THE OCCUPATION OF VILLIERS
"I'm sorry," he said, "but we've got to parade at two in the morning."
As soon as the door had closed behind him a perfect volley of abuse was
heard. They could not dismiss from their minds the thought that all this
sort of thing was unnecessary. And this was very natural, as no one had
had sufficient courage to tell the regimental officer how serious the
position was.
Even two hours' sleep, however, is better than none.
As soon as it became light the Subaltern saw that they were
counter-marching along the same road on which they had travelled the
previous night. What did this mean? Was a stand going to be made at
last? Apparently not, for the resting-place of last afternoon was
passed, and they continued to move eastwards. On consulting the map, he
judged that they were marching on Meaux on the Aisne. He had often read
of Meaux; was it not the Bishopric of Bossuet, the stately orator of
Louis XIV? The interest he felt in the question helped to take the
weight from his weary limbs.
At last they crossed the bridge. Sappers had been at work on it for some
time, and the preparations to blow it up after they had passed were
almost complete. The first sight of interest was the railway station,
which was filled with what appeared to the Subaltern to be double-decked
trains. Evidently a French army had detrained here.
The Column swung suddenly round a corner and they were almost staggered
with the sight of the cathedral towering above them. To an eye used
exclusively to the sight of the dour British edifice, there is something
very fascinating about a foreign cathedral such as this. There is
something more daring about the style of architecture, something more
flamboyant, and yet more solid. The cathedral seemed vaguely indicative
of the past grandeur of the Catholic Church. Bathed in the early morning
sunlight it appeared to exult over the mean smallness of the houses that
clustered at its feet.
Beyond the cathedral there is nothing at all extraordinary about Meaux.
Many months afterwards one of his nurses told him in hospital that she
had spent a long time in that very street. She had been with her father,
the erstwhile Colonel of a line regiment, and a specialist in strategy,
who for the pure love of the thing had laboriously gained permission to
stay at Meaux and visit the famous battlefields of the Marne. She said
they had been in the very room where General Joffre met Field-Marshal
French, and had bought the very teapot in which their tea was brewed.
She rather wondered how many more of these "very" teapots had been sold
at fancy prices!
If Von Kluck made a forward thrust at Paris before his sidelong movement
to the south-east, it was undoubtedly made at Meaux, which was the scene
of some terrific combats.
Emerging from the town, the Column branched off in a south-easterly
direction, and ascended the sides of a very steep plateau. Having
reached the flat ground at the top, a midday halt was made in the
pleasant grounds of yet another château.
This fresh move was discussed a great deal as the men lay at full length
in the shade of the trees. Evidently there was to be no siege of Paris.
They were marching directly away from Paris. What did it mean? They
would get to Marseilles in a fortnight at this rate, and then the only
thing to do would be to wire for the Fleet, and be taken safely home to
their mammas!
The march went on through the stifling heat of the afternoon, and the
Subaltern knew that he, and most of the men as well, were feeling about
as bad as it is possible to feel without fainting. They marched through
a very dense wood, and then out once more into the open. Even the
longest day has its ending, and at last they found themselves halted in
the usual lines of companies in the usual stubble field. A Taube flew
overhead and all sorts of fire were concentrated on it.
It was already sunset. After the edge, as it were, had been taken off
his exhaustion, the Subaltern extracted the before-mentioned piece of
soap, and having, as usual, scraped it ready for action, washed his feet
in a little stream. He did it under the impression that marching for
that day was over. It is very comfortable to wash your hot, tired feet
in a cool stream provided there is no necessity to put your boots on
again. If something happens that forces you to do this, you are in for a
hard and painful job. You would not believe it possible for feet to
swell like yours have swelled. They do not seem like your own feet at
all. They have expanded past recognition, and their tenderness surpasses
thought.
The Subaltern was sitting by the stream edge gazing at the flush of
golden light in the west, when he was awakened by the Major.
"Well, young feller, I've been looking everywhere for you. You've got to
take your Platoon out to this village, Villiers, and occupy it till
further orders--a sort of outpost position--you will be too far from the
main body to establish touch; you have really just to block the roads,
and if you are rushed, retire here the best way you can."
Having made sure of the position on the map, and asked for a couple of
cyclists to accompany him, the Subaltern began to put on his boots. But
they would not go on. It was like trying to get a baby's boots on to a
giant's feet, and the more he tugged the more it hurt. The precious
moments of daylight would soon be gone, and in the dark it would be ten
times more difficult to find the village and block the roads. There was
nothing for it but to cut the boots, so, unwrapping a fresh Gillette
blade, he made a large V-shaped gash in the top part of each. It was
annoying to have to spoil good boots, and in addition his feet would get
wet far sooner than hitherto.
All superfluous articles of weight had long since been thrown away, and
consequently he had nothing except matches with which to read his map in
the dark and windy night. The difficulty was increased by the fact that
the way lay across small tracks which were almost impossible to
distinguish, but eventually, more by luck than judgment, he brought his
men into a village. Was it Villiers? It took him some time to find out.
There were plenty of people in the village street, but the Subaltern
could not get coherent speech out of any one of them. Fear makes an
uneducated Englishman suspicious, quickwitted and surly. It drives the
French peasant absolutely mad. That village street seemed to have less
sense, less fortitude, less coolness than a duck-run invaded by a
terrier. The Subaltern caught a man by the arm and pushed him into a
doorway.
"Qu'est-ce que c'est, le nom de cette village?" he said, with as much
insistence and coolness as he could muster. The poor fellow broke into a
tirade in which his desire to cut German throats, his peculiarly
unfortunate circumstances, and his wish to get away literally tripped
over each other.
"Qu'est-ce que c'est, le nom de cette village?" Followed a flood of
words apparently about the village. A third time. "Qu'est-ce que c'est,
le nom de cette village?" At last: "Ah, M'sieur, Villiers," with an air
of surprise, as if he thought the Subaltern had known all the time, and
had asked merely to start a polite conversation.
He let the man go, and turned his attention to the village street, which
presented a terrible spectacle of panic. It was obviously unwise to
allow this mob to leave the village, as they seemed to wish, and
disperse, shouting and shrieking, over the countryside. Very possibly
there were spies amongst them, who would bring the enemy about his ears
in half an hour. More likely still, the whole excited crowd would wander
straight into the arms of the Germans, and be treated with the
well-known restraint of Huns towards the unprotected. So he hurriedly
placed guards at the chief outlets of the village, with orders, in
addition to the usual duties towards the enemy, to prevent the French
from leaving it.
He then returned and tried to pacify the inhabitants. But his kind,
soothing words in execrable French did not succeed in dispelling the
panic and fear. He had to draw his sword (for the purpose of
intimidation only) and literally to thrust them into houses. And he had
to get three men with fixed bayonets to help him. He did his best to
make it generally understood that any one who came out of his house and
made a noise would be summarily disposed of. Any sounds of confusion
would inevitably have drawn the fatal attentions of the enemy.
He then made a hurried survey of the roads leading out of the village,
placed sentry groups at various places of advantage, and established the
picket in the centre of the village in a large barn. This done, he sent
the cyclist orderly to try and get into touch with the village on the
right, which, he had been told, was to be occupied by a platoon from
another regiment. The cyclist returned to report that the village was
deserted by the French, and that there was no sign of the Blankshires.
Evidently the O.C. Platoon had not been so fortunate in finding his way
in the dark.
Dawn broke, and the expected order to retire did not come. The men slept
on, intent on snatching as many moments of precious sleep as possible.
Still no orders came. At about eight o'clock the Subaltern finally
awoke, and went the rounds of his groups. There was nothing to report,
all had been quiet.
When he got back he found that the men had collected quite a good number
of eggs from abandoned farmyards, had lighted a fire, and were busy
making a sort of stew out of bully beef and swedes, and (he strongly
suspected) a stolen chicken. As no orders came still, when he had
finished his breakfast, he lay down in the shade of an apple tree and
continued his sleep. He woke up later, at about midday, and ate the
remainder of his rations, and then fell asleep once more.
* * * * *
He was awakened by the Major. It was about four o'clock, and the
remainder of the Brigade was already on the move. The posts guarding the
roads were hastily drawn in, and his Platoon took its place in the
Company as the Battalion marched by.
He felt extremely pleased with the whole adventure of Villiers. It was
the first and only time that he had had a completely detached command.
He had felt the intoxication of undisputed authority; there had been a
subtle pleasure in the thought that, as far as help or supervision were
concerned, he was absolutely alone and that the responsibility for
anything that might happen hung exclusively on his shoulders. The whole
day had seemed like a Sunday to him--the first real Sunday since ages
and ages ago he had left England, the easy land of peace.
There had been an air of quietness about that afternoon which is
peculiar to Sundays, and he congratulated himself on the hours of sleep
that he had been able to put in.
From his own point of view the whole war began to seem like an organised
campaign of things in general to hustle him about in the heat until he
died from want of sleep!