their work the generals commanding were able to keep in constant touch with one another, a matter of vital importance in warfare.

Many of these young fellows were just fresh from their Universities, and had no previous military experience, but they showed remarkable dash and bravery while travelling on motor-cycles through a country infested with enemies.

245Many and thrilling were their adventures. On one occasion an Australian from Cambridge, while speeding along a country road, suddenly came upon a party of fourteen German cavalrymen. With characteristic audacity he drew his revolver and shot down an officer and one man, whereupon the others ran away. Thus the Australian was able to deliver his despatch, which informed a corps commander that Germans were in the neighbourhood, and so prevented what might have been a disagreeable surprise.

The spy service, or, as they prefer to call it, the Secret Intelligence Department, has always been very cleverly conducted by the German War Office. Of the many devices resorted to by the enemy to convey secret information to those whom it concerned, the most curious and original was that known as the sign of the Black Cow.

All over the area of war the French and British troops were much surprised and mystified by seeing rough sketches of a black cow on walls and the sides of houses, even on gates and fences. Sometimes it was a small cow, sometimes a large cow; sometimes the cow was standing, sometimes she was lying down.

246At last a French officer, cleverer or blessed with more imagination than his fellows, suddenly “tumbled to” the explanation. The small cow meant that the road in front was weakly defended. The large cow conveyed the warning that the enemy were strongly entrenched near by. Always the direction in which the head pointed told where the enemy lay. Only when the head was tossed back, and the horns were long and pointed, did it indicate to the enemy that an aeroplane reconnaissance would be valuable over there.

I think one of the stories of plain-man valour which impressed me most was that of a young telegraphist at Lille. He managed to move his instruments into the cellar of the house next to the Post Office. He then went and installed himself there; and for three weeks, helped by a few faithful friends who managed to give him food and water at certain long intervals, he conveyed valuable information to the Allied forces.

Now one of the most extraordinary features of this war has been the way in which towns and villages, aye, and even houses, have been taken and retaken alternately by friends and enemies. When the French had a temporary success the young telegraphist did not come out, as most 247people would have done; he remained where he was, knowing how probable was the presence of spies. Thus, when Lille was once more in German occupation, he was able to go on with his valuable help to the Allies.

A good many of us just now are anxious about some prisoner of war, and it is curious how few people know the pains, penalties, and privileges to which the prisoner of war is doomed or entitled. To begin with, the person of a prisoner of war is sacred, and on the whole he is well treated. Thus his captors have not the right to ask him for information which would do harm to his own side. He can, however, be forced to work for his captors. The Germans are said to make their prisoners work at digging trenches and making earthworks, which is not fair, for of course such defences are intended to be used against the prisoner’s own side. If a prisoner of war gives his word not to escape he is often allowed much more liberty, but, as a rule, British and French officers refuse to give any such promise. Should one of them escape, he may be fired at, but if he is retaken he may not be punished for having tried to escape.

In this war, Britain has treated her prisoners in a very generous and humane fashion. Those among them who 248are wounded were actually visited by our King and Queen, who spoke to them kindly in their own language, and gave orders that their comfort should be studied.

Immediately after what I have called the Battle of the Dykes, came one of the fiercest struggles of the war, that which centred round the curiously-named town of Ypres. This quaint, beautiful, old town was once, strange to say, besieged by an English Churchman, Henry Spencer, Bishop of Norwich. He failed to take Ypres because of the stout resistance offered to his soldiers by a hedge of thorn-bushes! This hedge grew on the ramparts, and proved a very real defence. In memory of their preservation the people of Ypres hold a fair every August, and in the Cathedral is a fine painting called “Our Lady of the Garden,” to show that the aid of Heaven as well as of the thorns had been invoked.

One wonders if the Kaiser had heard of that old siege, when he issued his cruel and wanton order commanding that Ypres, with its lovely old houses, and its famous Cloth Hall, should be razed to the ground. Such destruction could bring no military advantage. In fact, the 249British held on to Ypres with splendid tenacity, though many gallant and noble young lives were laid down during the fierce fighting which went on there.

Other cities, not less beautiful than Ypres, and not less famed in history, were the scene of awful battles during this phase of the great war.

Tournai, where an important engagement was fought, is a quiet, placid town where are made what are called “Brussels” carpets. According to tradition, the art of weaving these carpets was brought home from the Crusades by Flemish soldiers, who had learnt it from the Saracens. Tournai is quite used to being the scene of fierce and bloody conflicts. It was splendidly defended nearly five hundred years ago by a woman, Princess Christine d’Espinoy, an ancestor of the Comte de Lalaing who is now Belgian Minister in England. It was said of this princess that she united the skill of a prudent general to the valour of a brave warrior, and, although she was herself badly wounded, she only gave in when three-fourths of her garrison were either dead or unable to fight. You may be interested to learn that Tournai is not far from the famous battlefield of Fontenoy, where English, Dutch, and Austrians were defeated by the French with 250the help of the gallant Irish Brigades which had been raised by, and for, the Stuarts.

Then there is the town of Courtrai, where was fought the beautifully-named battle of the Golden Spurs. This must not be confused with the Battle of the Spurs which was fought two hundred years earlier. The Battle of the Golden Spurs was won by the weavers of Ghent and Bruges, fighting against the French. Hundreds of gilt spurs worn by the French officers were gathered on the field where British and French have now fought side by side.

Round Peronne, too, fierce fighting went on during the struggle in Northern France and Flanders. This town has had the honour of holding more than one king captive. King Charles the Simple was imprisoned there for fifteen years, and is even said to have been starved to death there. When Louis XI came to Peronne to meet Charles the Bold, the latter shut him up for two days in his castle to punish him for having stirred up Liège to rebel, and only released him when Louis consented to sign the Treaty of Peronne. The town was once finely defended by a woman, Catharine de Poix, five hundred years ago, and the fortress never fell till the Duke of Wellington took it in 1815.

251I suppose there has never been before so long a battleline as that which extended from the sea at Ostend right across Flanders and through Northern and Eastern France to the borders of Switzerland. The armies of the Allies were under the supreme command of General Joffre, whom Lord Kitchener described at the Guildhall banquet as not only a great soldier but a great man. Sir John French and the British Army fought mostly in Flanders, where they repulsed terrific onslaughts delivered by the flower of the enemy, notably by the famous Prussian Corps of the Guards.

It is interesting to recall that among the British and French who thus fought side by side were descendants of heroes who had fought against one another on the field of Waterloo. For instance, a great grandson of the Duke of Wellington was, through his work in the Flying Corps, brought into daily touch with the Duke of Elchingen, a direct descendant of Marshal Ney.

As the fighting grew fiercer, so the number of the wounded rose to terrible proportions. Splendid deeds of valour were performed by the men and women, doctors, nurses, and ambulance men, whose duty it is to bring in 252and care for the soldiers who have fallen on the battlefield.

I must tell you of one truly heroic deed done by an English officer:

After an engagement in which the Germans were repulsed, they fell back, taking with them all their wounded except one, who was overlooked. An English officer, having given the order “Cease fire,” himself went out into the open to pick up the wounded German. He was struck by several German bullets and badly wounded, but the Germans, as soon as they saw what his object was, also ordered the “Cease fire.” Thereupon our officer staggered to the fallen man and carried him to the German lines. A German officer received him with a salute, and, calling for cheers, pinned upon his breast an Iron Cross. Then the officer returned to his own trenches. He was recommended for the Victoria Cross for this notable example of chivalry, but he died of his wounds.

The German soldier is sometimes a more gallant foe than is his commander. A couple of wounded Germans arrived at the hospital of Saint Mandier, Toulon, bearing round their necks cards on which had been written by the 253senior surgeon who had sent them there, the words: “These two Germans are recommended to the special care and attention of my colleagues, because they have saved a French officer.”

It then appeared that on the field of battle these Germans lay by the side of a French officer, who, like themselves, was badly wounded. Presently there came along a party of German cavalry, who, seeing the Frenchman, proposed in a mean and cowardly way to finish him off. But the two Germans—believed to be Bavarians—would have none of it, and themselves defended the wounded Frenchman. When all three reached hospital, the French officer told the story.

While our men were fighting and dying for their country in Flanders, people at home did all they could to help them. No one was too great, no one too humble, to support the many kindly and ingenious schemes which were devised.

Lord Roberts, by a personal appeal, obtained thousands of field-glasses for the use of our officers, and then, with like success, he obtained great numbers of saddles for our cavalry. To each donor, whether of the field-glasses 254or of the saddles, he sent a personal letter of thanks.

You know, of course, that Lord Roberts died as he would have wished to die—with the Army. It was about the middle of November that he went to France to see and speak with the Indian troops, and there he caught a chill which, alas! he had not strength to resist.

It would take a great book to tell you all that Lord Roberts tried to do, and all that he succeeded in doing, for his country. I can only here give you the splendid and heartening message which he sent to the children of the Empire:

“You have all heard of the war; you have all heard of the fighting forces sent from every part of the Empire to help the Mother Country. Why are we fighting? Because the British Empire does not break its promises, nor will it allow small nations to be bullied.

“Now, the British Government promised, with all the Great Powers of Europe, including Germany, that no army should set foot on the territory of the little nation of Belgium without her leave; in other words, she ‘guaranteed the neutrality of Belgium.’

“Germany, however, was bent on war, and on 255dominating other nations. Britain did her best to keep the peace, but Germany (breaking her word) marched her armies into Belgium to try and conquer France.

“Children of the Empire, this is why we are at war—to hold our promise, to help our friends, and to keep the Flag of Liberty flying, not only over our own Empire, but over the whole world.

“God Save our King and Empire.

Truly to Lord Roberts may be applied the famous lines:

You will remember my telling you of the exploits of the German cruiser Emden. Well, early in November she was caught and destroyed by the cruiser Sydney, of the Australian Navy.

The captain of the Emden, whose name is Karl von Müller, became a sort of hero of romance. This was 256partly because of his extraordinary ingenuity and daring, partly because he treated the crews of the liners he captured with humanity and politeness. Our seamen chivalrously gave him and his officers all the honours of war, allowing them to keep their swords.

Von Müller was accused by the crew of at least one of his captures of having sent out S.O.S. signals to lure merchant ships into his net. These signals, as you know, mean, “I am in great distress. Come as quick as you can to the rescue.” If he really played this trick, I find it difficult to admire him for it.

I do not know whether Captain von Müller is a reader of Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne’s entertaining books, but he certainly repeated in real life an exploit of Commander M‘Turk in “The Western Ocean Pirate.” He added a sham funnel to the Emden, and crept into Penang Harbour, pretending to be a British cruiser. He was thus able to dispose of two warships, one of them Russian.

As winter drew near, everyone turned their thoughts to providing warm garments and warming comforts for the troops. The Queen appealed to the women of the Empire and splendidly they responded. Young and old fingers knitted socks, mittens, comforters, and body belts, 257till hundreds of thousands were despatched to the front and to the Fleet.

Always remember that a deed of real kindness warms the heart as truly as a cosy garment warms the body. Our brave men, as we know by their grateful letters home, felt ever so much heartened by these and other signs of our gratitude.

And while we were all working here, French women, Russian women, and German women, helped by their children, were also all intent on providing their soldiers with winter comforts. But thinking of those industrious, devoted German mothers and wives, I wonder if they ever give a thought to those Belgian women who, homeless wanderers owing to Germany’s ruthless inhumanity, can provide nothing for their sons and brothers, but have to rely entirely on the kindness of their Allies and of America.

I do not think I can end this record of gallant, merciful, and kindly deeds without telling you of the Santa Claus ship from America.

The poor little Belgians, and those French boys and girls whose homes have been destroyed by fire, shell, and shot, are not likely to have any Christmas presents 258this year. Neither are the children of the other combatant nations likely to have a very happy Christmas. So a kind American editor bethought himself that here was a chance for the boys and girls of America. The American Government entered very heartily into the project of sending what is now known as the Santa Claus ship to Europe with Christmas presents for the children of the warring nations, and they offered the use of a United States battleship. It was settled that the battleship should fly at her foremast a large white flag, with a red Star of Hope in the centre, and under it the word “Inasmuch.” It was further arranged that the Santa Claus ship should proceed first to England, then to France, and then to Belgium, the German children’s presents being sent through Rotterdam.

I want you to try and make a special effort to remember the following deed of heroism, because it seems to me to be in some ways the most moving and splendid told you in this book. That is why I have put it last.

It was during an engagement near Nancy that Corporal Lancaster, of the Coldstream Guards, was shot in the neck. It was a terrible wound, and his comrades dragged him into the shelter of a haystack. “Be quiet,” they whispered, “for if you groan you will give away the position.”

259Lancaster remained silent for six hours.

At last the Germans advanced. At a hundred yards from the haystack they were met by the blinding hail of the machine-gun section of the Coldstreams, and the silence of Corporal Lancaster was rewarded. Still grimly silent, he was gathered in by the Red Cross men at the end of a terrible day, and was soon on his way to England, who, we may safely assert, has never borne a braver son.

As the War Christmas drew in sight, kind Princess Mary suddenly bethought herself how nice it would be to send each of our sailors and soldiers a Christmas gift, or rather a Christmas parcel. Her Royal Highness accordingly issued a touching appeal to the public. It was responded to with great eagerness and enthusiasm. As a result five articles were sent to each man on active service, from Sir John French and Sir John Jellicoe to the youngest private or sailor serving under him. Every parcel contained some tobacco in a brass box on which was engraved, in a medallion, the names of the Allies, the proud words “Imperium Britannicum,” and a portrait of Princess Mary.

I feel I cannot end a record of gallant and merciful deeds more suitably than with the beautiful supplication 260for peace written by a French prince, Charles of Orleans, when a prisoner in England five hundred years ago.

I have not attempted to find or to provide a translation, for this poem, written in what a boy poet once called stained-glass-window French, is perfect, full of the humble piety and unquestioning faith of an age more trusting and holier than ours.