THE ADVANCE TO MONS
The Battalion had arrived at Iron on a Sunday morning. It had rested
there, while the remainder of the British Army was being concentrated,
until Friday morning. On Thursday night the Battalion Orders made it
clear that a start was to be made. Parade was to be earlier than usual,
and nothing was to be left behind. Every one was very sorry to be
leaving their French friends, and there were great doings that night.
Champagne was produced, and a horrible sort of liquor called "alcahol"
was introduced into the coffee. Such was the generosity of the miller's
people that it was only with the greatest difficulty that the Captain
induced Madame to accept any payment for her kindness. And so in the
chill of that Friday morning the Battalion marched away, not without
many handshakings and blessings from the simple villagers. The Subaltern
often wonders what became of Mesdames, and that excitable son Raoul, and
charming Thérèse, whom the Subalterns had all insisted on kissing before
they left. A very different sort of folk occupy that village now. He
only hopes that his friends escaped them.
The Battalion joined its Brigade, and the Brigade its Division, and
before the sun was very high in the sky they were swinging along the
"route nationale," due northwards. The day was very hot, and the
Battalion was hurried, with as short halts as possible, towards
Landrécies. As, however, this march was easily surpassed in
"frightfulness" by many others, it will be enough to say that Landrécies
was reached in the afternoon.
Having seen his men as comfortable as possible in the schools where they
were billeted for the night, the Subaltern threw off his equipment, and
having bought as much chocolate as he and a friend could lay their hands
on, retired to his room and lay down.
At about seven o'clock in the evening the three Subalterns made their
way to the largest hotel in the town, where they found the rest of the
Mess already assembled at dinner. He often remembered this meal
afterwards, for it was the last that he had properly served for some
time. In the middle of it the Colonel was summoned hastily away by an
urgent message, and before they dispersed to their billets, the
unwelcome news was received that Battalion parade was to be at three
o'clock next morning.
"This," said he, "is the real beginning of the show. Henceforth,
horribleness."
A hunk of bread eaten during the first stage of the march was all the
breakfast he could find. Maroilles, a suburb of Landrécies, was passed,
and an hour later a big railway junction. The march seemed to be
directed on Mauberge, but a digression was made to the north-west, and
finally a halt was called at a tiny village called Harignes. The
Subaltern's men were billeted in a large barn opening on to an orchard.
After a scrap meal, he pulled out some maps to study the country which
lay before them, and what should meet his eye but the field of Waterloo,
with all its familiar names: Charleroi, Ligny, Quatrebras, Genappes, the
names which he had studied a year ago at Sandhurst. Surely these names
of the victory of ninety-nine years ago were a good omen!
"You've only left Sandhurst a year, you ought to know all about this
country," some one told him.
A horrible rumour went about that another move was to be made at five
o'clock the same evening, but this hour was subsequently altered to two
o'clock the next morning. That night a five-franc postal order was given
to every man as part of his pay.
Even in the height of summer there is always a feeling of ghostliness
about nocturnal parades. The darkness was intense. As might be expected,
the men had not by any means recovered from the heat and exertion of the
previous day, and were not in the best of tempers. The Subaltern himself
was so tired that he had to lie down on the cold road at each hourly
halt of ten minutes, and, with his cap for a pillow, sleep soundly for
at least eight of those minutes. Then whistles were sounded ahead, the
men would rise wearily, and shuffle on their equipment with the single
effort that is the hall-mark of a well-trained soldier. The Captain,
passing along the Company, called his attention to the village they were
passing. It was Malplâquet. The grey light of dawn revealed large open
fields. "I expect this is where they fought it out," said the Captain.
Keeping a close eye upon the map, he could tell almost to a hundred
yards where the boundary of Belgium crossed the road. A few miles
further, a halt for breakfast was ordered, as it was about eight
o'clock. The Colonel called for Company Commanders, and while they were
away Sir John French, followed by Sir Archibald Murray and a few members
of the General Staff, passed by in motors.
Amongst the hundred-and-one pictures that the Subaltern will always
carry in his mind of the opening stages of the campaign, this one stands
out most vividly. The sun was shining, but it was still cool. On the
right of the road was a thick forest of young firs; on the left, a row
of essentially suburban villas were being built, curiously out of place
in that agricultural district. The men were sitting on the banks of the
road, or clustered round the "Cookers," drawing their breakfast rations
of bread and cold bacon. Then the Major came back. There was an
expression on his face that showed he was well aware of the dramatic
part he was about to play. Imagine him standing by the wayside,
surrounded by his Officers, two Sergeant-Majors, and some half-dozen
senior Sergeants, all with pencils ready poised to write his orders in
their Field Service Note-books. There was a pause of several seconds.
The Major seemed to be at a loss quite how to begin. "There's a lot that
I needn't mention, but this is what concerns this Company," he said with
a jerk. "When we reach" (here he mentioned a name which the Subaltern
has long since forgotten) "we have to deploy to the left, and search the
village of Harmigné to drive the enemy from it, and take up a
position...."
It was a blow. Officers were frowning over their note-books as if afraid
they had not heard correctly. The enemy here, in the western corner of
Belgium? The Major's orders petered out. They saluted, and returned to
their platoons, feeling puzzled and a little shaken.
The Subaltern had come to this campaign with such fresh hopes of
victory. This was not to have been a repetition of '70! France would not
have gone to war unless she had been strong and ready. Inspired with the
spirit of the First Republic, the French Armies, they had told
themselves, would surge forward in a wave of victory and beat
successfully against the crumbling sands of the Kaiser's military
monarchy--Victory, drenching Germany with the blood of her sons, and
adding a lustre to the Sun of Peace that should never be dimmed by the
black clouds of Militarism! And all this was not to be? He had never
even heard that Liège had fallen, let alone Brussels, and here were the
Germans apparently right round the Allied flank. It was astounding,
irritating. In a vague way he felt deceived and staggered. It was a
disillusionment! If the Germans were across the Sambre, the French could
scarcely launch their victorious attack on the Rhine.
The excitement dispelled his fatigue, but the men were openly
incredulous. "The ruddy 'Oolans 'ere a'ready! They're only tellin' us
that, to make us march!"
The first fight! How would it turn out? How would the men shape? Could
the ammunition supply be depended upon? But above all, what would he be
like? Would he feel afraid? If so, would he be able to hide it? Would
his men follow him well? Perhaps he might be wounded (parts of him
shrank from the thought), or killed. No, somehow he felt it was
impossible that he would be killed. These and a thousand more such
questions flashed through his brain as the march continued northwards.
The hourly halts were decreased from ten to about three minutes. The
excitement of the future dissolved the accumulating fatigue of the three
days. The very weight of his sword and haversack was forgotten.
It was Sunday morning. The bells of the village churches were ringing,
and the women and children, decked in their Sunday best, were going
calmly to church, just as if the greatest battle that, up to then,
history had ever seen were not about to be fought around their very
homesteads.
A waterworks was passed, and at last the crossroads were reached. There
was a wait while the Battalion in front of them deployed. Officers were
loading their revolvers, the men charging their magazines. One Company
left as advanced guard, and very soon the Battalion was on its way to
its appointed sector of the battlefield.
They threw aside a hastily improvised barricade of ploughshares, and
hurried on to the little village which was to be their especial care in
the impending battle, known rather inadequately as "Mons."