ST. QUENTIN AND LA FÈRE
In the afternoon a large town was reached, probably St. Quentin, through
which long trains of Motor Transport were rumbling. A halt was made some
miles to the south of this town. While they were taking their evening
meal the ever-pursuing sound of artillery fire was heard from over the
ridge. Two of the companies were hastily fallen in, and marched away to
this scene of activities, to undergo probably yet another rear-guard
action. The remaining companies were then set to dig themselves in,
astride the road.
As you have seen from these rough descriptions of the first three days
of the battle in Belgium, the most that is seen of the enemy is but a
passing glimpse. If the Higher Command decide that to give battle in any
determined measure would be to expose their force to unnecessary chances
of defeat, and to endanger the ultimate success of the campaign, it is
very unlikely that the infantry soldier will see his enemy at a distance
of less than five or six hundred yards. There is always the danger, if
the enemy are allowed to come to close quarters, that the defenders will
find themselves so pinned to their ground that it is impossible to
extricate themselves from their position without losses of greater
magnitude than would be warranted by the success obtained. So far this
Division, at any rate, had succeeded in their mission of delaying the
enemy by forcing him to deploy, at the same time taking the greatest
care to refuse open battle.
Most of the younger Subalterns had very primitive ideas on the general
strategy of the campaign. There would be a wait, they thought, as the
English Army would probably be used as general reserve; then there would
be "the devil of a battle," ending in Victory or Defeat, and followed by
a glorious life (or death), and that would be the end of the matter. It
would be over by Christmas, "easy." The actual course of events was very
different. The English had encountered the enemy in the first onslaught
of battle, and there had been neither Victory nor Defeat--nothing but
retreat, retreat, retreat, over twenty miles a day, in the blazing heat
of sunny France, with the fear of capture for those who lagged
behind....
The fighting was not like those battles on Laffans Plain, where you
fought quickly and decisively, and where, "win, draw, or lose," you were
home in time for tea. You were told all about it beforehand by the
Colonel, or Brigadier, and sometimes the "show" approached interest.
Here everything was different. This was the real thing. Yet there seemed
less reality in it than in the mock battles of Aldershot, with their
mock situations, tired charges and rattling bolts. Here you knew
nothing, you were barely told where to move. There were none of those
charming little papers headed: "_General Idea, White Army moving on_,
etc...." and: "_Special Idea, the nth Infantry Brigade, commanded by_,
etc. etc...." The "General Idea" of this campaign remained absolute
darkness; and already pessimists began to fear that Christmas would not
see them back at home.
As far as eagerness to meet the enemy was concerned the "morale" was as
high as ever, but nevertheless the temper of the troops was beginning to
be badly shaken. They did not understand the necessity for retreat; for
not a word had been whispered of other set-backs. They had a ridiculous,
but nevertheless firmly lodged, impression that this prolonged retreat
was just another of those needless "fatigues" to which they were so
often put, and vaguely they resented it, distrusted the necessity for
it. Mr. Thomas Atkins found it difficult to believe in the existence of
Germans whom he could not see. In a word, he was beginning to be "fed
up"; especially the reservists, oldish men who had been called from
their homes, bundled once more into uniforms, hurried to a foreign land
of which they knew nothing, and pushed into a battle which showed great
promise of becoming a "débacle."
But you must not blame the men for this. You must remember that they had
left England before the spirit of patriotism had been re-kindled. They
felt, and before reams of paper had been scattered broadcast to prove
the contrary the feeling was very prevalent, that great diplomatic
blunders must have been made for the situation to have reached such an
impasse. Germany had been out for war before: witness Agadir and similar
disturbances in the diplomatic world which occurred with almost
monotonous regularity every August. Previously war had simply been
denied to Germany. Why not once again? And so on, and so forth. Probably
they did not really believe or mean half they said. They were thirsty,
hungry, and very, very tired.
The soldier at Malplâquet shook the powder from his wig, and grumbled as
only a soldier and a Britain can.
His descendant at Mons did just the same thing. And after he had got his
"grouse" off his chest, fought all the better for it.
Although an alarming rumour reached them that the enemy, crowded into
motor buses, had already reached St. Quentin, nothing disturbed their
rest during the night, and by dawn the column was swinging along the
road to La Fère. The men were always depressed and weary in the early
morning. Their spirits never began to rise until eight or nine o'clock.
Then songs would break out. "Who were you with last night?" "Hold your
hand out, naughty boy!" and the inevitable "Tipperary," were the
favourites. They would often whistle the "Marseillaise." A certain
"swing" entered into the marching; there was less changing step, less
shuffling. Even their weary faces brightened. Jokes became positively
prolific, and the wit of the barrack-room, considered as wit, is far
funnier than the humour of the Mess. Perhaps it is founded on a deeper
knowledge of life.
Towards midday, almost imperceptibly, the gist of the songs changed to
the sentimental, and before very long the heat and fatigue gradually
overcame the men, and songs ceased altogether. As a general rule, after
two o'clock the mental attitude of the troops might be described as
black, distinctly black.
The rumour ran down the column that La Fère was to be the termination of
that day's march, and as La Fère was only a matter of ten miles away, it
was felt that at last an "easy" day had arrived. The road led through
very pleasant places along a river valley, the opposite slope of which
was wooded. That morning, too, there was no suspicion of artillery fire.
It seemed that, for the moment at any rate, they had escaped the
inconvenience of battle. Somebody said that La Fère was fortified.
Behind its works they would doubtless stand, rest, and then perhaps
fight. (Even yet they had not learnt the futility of speculation.)
Those ten miles were long ones. It almost seemed to their tantalised
nerves that La Fère was not a town, but a mirage. And so it was, or at
least their thoughts of rest and water and food remained "in nebulis."
Outside the town was a road-crossing. One way led to the main street of
the town, and the other way to the south. To the consternation and
amazement of everybody, the khaki ribbon crept, not towards the houses,
but seemed for a dreadful moment to hesitate, to wobble, then turned its
head slowly and irrevocably away from the town. The men swore. They felt
that they were a scale on the skin of a long, sombre, khaki serpent,
whose head had acted contrary to the wishes of its belly. And the body
of the serpent quivered with indignation. The Subaltern himself felt
that he had been cheated, lured on by false pretences, and generally
treated shamefully. He knew perfectly well that these ideas were
groundless and absurd. He knew that the halt at La Fère was only rumour;
he knew long marches were the only thing to save them, but in spite of
this knowledge he was angry, enraged. The blood flew still more to his
burning cheeks, his teeth snapped together. If he could, he would have
flown to the head of the column, drawn his revolver, and emptied it in
the face of that General. He positively enjoyed picturing the results of
such a crime. He chortled over the idea of the plump figure falling from
the comfortable saddle to the hard, hot road. He imagined the neat red
cap lying in the grey dust. And his boots, he knew what they would be
like--glossy mahogany! Why should any one have shining boots, when his
own were dull and bursting? Why should any one be clean and shaven when
his own face was smeared with dirt and stubble? He exulted inwardly at
the thought of the death and mutilation of some one who had never done
him the slightest harm, and whose efficiency had probably saved his
life.
Such is human nature!