THE CROSSING OF THE MARNE
As soon as dawn broke--a dawn exceptionally cold and cheerless--the
cavalry pushed forward to effect some sort of reconnaissance. Meanwhile
the infantry had nothing better to do than to conceal themselves behind
the copses that covered the slope, and await their turn. In about an
hour's time they were deployed and moved cautiously forward to the
attack, the Batteries being already placed in readiness for the
beginning of the "show."
No army in the world can execute this movement as scientifically or as
safely as the British Army. Memories of South Africa and Indian frontier
fights have left us undoubtedly the finest scouting army in Europe. We
were, of course, hopelessly outmatched in artillery and numbers. But
artillery being equal, there was not a Brigade in any army in the world
that could have held its own against a British Brigade. That, however,
is by the way.
They pressed steadily forward, and, having breasted the slope, the
valley of the Marne burst suddenly upon their view. It was at least
three miles in breadth, and the opposite heights were screened by
woods. A small town marked the bridge. The country was "open"--painfully
open; there was not an atom of real cover between them and the heights
opposite.
But no shells came whistling towards them. No doubt the enemy was
holding his fire until they were within closer range. (Not a pleasant
thought, this, by any means.) But no, they went on scrambling down the
deep slope, and still no sound of firing disturbed the morning silence.
As each moment fled by the Subaltern thought to himself, "Not yet! Well,
the next minute will bring things about our heads!" But the next minute
kept on passing as uneventfully as its predecessors.
At last they reached the bridge and found it absolutely undamaged. Even
then the Subaltern could not repress the thought that all this was only
a trick, and that they were being lured on to destruction. But his
sanguinary forebodings were not justified, and the opposite heights were
scaled without opposition.
He afterwards learnt, that, however much the Germans might have wanted
to hold this magnificent line, the strategical situation had become so
pressing that on this sector nothing could save them from disaster
except a complete and hurried retreat. They were all but outflanked on
their right, which was already very seriously bent back; while in the
centre General Foch had driven in a wedge which bade fair to crumple up
the whole line.
There was nothing in any way remarkable about the little town on the
other side of the river. It had the air of a neglected gutter-child,
dirty and disconsolate. There were the usual signs of German
occupation--broken windows, ravaged shops, and, of course, the
inevitable bottles.
Here it was that the Subaltern noticed for the first time that the Huns
had a distinctive smell of their own. It was a curious smell, completely
baffling description. If it is true that certain odours suggest certain
colours, one would have described this as a brown smell, preferably a
reddish-brown smell. Certain it was that the enemy left it behind him
wherever he had been, as sure a clue to his passing as broken
wine-bottles!
The Subaltern always associates the climbing of the opposite slope with
pangs of a thirst so intense that he almost forgot to wonder why the
Germans had evacuated so excellent a position without firing a single
shot. But Headquarters were evidently not going to allow them to push
forward into some previously arranged trap. Having by three o'clock in
the afternoon firmly established themselves on the wooded crests of the
slope, they were "pulled up" while a further reconnaissance was being
made. Meanwhile, a sort of outpost position was taken up.
The Subaltern's Platoon was to guard the back edge of a wood, and as he
established his supports in a farm, most of his men were able to fill
their water-bottles, have a wash and brush up, and generally prepare
themselves for whatever the next move might be. The farmer and his
wife, who had remained in their home, did everything that was required
of them; but he could not help noticing that the old couple did not seem
as pleased at their Allies' success as one would have naturally
expected. The reason was soon forthcoming. Following his usual plan of
getting as much information as possible out of the French, he heard the
old man, who seemed unaccountably shy and diffident, mutter casually--
"J'ai pensé que vous ètiez tous partis hier soir."
"Comment?" said he, "tous partis? Mais, Monsieur, nous sommes les
premiers Anglais qui sont arrivés ici."
"Mais, Monsieur! Anglais? Ce n'est pas possible!"
"C'est vrai, assurément."
"Mais, L'Armée Anglaise porte toujours les habits rouges!"
The Subaltern laughed outright. This simple fellow actually believed
that the English fought in scarlet. Even now he was not thoroughly
convinced that they really were English. Ignorance goes hand in hand
with obstinacy, and these simple old peasant folk defended their
stupidity with a veritable wall of impenetrable incredulity.
The Subaltern was still laboriously engaged in explaining matters to the
man, when part of the Headquarter's Staff trotted up the road with a
clatter and a swing and scurry that looked as if they were wanted very
urgently on the left. It was the first time during the campaign that he
had seen the Corps Commander and the Chief of the General Staff on
horseback.
It must have been about five o'clock when he received a message to
concentrate on the main road. On the way he was accosted by a woman
perfectly distraught with grief, who explained that two days ago her
little son had disappeared into "ce bois là" never to come out again.
"Si votre fils vive encore, il reviendra, bien sûr, Madame. S'il est
mort, moi, je ne peux pas vous aider." Terrible to relate, the sight of
such grief annoyed rather than saddened him.
The advance was continued until it was quite dark, when the Battalion
denuded the usual hayrick, and "dossed down" in the usual stubble
field.