GENERAL SIR H. SMITH-DORRIEN. From the Painting by Arnold Mountford.
GENERAL SIR H. SMITH-DORRIEN.
From the Painting by Arnold Mountford.
The
Retreat from Mons
BY ONE WHO SHARED IN IT
BY A. CORBETT-SMITH (Major, R.F.A.)
With Three Plates and Map
For who is he, whose chin is but enrich'd
With one appearing hair, that will not follow
These cull'd and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
1916
To
GENERAL SIR H. L. SMITH-DORRIEN,
G.C.M.G., G.C.B., D.S.O., ETC.
DEAR GENERAL SMITH-DORRIEN,
When, some few months ago, you honoured me by your acceptance of this dedication I had in mind to make a single volume which should trace the course of the War during the period of your command of the Second Army, the unforgettable days from Mons to Ypres.
Since then I have found that there is one phase of the operations which has gripped the imagination of the public more than any other event of the past two years: the "Retreat from Mons." It is, indeed, almost incredible how little the people know of this, and how splendidly they respond to the telling of the story.
But it seems to me that the story can never be told as it should be. Only those who actually experienced the horror and the splendour of those ten days could hope to tell it, and for them the facts are blurred and distorted by the nightmare through which they passed.
Still, I am rashly making the attempt, and in doing so I try to write of the big, human side of things. For it is the trivial, homely incidents in the daily life of the British soldier, and the stories of noble devotion and chivalry of gallant gentlemen like Francis Grenfell and Bradbury, which fire the imagination. I know that you will understand and appreciate my motives.
For the rest, should the public be kind to this trivial volume I shall hope later to continue the narrative as I had originally intended.
Will you, then, accept my book, not in tribute of a Command which must remain indelibly scored in letters of gold on the page of our country's history so long as Britain endures, but as a memory of the two or three years of peace when I was privileged to work with you and of the year of war when I had the honour of serving, one of that "band of brothers," in your Command?
I am,
Very faithfully yours,
A. CORBETT-SMITH.
THE MIDDLE TEMPLE,
LONDON.
AUTHOR'S ACKNOWLEDGMENT
I tender my very grateful thanks to GENERAL SIR HORACE SMITH-DORRIEN for his kindness in reading the proof-sheets of the book and for several most valuable items of information.
My thanks are also due to CAPTAIN C. T. ATKINSON, of the Historical Section, Committee of Imperial Defence, for his courteous help in the task of compiling the Roll of Honour. Also to the SECRETARY, K.A. Institution, for the loan of material for the same purpose.
I have availed myself to some extent of the researches of MR. HILAIRE BELLOC in my estimates in Chapter V.; while my details of the German Army are taken from German sources, "Deutsche Land- und Seemacht," by Rabenau, and other volumes.
To my comrades-in-arms (few, alas! remain), whose deeds and experiences have contributed to the writing of the story, I hold out a hand of greeting. I salute in reverence the immortal souls of the gallant dead.
A. C.-S.
CONTENTS
Roll of Honour
CHAPTER
1. Mobilisation
2. The Sailing of the Force
3. The Landing of the Force
4. Up Country
5. The Marshalling of the Armies
6. Mons
7. Mons (continued)
8. The Retreat Begins
9. The Second Day
10. An Interlude
11. Wednesday, the 26th of August
12. Wednesday, the 26th of August (continued)
13. The Retreat Continues
14. Past CompiÈgne
15. The Final Stages
Appendix I.
Appendix II.
LIST OF PLATES
General Sir H. Smith-Dorrien . . . Frontispiece
Field-Marshal Viscount French
General Sir Douglas Haig
Map of Country from Mons to Paris
The Roll of Honour
OF THE
FIRST EXPEDITIONARY FORGE
General Officer Commanding-in-Chief the British Forces:
FIELD-MARSHAL SIR J. D. P. FRENCH.
Chief of the General Staff:
LIEUTENANT-GENERAL SIR A. J. MURRAY.
Adjutant-General:
MAJOR-GENERAL SIR C. F. N. MACREADY.
Quartermaster-General:
MAJOR-GENERAL SIR W. R. ROBERTSON.
FIRST ARMY CORPS
General Officer Commanding-in-Chief—
LIEUTENANT-GENERAL SIR DOUGLAS HAIG.
1st DIVISION
General Officer Commanding—MAJOR-GENERAL S. H. LOMAX.
1st Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL F. I. MAXSE.
1st Batt. Coldstream Guards.
1st Batt. R. Highlanders.
1st Batt. Scots Guards.
2nd Batt. R. Munster Fusiliers.
2nd Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL E. S. BULFIN.
2nd Batt. R. Sussex Regt.
1st Batt. Northampton Regt.
1st Batt. N. Lancs. Regt.
2nd Batt. K. R. Rifle Corps
3rd Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL H. J. S. LANDON.
1st Batt. R. W. Surrey Regt.
1st Batt. Gloucester Regt.
1st Batt. S. Wales Borderers.
2nd Batt. Welsh Regt.
CAVALRY (attached)
C Squadron 15th Hussars.
ROYAL ENGINEERS
23rd and 26th Field Companies.
ROYAL ARTILLERY
R.F.A. Batteries—113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 46, 51, 54;
(Howitzer) 30, 40, 57.
Heavy Battery R.G.A.—26.
An Ammunition Column and an Ammunition Park.
2nd DIVISION
General Officer Commanding—MAJOR-GENERAL C. C. MONRO.
4th Infantry Brigade
Brigade-Commander—GENERAL R. SCOTT-KERR.
2nd Batt. Grenadier Guards
3rd Batt. Coldstream Guards
2nd Batt. Coldstream Guards
lst Batt. Irish Guards.
5th Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL R. C. B. HAKING.
2nd Batt. Worcester Regt.
2nd Batt. Highland L.I.
2nd Batt. Oxford and Bucks L.I.
2nd Batt. Connaught Rangers
6th Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL R. H. DAVIES.
1st Batt. Liverpool Regt.
1st Batt. R. Berks Regt.
2nd Batt. S. Staffs. Regt.
lst Batt. K. R. Rifle
CAVALRY (attached)
B Squadron 15th Hussars.
ROYAL ENGINEERS
5th and 11th Field Companies.
ROYAL ARTILLERY
R.F.A. Batteries—22, 50, 70, 15, 48, 71, 9, 16, 17;
(Howitzer) 47, 56, 60.
Heavy Battery R.G.A.—35.
An Ammunition Column and an Ammunition Park.
CAVALRY
A Division (Four Brigades)
General Officer Commanding—MAJOR-GENERAL E. H. H. ALLENBY.
1st Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL C. J. BRIGGS.
2nd Dragoon Guards.
5th Dragoon Guards.
11th Hussars.
2nd Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL H. DE B. DE LISLE.
4th Dragoon Guards.
9th Lancers.
18th Hussars.
3rd Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL H. DE LA POER GOUGH.
4th Hussars.
5th Lancers.
16th Lancers.
4th Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL HON. C. E. BINGHAM.
Household Cavalry (composite Regiment).
6th Dragoon Guards.
3rd Hussars.
And—
the 5th Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL SIR P. W. CHETWODE.
12th Lancers.
20th Hussars.
2nd Dragoons.
ROYAL HORSE ARTILLERY
Batteries "D," "E," "I," "J," "L."
SECOND ARMY CORPS
General Officer Commanding-in-Chief—
GENERAL SIR H. L. SMITH-DORRIEN.
3rd DIVISION
General Officer Commanding—MAJOR-GENERAL H. I. W. HAMILTON.
7th Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL F. W. N. McCRACHEN.
3rd Batt. Worcester Regt.
1st Batt. Wilts Regt.
2nd Batt. S. Lancs. Regt.
2nd Batt. R. Irish Rifles.
8th Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL B. J. C. DORAN.
2nd Batt. R. Scots.
4th Batt. Middlesex Regt.
2nd Batt. R. Irish Regt.
1st Batt. Gordon Highlanders.
9th Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL F. C. SHAW.
1st Batt. Northumberland Fusiliers.
1st Batt. Lincolnshire Regt.
1st Batt. R. Scots Fusiliers.
4th Batt. R. Fusiliers.
CAVALRY (attached)
A Squadron 15th Hussars.
ROYAL ENGINEERS
56th and 57th Field Companies.
ROYAL ARTILLERY
R.F.A. Batteries—107, 108, 109, 6, 23, 49, 29, 41, 45;
(Howitzer) 128, 129, 130.
Heavy Battery R. G. A.—48.
An Ammunition Column and an Ammunition Park.
5th DIVISION
General Officer Commanding—MAJOR-GENERAL SIR C. FERGUSSON.
13th Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL G. J. CUTHBERT.
2nd Batt. K. O. Scottish Borderers.
1st Batt. R.W. Kent Regt.
2nd Batt. Yorks L.I.
2nd Batt. W. Riding Regt.
14th Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL S. P. ROLT.
2nd Batt. Suffolk Regt.
1st Batt. Duke of Cornwall's L.I.
1st Batt. East Surrey Regt.
2nd Batt. Manchester Regt.
15th Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL COUNT A. E. W. GLEICHEN.
1st Batt. Norfolk Regt.
1st Batt. Cheshire Regt.
1st Batt. Bedford Regt.
1st Batt. Dorset Regt.
CAVALRY (attached)
A Squadron 19th Hussars.
ROYAL ENGINEERS
17th and 59th Field Companies.
ROYAL ARTILLERY
R.F.A. Batteries—11, 52, 80, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124;
(Howitzer) 37, 61, 65.
Heavy Battery R.G.A.—108.
An Ammunition Column and an Ammunition Park.
19th Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—MAJOR-GENERAL L. G. DRUMMOND.
2nd Batt. R. Welsh Fusiliers.
1st Batt. Middlesex Regt.
1st Batt. Scottish Rifles.
2nd Batt. Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders.
ROYAL FLYING CORPS
Aeroplane Squadrons Nos. 2, 3, 4 and 5.
ARMY SERVICE CORPS
Horsed and Mechanical Transport.
ROYAL ARMY MEDICAL CORPS
There came into line at Le Cateau on August 25th the—
4th DIVISION
General Officer Commanding—MAJOR-GENERAL T. D. O. SNOW.
10th Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL J. A. L. HALDANE.
1st Batt. R. Warwickshire Regt.
1st Batt. R. Irish Fusiliers.
2nd Batt. Seaforth Highlanders.
2nd Batt. R. Dublin Fusiliers.
11th Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL A. G. HUNTER-WESTON.
1st Batt. Somersetshire L.I.
1st Batt. Hampshire Regt.
1st Batt. E. Lancs. Regt.
1st Batt. Rifle Brigade.
12th Infantry Brigade
Brigade Commander—BRIGADIER-GENERAL H. F. M. WILSON.
1st Batt. R. Lancs. Regt.
2nd Batt. R. Inniskilling Fusiliers.
2nd Batt. Lancashire Fusiliers.
2nd Batt. Essex Regt.
CAVALRY (attached)
B Squadron 19th Hussars.
ROYAL ENGINEERS
7th and 9th Field Companies.
ROYAL ARTILLERY
R.F.A. Batteries—39, 68, 88 (xiv. Brigade); 125, 126, 127 (xxix
Brigade); 27, 134, 135 (xxxii. Brigade); 31, 35, 55 (xxxvii. Brigade).
Heavy Battery R.G.A.—31.
LINES OF COMMUNICATION AND ARMY TROOPS
1st Batt. Devonshire Regt.
1st Batt. Cameron Highlanders
The Retreat from Mons
CHAPTER I
MOBILISATION
Now all the youth of England are on fire,
And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies;
Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thought
Reigns solely in the breast of every man.
August 5th, 1914! "Who would have dreamed of such a thing!" exclaimed the big majority. "So it has come at last," said the small minority.
Broadly speaking, there you have the country's opinion during those now dimly remembered days which followed immediately upon Germany's throwing down of the gauntlet.
Officers and men of our once-upon-a-time professional Army did not bother very much about it either way. War was their job. Active service was to be welcomed as a picnic change from the monotony of soldiering in England. Also, to the man keen on his profession (and since the Boer War such men have been steadily increasing in numbers) it meant the chance of promotion and of showing what he was made of.
A war, even long foreseen, must inevitably come as a surprise when it does actually break out, and this one was no exception. During the last week of that July there were very, very few in Aldershot who felt certain that the hour was at last striking.
But Aldershot was ready for it. For many a long year past Aldershot had existed for the Army. Latterly it had been the forge where Britain's little striking force, the spear-head of her armies, had been welded, sharpened and tested, made ready for instant launching. So, with the Fleet, were we prepared to fulfil our pact with France; or, if the summons came, to stand by Belgium.
Aldershot existed for war, and the comings and goings of troops passed almost unnoticed. True, it now became increasingly difficult to find rooms in the town, and the local outfitters promptly set to work to reap a golden harvest from the fantastic prices which they put upon war gear of all kinds, but that was all—at least to the eye of a casual observer.
There was Fritz, the doyen of Aldershot hairdressers. I wonder how much he learned in those days of the movements of units. Fritz had been an institution in the camps when present-day G.O.C.'s, grizzled and weather-beaten, had, as junior subalterns, sought his advice upon the training of incipient moustaches. Fritz remembered them all, could instantly reel off details of their careers, their regiments or stations, from the time they had left Aldershot until they had returned in senior commands. All duly pigeonholed in Berlin together with seemingly trivial incidents in their private lives.
Later on, sometime at the Aisne, rumour came round that Herr Fritz had been up to mischief of a more serious nature and that he had been duly lodged in prison, or shot, or something equally suitable.
Those were happy if very strenuous days at Aldershot that week or so before the embarkation. Men talked very little about the future, everyone was really too busy. Thoughts naturally flew back to the South African War when they did talk.
"Nobody was particularly keen on that," was the generally expressed opinion; "nobody wanted to kill the Boers; too one-sided. This—oh! this is the real thing. We've got our work cut out."
The very day after the mobilisation the Officers' Mess showed signs of packing up. It reminded one so much of the third act in The Second in Command. Two notices in the hall brought things home:—
"Officers may wear Service dress or blue undress jackets in Mess."
"Officers are particularly requested to pay their mess bills before leaving."
Packing-cases and parcels began to drift in and lie about: dozens of telegrams passed in and out: a smaller variety of dishes appeared at luncheon and dinner: the regimental band came and played to us every night (the cheerier spirits all took a hand at conducting, especially rag-time).
Everybody had his job, and nobody knew what anyone else was doing. Right at the beginning we experienced a curious feeling of secrecy. You would see an officer at lunch and miss him at dinner.
"Oh yes! I believe he has gone this afternoon," someone remarks.
"When are you off?" Colonel X. would say to an officer in a moment of forgetfulness, hastily adding, "No, I don't want to know—but, mind you pay your mess bill before you go."
This secrecy of movement was certainly the most striking feature of those early days: that, and the splendid organisation. We have got accustomed to it since, but at the time, and to men used to the happy-go-lucky methods of this dear, lovable, muddle-headed old country of ours, that organisation struck one as amazing.
On August 5th every C.O. was handed a file of documents. In these were given the most precise directions as to times, places and dates when his unit was to leave Aldershot. For instance:
"Train No. 463Y will arrive at siding B at 12.35 A.M., August 10th.
"You will complete loading by 3.40 A.M.
"This train will leave siding C at 9.45 A.M., August 10th.
"You will march on to the platform at 9.30 A.M. and complete your entraining by 9.40."
And I believe it is a fact that every train left five minutes ahead of its scheduled time. The London and South Western Railway was given sixty hours in which to send to Southampton 350 troop-trains. They did it in forty-five hours. "Some" hustle! The astonishing efficiency of it all, and the admirable co-operation between military and civil authorities. I very much doubt if there were more than two officers of the Staff at Aldershot H.Q. who knew details of the intended movements. Fritz must have been annoyed. C.O.'s, and other individual officers, who knew when their own unit was timed for departure, entered splendidly into the spirit of the game and loyally kept the information to themselves; would not even tell their people, nor their best girls.
One day the King came down. The visit was as secret as everything else. Each unit received about a quarter of an hour's warning of His Majesty's approach, and the men turned out of their tents or broke off their work to line up by the road. A few words of "good-bye, and good luck" to the men, a warm hand-clasp to the officers, three cheers, and the Royal car slipped forward to the next unit. One could hear the ripple of cheering flow round the camps as His Majesty passed.
By the way, it is a little curious how, from the very beginning, there have been just three words used by everyone in bidding "good-bye." "Good-bye, and good luck." A kind of spontaneous, universal formula. Officers used it, the men, mothers, wives and sweethearts.
"Good-bye, and good luck" to our sailors
(It's a big debt we owe you to-day),
"Good-bye, and good luck" to our soldiers
(Some day we shall hope to repay).
Though anxious the hearts left behind you,
And a tear from the eye seems to fall,
Yet—"good-bye"—God be with you, "good luck attend you,
"Good-bye, and good luck to you all"—
as the refrain of a popular song had it later.
Impressions of those few hurried days are blurred. In a sense one had been through it all many times before. It differed but little from moving station or preparing for manoeuvres. And yet there was something of the glamour of an unknown future before one: an instinctive feeling that this was the end of soldiering as we had known it. Not that anyone dreamed of the war lasting beyond Christmas; there are no pessimists in the Army. We were all at school breaking up for the holidays, and I think that just about sums up the situation as we saw it at Aldershot. The unknown future was more on the lines of "Shall we get any skating?" "Will there be some good shows at the theatres?" "What sort of fun will the Pytchley give us?" "Shall I be able to get in the Hunt Ball?"
And so one has little enough to say about the days of mobilisation and packing up. Besides, quite enough has already been written to satisfy an interested public. One little adventure, however, seems worth recording. It befell a certain Gunner captain who was detailed to conduct a draft of men from one unit to another. The yarn has the merit of being true in every particular. It may form a small chapter to itself.
A TOURING COMPANY
"Putting two and two together," said the A.S.C. major, "I imagine that you're to take this draft on to Portsmouth and hand over to the O.C. of the company down there."
Why a Gunner captain should have to conduct a draft of Field Gunners to a place like Portsmouth and hand them over to the tender mercies of an A.S.C. Company Commander, I couldn't imagine. Nor indeed why a Gunner should take his instructions from an A.S.C. major at all. But the Divisional C.R.A. had sent me up to him with the remark, "It looks as though you ought to report there," and that was all about it.
Mobilisation is responsible for a good many queer happenings, and here at Aldershot on the third day of it most men were rather at sea.
Even in those few hours one had learned not to ask questions. There was no objection to the asking, but the answer was usually a vacant, far-away look over the shoulder and "Eenteenth Brigade Office? Oh, it's over there"; and a wave of the arm would comprehensively include Farnborough, Deepcut and the Town Station.
And that was how the trouble began. If only the A.S.C. major had exercised a little imagination and made five out of his addition sum: if only he had read his own instructions a little more carefully (although we didn't know that till afterwards), a draft of tired Gunners would not have spent the next week trailing about the South of England looking for an A.S.C. company which didn't want them, and their officer would not have received a black mark which nearly damned his future chances at the very outset. But that by the way.
"The men had their breakfast at three this morning," and the cheery little subaltern, who had brought the draft down from Newcastle, saluted and discreetly made himself still smaller by vanishing hastily round the nearest corner.
I took my railway warrant and went out to have a look at the draft.
A fresh-looking lot they were; young, most of them, averaging about twenty-three years old; special reservists the senior sergeant told me. The few old hands, who sadly needed a shave and a wash, showed how young the rest of them were. I didn't take much stock of them, then. One doesn't when it's just a conducting job of a few hours, handing over, and back to Headquarters right away.
The men stood to attention, picked up their kits, and, with a "Fours left," we were off to the station down the shimmering, dancing, sandy roads of the Aldershot camps. The A.S.C. major returned to his ledgers and more arithmetic, and the cheery subaltern reclined at lordly ease in a Gunner Mess arm-chair, with a tinkling glass of gin and ginger beer at his elbow, and discussed the striking results of the previous day's battle in the North Sea—which had not taken place.
The station-master, who didn't look as worried as he felt, touched his cap.
"A local to ——, then change and go on to Reigate" (was it Reigate? I forget now, one visited so many out-of-the-way places), "and from there you'll probably get a through train to Portsmouth. If there isn't room in the train you can always turn people out."
Visions of burly, homespun-clad farmers and comfortable market-women being turned out, protesting, by a mere Gunner captain danced through my brain. Actions for assault and battery, damages, bail, prison.
"How an if they will not turn out?" said I.
And then I realised. This was War, red War; and Great Britain was mobilising. The needs of the State were paramount.
"You shall bid them turn out in the Prince's name," and, unlike Dogberry, shall see that you are obeyed.
And I made myself two inches taller because after all a Gunner captain was somebody in the world now. And people looked with a new interest at the lads in khaki and began to realise, perhaps for the first time, that they would have to count on the British Army even though it were "such a little one."
To do the good folk justice there was never a word of protest at the idea of having to turn out. And we had to invite them to do so a good many times before the company finished its tour of the Southern ports. Really it might have been a railway in Germany from the way the civilians gave road to the uniform. This change of attitude was certainly a vivid contrast to the days—last week was it?—when a man in His Majesty's uniform was looked at askance in crowded street and bar.
At Reigate, where we had to wait an hour, a bombardier, one of the old hands, begged leave to visit a certain hotel outside the station to buy some bread and cheese.
He was a man who hardly gave the appearance of being bread-and-cheese hungry, if you quite take my meaning, and the glassy stare with which this ancient tried to fix me augured ill for discipline if there were many others in the draft like him. Permission was refused. It was a trivial point gained but it had its consequences.
Portsmouth was reached in some five hours; and twenty minutes' march brought us to the A.S.C. barracks where a hot dinner would cheer us all; for I had remembered to send a telegram en route to tell them to expect us.
We were received with cordiality by a decrepit old store-keeper, and the stables' cat. Otherwise the barracks looked as though an army had lately sacked the place from floor to basement.
The men looked glum, and there was more than a hint of a move to a near-by hotel for "bread and cheese." Well, they were only young reservists and discipline was an almost unknown quantity.
But dinner had to materialise somehow. So, demanding the keys of the castle from the unwilling seneschal, the senior sergeant, the bombardier, the stables' cat and myself started on a tour of inspection.
Good! The kitchen contained a sack of flour and most of a sheep. Apparently the sheep was intended to last the decrepit servitor and his struggling family for the rest of the week. But we paid no heed to tearful entreaties and ruthlessly tore the meat away from their very mouths.
"This is War," said I.
Soon dinner was well on the way, blankets were found for the men, and off I went to report to Headquarters.
H.Q. "received me most politely," as Harry Fragson used to sing, and didn't think they wanted me nor my company for any performance in Portsmouth.
"Come back to-morrow morning," said H.Q., "and we'll tell you."
The next day. "Oh, yes!" said H.Q., "you're Field Gunners, you're evidently sent here for Hilsea (two miles out): you'd better move on at once."
"Parade with kits in half an hour," I ordered.
Merrily we marched forth from the castle gates. Were we not wanted at Hilsea?
A cyclist orderly threw himself, panting, from his machine.
"H.Q.'s compliments and will you please report there at once."
"Halt! Fours about! Quick march!"
H.Q. again received me most politely.
"No, you're not to go to Hilsea. You've evidently got to join the Eenty-eenth A.S.C. Company which has gone on to Bristol. You'll just catch the 5.0 train if you're sharp."
"We're to go to Bristol," said I to the senior sergeant, "and you've got to get a move on or we'll miss the train."
"I've heard tell of Bristol," he ruminated; "nice place, so my wife's cousin's husband used to say. He did tell as how——"
But I cut the soliloquy short and got the draft out of the castle again.
A few minutes later peaceable citizens fled into doorways and up courts, electric cars pulled up short with a grinding of brakes, policemen held up traffic. The R.F.A. draft approached at a steady double.
"Where's the fire?" yelled some.
"The Germans have captured the 'Hampshire Arms,'" said others.
"It's for a cinema show," screamed a ragged urchin. Everyone gave us kindly encouragement, and girls waved merrily as we flew past. The bombardier, who was on the pavement side, threw an arm gallantly round the waist of a stout matron of some forty summers and dragged her, not unwillingly, half a dozen yards before he could get home with a kiss on the cheek.
But we caught that train with five minutes to spare. The men were now beginning to see the joke. As yet it had escaped me. Of course it was not the first time I had seen "Tommy" at his cheeriest under misadventures; but this cheeriness now struck me vividly for the first time. To-day it is world-famous.
They certainly made that journey a lively one. Six hours in a slow train across country—it is apt to become somewhat tedious. I tried to look like the man who owns a dog which persists in nibbling the trousers of total strangers—to pretend they (the men, not the trousers) didn't belong to me. It was no good. They might have been Lancashire lads off to Blackpool for the "wakes."
So with imitations of Harry Tate, George Robey and other well-known favourites of the music-halls, the railway officials at the various stations being made the butt of the jokes; with a weird medley of harmony and melody, from "Hallo, hallo, who's your lady friend?" to "Sun of my Soul," the journey passed happily enough until the first of the Bristol stations was reached about 11.45 P.M.
As no one knew where the A.S.C. barracks were I got through on the telephone to H.Q.
"This is Captain Estcourt, R.F.A., speaking. I've got——"
The orderly evidently went to fetch someone else. It turned out to be an adjutant, who listened to me most politely.
"No, we've got no A.S.C. here. I don't think there are any in Bristol. But you might ring up —— Barracks and see." Prrr.
"Hallo! Is that —— Barracks? I'm Captain——"
The orderly went to fetch someone. This time, after a long wait, it was evidently an irascible senior officer.
"No. No A.S.C. here. Try Avonmouth." Prrr.
This looked like bedding down in the station waiting-rooms. Still we would try Avonmouth.
Avonmouth Headquarters received me over the telephone most politely, considering the time of night.
"No, we've got no A.S.C. here; but you might ring up the Embarkation Office." Prrr.
"Hallo! Embarkation Office? I'm ——, etc."
The Embarkation Office was not quite so polite in its reception. It sounded very worried.
"No. We've got no A.S.C. here. You can come along down if you like in case the company should turn up."
Luckily the last train had not gone. When it drew up in the station the men greeted it as a long-lost friend. To the strains of "All aboard for Dixie" they clambered in, more cheery than ever.
At Avonmouth we came out into a wilderness of mighty sheds. The night breeze from the Bristol Channel carried with it the pungent, cleanly smell of tarred rope.
"This is Avonmouth," said I to the senior sergeant, "and we can't go any farther unless a ship is waiting for us. I'm going to see where we can bed down."
The Embarkation Office had had time to recover from its worries and received me very politely.
Eventually we got the men into one of the sheds where hundreds of sacks of oats lay about. In ten minutes they had made themselves amazingly comfortable and peace reigned.
But I'm glad we went to Avonmouth. It gave me my first real glimpse of the astonishing organisation under which the Expeditionary Force was to take the field; and also of the methods of supply.
Outside the dock gates, by all the approach roads into the little town, there were streaming in hundreds upon hundreds of great motor lorries, the majority of them built to carry three tons.
From all parts of England and Scotland dozens were arriving every hour. The organisation of it! Here was the third or fourth day from mobilisation and there were a couple of thousand ready for transportation.
You picture a vividly green lorry of a big whisky distillery up North axle to axle with the scarlet of a Brixton firm with its blatant advertisement of somebody's corsets. The cockney driver from a London furnishing house exchanged honeyed words with a colleague from "'twixt Trent and Tweed" in a polite inquiry as to why the hell he couldn't let his tail-board down without using his (the Londoner's) radiator to scrape his boots on.
"Can't you imagine Tommy's comments when he finds a 'Johnny Walker' van bringing up his ammunition in the wilds of Belgium," was the general remark, "but I suppose they'll give them a coat of paint first."
They didn't, as a matter of fact; at least not for several months, so that Tommy was able to indulge his gift of language to the full.
And so nearly two days passed. The men amused themselves by wandering about the docks, wondering at the shipping, and making sarcastic remarks about the lorry drivers who were being taught how to handle a rifle.
Then came a telegram from H.Q., Aldershot.
"Return and report here immediately."
"Good," said the senior sergeant to me, "I always did like Aldershot. But we've had quite a pleasant holiday seeing the country."
The draft duly paraded again, and when they learned their next destination their remarks were a joy to listen to.
We caught a 9.0 train in the evening into Bristol. Then we marched across the city, a matter of, say, three miles. It was a Sunday night, the good citizens were abed. But my lads were determined to show that they were by no means downhearted.
The march across was one long pageant of melody. "I'm going home to Dixie" was prime favourite, and splendidly they sang it in harmony. Then some evening hymns, then more rag-time—they were really excellent exponents of that difficult art—then "Onward, Christian Soldiers"; but never a note of "Tipperary." That immortal chorus had not yet "arrived."
The midnight train from Bristol to Reading. A wait of three hours. Finally, Aldershot (the wrong station) at 6.30 A.M. A march of four miles into camp somewhat took the spirit out of the men, breakfastless and carrying heavy kits. But we rallied them at the last post and came in singing "Somewhere the sun is shining," like a choir of Welsh colliers. We certainly looked the part.
"We've been looking for you for a week; where on earth have you been?" was hurled at us as we marched in.
The bombardier started upon a story which would have made that intrepid explorer Captain de Rougemont green with envy. I left him to his astonished audience and went off for a bath and shave before attending my own funeral at H.Q.
It will have been observed that there were varying degrees in the politeness with which successive H.Q.s greeted my touring company. The politeness with which Aldershot Headquarters now greeted me was well below freezing-point.
"I received your telegrams from Portsmouth and various other places," was the Chief's opening. "You appear to have been taking your men upon an extended holiday round the southern coast health resorts. May I inquire, without appearing too inquisitive, your authority for this expenditure of public money?"
"Will you allow me to explain, sir?"
"I am waiting for your explanation."
I began. When I had recounted the story of the A.S.C. major's arithmetical problem I saw that I had the Great Man's attention. As soon as I had caught the 5 P.M. train from Portsmouth——
"Sit down, won't you," said the Great Man; "cigarette?"
I took one from his proffered case and lit it carefully.
"If only I can hold him," thought I, "I shall pull through."
I did hold him, and I did pull through.
"I don't know that I can compliment you on your perspicacity," said the Great Man, "but I can see now where the blame lies. I had intended to withdraw your name from the Expeditionary Force, but——"
I got up, mouth open.
"Expeditionary Force?" It can only have been a feeble gasp which the Great Man heard. "Am I going out with the Force?"
The Great Man smiled and put his hand on my shoulder.
"We'll overlook it this time. Let's see how well you can do your job. And if you send in your claim for travelling expenses, send it to me and I'll countersign it."
I suppose I must have said something by way of thanks. I suppose I must have saluted, and closed the door behind me. I know that I cleared half a dozen or so of the stairs down at a bound and fell over an astonished sentry at the bottom. It must have looked most undignified in a Gunner captain, but—I had actually been selected to join the British Expeditionary Force with a command of my own and——
I leaped into the waiting taxicab in a state of delirium.
The driver touched his cap.
"Where to, sir?" said he.
"Where to? Where to? Oh! Brussels; anywhere."
The driver grinned in sympathetic understanding and got on to third speed in as many seconds.
And that is how I very nearly missed the most gorgeous adventure of my life.
CHAPTER II
THE SAILING OF THE FORCE
Follow, follow!
Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy;
And leave your England as dead midnight still.
*****
For who is he, whose chin is but enrich'd
With one appearing hair, that will not follow
These cull'd and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?
"I consider that I have command of the sea when I am able to tell my Government that they can move an expedition to any point without fear of interference from an enemy's fleet."—SIR GEOFFREY HORNBY.
Train No. B46 had slipped unostentatiously into its appointed siding precisely on its scheduled time. For a couple of hours the men had been working like galley-slaves to get the ammunition on board in time. The C.O. and two other officers with their coats off were working as hard as the rest. And it is no joke heaving up and packing neatly cases of 18-pr. and howitzer shell, especially when you are not used to it.
Finished at last, and with half an hour to the good. Another four hours and they will be on the road themselves, the first step into the unknown.
A couple of hours' sleep, a shave and a bath, a final look round the battery office, a last hurried breakfast in the Mess, and a last handshake with the colonel.
"You off? Well, good-bye, and good luck to you. We shall meet over the other side, I expect."
The battery parades. "Battery all present, sir," reports the sergeant-major. The report runs through until it reaches the C.O. A few minutes to ride round the teams and then:
"Column o' route from the right. Walk—march!" and the battery is off through the early morning quiet of the Aldershot streets, bound for the port of embarkation.
Thus the mounted units, or most of them. Others by train. A few lines will serve as description for all these.
A Railway Transport Officer meets the C.O. on the platform as the men march in.
"Get your men in as quickly as you can, please; we always get off five minutes ahead of time."
"What's our port?" asks the C.O.
"No idea. Push on, please."
The C.O. "pushes on."
"All in," he reports to the R.T.O., and turns for a final shake of the hand.
"Well, good-bye, and good luck" (always that phrase); "wish I was coming with you."
The R.T.O. gives the signal and looks wistfully for a moment after the train before he clambers across the metals to dispatch another dozen or so units from other sidings.
"Where are we embarking?" asks everyone. Not a soul knows. I don't believe the engine-driver himself knew. He just went gaily forward following the points or stopping for signals.
"Through Winchester! Why, it must be Southampton. Wonder what our port will be the other side?"
Detraining and embarkation at Southampton were carried out under the same admirable conditions of efficiency and speed, and with never a single hitch. It seems little enough to read the sentence in cold print, but the more one thinks about it the more wonderful appears the organisation. Had it been the German War Staff directing movements the affair would have seemed no more than an ordinary episode. But with memories of the South African War, and a hundred everyday incidents constantly revealing muddling, red-tape methods, one can find no words in which to express adequately one's admiration for this astonishing volte-face. One single incident, one of fifty like it, will show to what excellent purpose the Authorities had profited by experience, even in those early days.
An A.S.C. motor transport unit was detailed to embark upon a certain ship. Nearly a day's warning had been given to the O.C. The lorries were driven to the dock-side and were just being got on board. The Embarkation Officer, who was standing quietly by, suddenly informed the C.O. that his ship was not that one but another due to sail from another dock some distance away.
The C.O. had barely time in which to get his lorries across, and the ship sailed the moment all was reported clear.
An incident trivial enough, and how un-English it seemed at the time. But after the secret landing of the 9th Army Corps at Suvla, and the subsequent evacuation of Gallipoli, it would appear that we have nothing to learn in the art of ruse.
The weather in those early days of August was perfect: the sea so calm that there was no discomfort even, with the men and horses packed on board like sardines in a tin. If it was a night crossing, the men bedded down in rows out on the decks just as they had filed on board. The transports were of all kinds, from an Atlantic liner to a coasting tramp.
The ship's officers did more than their best for everybody's comfort, giving up their cabins to the officers, sharing their meals and refusing to accept any payment for food and drinks. If the skipper of a certain ship of the Royal Mail Company, which sailed on the early morning of August 16th from Southampton, chances to see these lines I would tell him how gratefully his kindness is remembered, and how the little mascot, in the shape of a tiny teapot from the steward's pantry, brought the best of luck through ten months' hard service, always made excellent tea whenever called upon, and now occupies a place of honour in my china cabinet. Here's wishing everything of the best to those who carry on the fine traditions of the blue or red ensign!
"Well, where are we bound for?" This to the First Officer.
"Don't know a bit," he replies. "The skipper may know, but I'm not sure. Anyway he's as close as a barnacle about it."
We steamed across Channel with all lights on. It was another of those astonishing facts which didn't strike one until later. We were off the mouth of the Seine exactly twelve hours after sailing. And all that time we only once sighted anything in the shape of a convoy, and that was a T.B.D. for about twenty minutes a couple of miles to starboard.
At this stage it seems almost invidious to say anything more about the work of the Grand Fleet during that first fortnight. And yet, even now, the public is amazingly ignorant of what the Navy has accomplished, or, indeed is still accomplishing. Ignorant, not through indifference, but because the Authorities still steadily refuse to take seriously in hand the work of education in war facts and ideas.
How the Navy succeeded in sweeping the enemy flag from the North Sea and the Channel in a couple of days, apparently without firing a shot, we cannot pretend to guess. Some day the story will be told. But the result was the most astonishing manifestation of the real meaning of naval supremacy that the world has ever seen, or is ever likely to see. And Germany, by her naval inaction, lost for ever her great chance of the War, and so, in failing to intercept or damage the British Expeditionary Force, failed also to enter Paris and to end the war upon her own terms within the period she had intended. The British Army may have saved Paris, but the British Navy enabled it to do so.
Entering the Seine the skipper revealed the name of our destination, Rouen. Another instance of organisation and forethought on the part of the Authorities in using small ships so as to get right up the river and disembark troops and stores well inland.
Again, this has become a matter of everyday routine, but in those days each such new manoeuvre was sufficiently remarkable for admiring comment.
Here the pilot came on board. A typical old son of Normandy he was, grizzled and weatherbeaten, clambering aboard with stiff heavy gait.
On to the bridge he climbed: saw our lads clustered thick as bees in the fo'c'sle and lower deck. Up went his cap into the air, tears sprang to his eyes.
"Vivent les Anglais!" he shouted, "vive l'Angleterre! A—ah" (with an instinct of triumph), "Ça va bien. Ils arrivent."
How the lads yelled in answer.
"Cheer-o, moossoo. Veeve France! 'Who's your lady friend?' 'For he's a jolly good fellow,'"—and other pertinent observations.
Then, to my astonishment, they burst into the "Marseillaise." How and where they had learned it I have no idea. But sing it they did, and very well too. They took that little curly bit in the middle, where a B flat comes when you least expect it, just like an old hunter clearing a stiff post-and-rails. And that old chap stood on the bridge and mopped his eyes, and didn't care who saw him do it. The English had really come to stand by his beloved France. Comme Ça va bien!
That was the first hint we had of the reception which awaited us.
You picture the transport steaming slowly up river between the high, wooded banks. Little houses, such as Peter Pan might have built for Wendy, seem to sway dizzily in the tree-tops. Out on to the verandas, down to the river path run the women and children, and the few old men who remain. Everyone carries a little flag; not the French tricolour, but the British Jack—or rather an excellent substitute.
Dimly one can see the waving hands, faintly across the water echo the treble voices. But know now what it means, and gallantly our lads respond to this welcome of out future hosts, who, with true French courtesy, have met their guests at the very entrance gates.
Far up the hill-side, close under the ridge, there nestles a tiny cottage. A blot of deep crimson staining the deeper green of the trees makes me take out my binoculars. The good house-wife, with no British flag available, yet determined to do honour to her country's allies, has taken the red tablecloth, has stitched long bands of white across it to form a St. Andrew's Cross, and flung it proudly across the balustrade. What monarch ever had truer-hearted welcome from his own people? Well, the sight brought a lump to the throat of at least one Englishman.
And so slowly we steamed up the historic river. France had indeed flung wide her gates in welcome. Here we found ourselves moving in a small procession of transports. Greetings swung across from one ship to the next, to combine and roar out a British answer to our French friends on shore.
Ah! but it was good to feel that Britain had not failed France, though the obligation were no more than a moral one. It was good to be an Englishman that day; good to feel that Englishmen then in France could now look Frenchmen squarely in the face and say:
"You thought we were going to stand aside, didn't you? Well, you see we are coming in with you and you can bet that means that we intend to see it through."
Yes, one felt proud as never before.
CHAPTER III
THE LANDING OF THE FORCE
"Shall not thou and I, between Saint Dennis and Saint George, compound a boy, half French, half English, that shall go to Constantinople, and take the Turk by the beard?"
The dominant note in the reception which the French gave to the Force on landing was undoubtedly that of relief. Happy in showering little courtesies, surprised and delighted with everything British—all these, but it was relief which came uppermost in their minds. The feeling which the old pilot had expressed in his "comme Ça va bien, maintenant."
And as transport after transport slid quietly to her berth alongside the broad Rouen quays, discharged her freight of men, horses, guns, stores, lorries, and the countless trappings of a modern army, and then as quickly and noiselessly vacated the berth for her successor, so increased the wonder and delight of the good Normandy folk.
That les anglais should really have arrived was splendid enough, but that they should also bring with them their own food and cooking arrangements—"mais c'est tonnant! et quelle organisation!"
Everyone spoke in admiring comment about it. And how Rouen crowded down to the quays or out to the rest camps to watch les anglais cooking their dinners! Army stores those few days were sadly depleted of tins of jam, biscuits and "grocery ration." How could one refuse the hungry look in the eye of a motherly matron as she espied a packet of the famous English tea?
And the children! We learned for the first time how hungry children could be when they saw biscuits and jam.
Make a fuss of the kiddies and you have won the mothers! And if you have won the mothers and women of France you have conquered "la belle France" herself. And les anglais conquered France in those few days at the French ports. The happiest of victories, and one which augured well for the future.
Nothing pleased the French more than British courtesy and gentleness to women and children; and their kindness to and care of their horses. British love of personal cleanliness, and the unfailing cheeriness of the men, these have, of course, long since become proverbial. But then it was all new to France, almost to the world, and so one records these things as first impressions.
And the Scotties. Everyone knows how the lads from north of the Tweed made sad havoc among French hearts. Have they not always done so since Frenchmen and Scotsmen first clasped hands in alliance?
If a Scotsman was asked once a day whether he wore anything under his kilt he was asked a hundred times. And truth compels me to add that it was generally the ladies who put the question. What the answer was I never found out. I imagine that our lads were not sorry to hide their blushes in the troop trains which carried them forward to the frontier.
But all these little details have been so admirably recorded by Philip Gibbs in his masterly book, "The Soul of the War," that there is really not much more to tell. I shall have still a little to add in the next chapter, when it comes to trekking up country.
I had some little cause on the first day of landing to regret the exuberance of French hospitality. Half my men, they were mostly Special Reservists, suddenly disappeared into the unknown directly they set foot on shore. And they hadn't a week's pay in their pockets either.
Eventually I got them rounded up and next morning there were twenty-five prisoners, "caps off," for "office." To say they were surprised is to give a very poor indication of their feelings when they found varying degrees of punishment awarded to them.
But this was nothing to the ludicrous expressions of the men when all the remainder were paraded and informed what they had to expect on active service. It ran somewhat as follows:
"When a sentry, sleeping upon his post."
Punishment—DEATH.
"Leaving his C.O. to go in search of
plunder." Punishment—DEATH.
"Forcing a safeguard."—DEATH.
"Quitting his guard without leave."—DEATH.
"Disobeying the lawful command of his
superior officer."—DEATH.
And so on, the lightest punishment being about fourteen years' Rigorous Imprisonment.
Their faces got longer and longer as the list proceeded, and it was a very meek detachment who turned to their dinners on the quay-side. And that was the beginning and end of any trouble with those good lads until the day when they, or the poor remnant who pulled through, crowded round to sing "Auld lang syne" and give me a farewell cheer. Fine work they did, and always as cheery and lovable as any unit in the Force.
Disembarkation was carried on with the same admirable efficiency which had characterised embarkation. A large number of British Staff officers had, I believe, crossed to France immediately upon mobilisation. There, in collaboration with French colleagues, every possible arrangement was made for the reception of the Force.
Rest camps were pitched or billets were allotted, branches of the Army Post Office were established, a field cashier was installed at the Banque de France and imprests in French notes for the men's pay could be obtained on demand.
Of course everybody had seized the few hours' holiday on board ship to write more or less lengthy letters home, hoping, in their innocence, that the ship's officers would post them on returning to England.
Alas! before ever the ship was berthed, an all-powerful bogy swarmed up the companion way and greedily snatched away the ship's correspondence. Calling for a brush and a barrel of black fluid, he gleefully set to work upon the letters and postcards. When he had finished with them (and it took him a good couple of hours on our ship) they looked like the slips of paper you use in the parlour round-game where the first player writes a line and leaves the next to continue the sentence.
We had all given the most vivid description of our adventures, filling page after page. When the precious documents ultimately reached their destination, our fond parents, or best girls, must have been gratified to find that their four-page letter had dwindled down to:
"MY DEAR FATHER,—
(Four pages of brush and fluid work.)
"Well, I think I have told you all the news now. My love to the Mater and, cheer-oh, we shall soon be home again.
"Your affect. son,
"——"
It was very interesting to compare the way in which French and British temperaments expressed themselves; intensely interesting to note how each so quickly became the complement of the other.
One knew so well the attitude of disdain of anything foreign which invariably characterises the Briton abroad; an unfortunate attitude which has been encouraged, or so it would almost seem, by the invariable courtesy, under the most irritating conditions, of men and women of the Latin races.
Here were some seventy or eighty thousand men thrust headlong into a strange country. Probably at least two-thirds of that number had never been out of England before. Everyone knows the impression which your average Englishman of the middle and lower classes has of French men and French women. Certainly it has not been very complimentary. How would our men now bear themselves?
And if our attitude to the French has for the most part been one of cold disdain and amusement, the French would seem to have regarded us, as a race, with incredulity, tempered by such a degree of irritation as their native courtesy would permit. This, together with an under current of admiration.
"Que j'aime la hardiesse anglaise!" says Voltaire, "que j'aime les gens qui disent ce qu'ils pensent."
During those early August days before the Retreat there was little real opportunity to modify racial opinions. But if British disdain was not yet effaced, the overwhelming reception by the French went far to break it down. Soon it was to be washed clean away in the blood sacrament which united French and English in a closer tie than that of brothers-in-arms.
French methods and customs still amused our men, but the amusement became that light-hearted gaiety, in tackling and surmounting trifling difficulties in a foreign country, which is quite irresistible. Here the British soldier or sailor is always at his very best, and the anecdotes of his adventures in French villages and towns would fill a volume.
Wiseacres who try to invent some universal language should certainly base it upon that of Thomas A. in a strange country. He is equally at home in China, Peru, the wilds of Africa or Spain.
The fact which astonished him more than anything else about the French language was that all the children spoke it. He could understand grown-ups learning it in time; but how the kiddies were able to talk it with such amazing fluency, that was quite beyond him.
As for the French attitude of mind, I am inclined to think that their incredulity, admiration and irritation were all intensified; the last named, however, being even less in evidence than before.
The attitude of the French women is easier to define. It is literally true to remark that, from highest to lowest in the land, there were no half measures in their welcome. One can say this now because the fact has long since been recognised and openly discussed in France. This, however, is not the place in which to make more than passing reference to a subject which, apart from the purely human aspect, is more a matter for the student of physiology or psychology.
"Combien de coeurs vous avez ravagÉ dans un si petit dÉlai que vous avez stationnÉ ici," a French girl once remarked, "et cependant on ne devrait pas refuser aux anglais les baisers qu'ils nous demandent puisqu'ils se donnent pour nous."
And the last half of the sentence admirably sums up the French woman's point of view.
This landing of the portion of the Force at Rouen was typical of what happened at Boulogne or Havre. John Buchan, in his first volume of the "History of the War," has given a most interesting glimpse of incidents at the former port.
In no case did the troops remain at these bases for more than a couple of days. Nobody appeared to have the least idea of what was going on up at the frontiers, but time was obviously of importance.
No one knew where they were bound for; no one appeared to have the slightest presentiment of the tragedy, and the magnificence of the days which were so soon to crowd upon them. Still the cheery, light-hearted, end-of-term spirit. A summer holiday on the Continong! Cheer-oh!