As we neared Pinon, the sound of artillery fire could be heard, and the
inhabitants were all leaving the town in any way that they could. Here I
saw further effects of Prussian atrocities.
At this spot, a French woman, supporting her mutilated husband as best she
could, passed us in a buggy. The sight was awful! His face and body were
almost entirely covered with gashes from the Prussians' bayonets. His
wife's face was as white as death except where three cruel cuts had laid
it open. Neither of this pitiful pair was less than sixty years old. Fine
"enemies" for soldiers' weapons!
Beyond this last village we lay in the open for a few hours' rest. We were
so utterly exhausted that officers and men alike threw themselves upon the
ground and instantly were asleep. My last waking recollection was of the
sight of an officer of the guard striding wearily to and fro. He was
afraid even to sit for fear sleep might conquer him. And my next
recollection--seemingly coming right on the heels of the one I have
mentioned--was of being shaken by the shoulders and having the warning
shouted into my ear that we had got orders to force-march instantly.
"They say some of the blighters have got round us by the flank," said the
man who shook me. "Make haste!"
We had rested less than three hours. Off we went on another "retirement."
This time under the drive of urgent necessity for speed.
We must have marched at an extraordinary rate, because it was not yet noon
when we arrived at the outskirts of Soissons. From the high ground on our
right flank, we could see cavalry and artillery in great numbers, but
whether ours or the enemy's, none of us knew--not even the officers. As we
arrived in the town we were greeted with artillery fire; then we knew who
it was that awaited us.
We got into a lumber yard and returned the fire, but I don't think either
side did much damage. Their bullets sang through the lumber gallery. The
melody was one that had become familiar to us.
Retreating through Soissons, we kept up a stiff fight, arriving intact at
the farther end of the town. Here we came upon fresh and terrible evidence
of the ruthlessness and wanton cruelty of the foe which we had first
confronted but a few days before, then believing that the traditions of
honourable warfare still existed. We came across scores of refugees--old
men and women--who had been beaten and driven from their homes without
cause. We had passed the dead bodies of many townspeople--killed,
seemingly, by artillery fire, yet, in some cases, exhibiting suspicious
wounds, as if bayonets or lances had been used. It was not, however, until
we were marching through the throng of refugees, outside the town, that
indisputable and utterly shocking proofs of the inhumanity of the Huns
came to our eyes. In perambulators we saw wailing children with mangled or
missing hands. I know that it has been hotly disputed that such dastardly
crimes as these were committed by the Germans. I know also that the
disputants who contend against the truth of these reports never marched
with us the weary and awful miles amid the fleeing and miserable people of
Soissons.
These mutilated children I, myself, and my comrades saw. Two at least, I
recollect with bloody stumps where baby hands had been, and one whose foot
had been severed at the ankle. _I saw these things._ I saw them; and I
live to say that others with me saw them--brawny Highlanders whose tears
of pity flowed with those of the mothers who wept for heart-break and with
those of the babies who wept from the pain of the wounds which had maimed
them. Ay, there were witnesses enough; and witnesses remain, though many
of the Black Watch who that day saw and cursed the cowardly brutality of
the Huns were to lie, but too soon, with their voices hushed for ever, so
that they may not speak of it. But we who still live may tell of it--and
dare a challenge of the truth of what we say! And those who saw, and
died--paying the toll of that bloody passing from the Mons to the
Marne--have told it, no doubt, ere this--before that Court whose judgment
can impose the eternal punishment that the soulless crimes demand.
There were thousands in the unhappy throng of refugees. Some few rode upon
hay carts, surrounded by such of their belongings as they had been able
hastily to gather. Others pushed handcarts containing their goods and
household articles. Most of them however, went afoot, trudging wearily
along and carrying what they might. There, in that sickening scene, it was
as it is everywhere. The grotesque and the humorous mixed incongruously
with the pathetic. For instance: Alongside one perambulator with a wounded
child in it rolled another one loaded with huge rings of bread, on top of
which perched a parrot, screaming at every one who passed.
One old lady was trudging along carrying a baby which could not have been
more than two and a half years old, though the weight of his chubby frame
was bending her almost double. I could not speak her language, but I made
her understand that I would carry the child a mile or two and leave him by
the side of the road. The laughter and baby antics of the child brought a
ray of sunshine to our section, and especially to fathers who had left
tots behind them in Scotland. About an hour later I came to a group by the
roadside, who recognized the baby, and I left him with them, making them
understand that the old lady would be along later.
One of the last things I remember in leaving Soissons was an old man who
was carrying his furniture and household goods to what looked like a
modern dug-out in an embankment and covering it with earth so that it
would not be discovered. The boys made a lot of fun of him, but the laugh
was not on their lips very long.
We had just reached the top of a hill on the farther side of the city,
overlooking the railroad yards and repair shops, when we came into direct
view of the German artillery observers, and shrapnel began to storm down
among us. It was like the sudden burst of a thunder cloud. There wasn't a
moment's warning before the smoke puffs began appearing overhead and the
ugly steel splinters and slugs whizzed over our heads.
The regiment deployed in a corn field at one side of the road and
scattered, moving some distance from the highway. The enemy continued to
sprinkle the corn with shrapnel but we lay flat on the ground until the
firing ceased. The company's cooks meanwhile, at some little distance
ahead of us, had prepared "gunfire," and the various companies lined up in
file to receive their well-earned and much-desired quota of it. As the
cooks had to keep ahead of the regiment, there was no time lost in
disposing of the tea, and many of the men had to drink it on the run.
A little farther on we halted for a few hours' sleep, and at ten minutes
to three we found ourselves again on the move. We marched all that day
through a large and dense forest. Now and again we were surprised by
occasional artillery shots at the more open sections, but the trees helped
a great deal in protecting us from the enemy's airplanes, and proved a
hindrance to their tactics. But with the cavalry it was a different
matter. Uhlans harassed us every hour of the day. We had only about two
machine guns to a battalion, and they were worked so steadily and so hard
that they repeatedly jammed. Once we were almost cut off. A party of
Uhlans came clattering down on our heels driving the rear guard in on the
support, and for a few moments there was what approached a modern barrage
fire of artillery on the road in our front. Luckily for us, the artillery
fire slackened for some reason and we got ahead before the Uhlans could
envelop us.
Later in the day I was serving in the rear guard. Suddenly we heard the
roaring of a motor. We took cover at the sides of the road. Our
"point"--was in the rear, and, if there was anything wrong, we knew they
would inform us. The roaring of the motor grew louder. We were so tired
that our nerves jangled. I had never felt so jumpy. There it came around
the bend with a Red Cross flag flying from it, but it was not one of our
ambulances. It had great, heavy, double wheels and there were Red Crosses
painted on its sides in addition to the flag flying from the front. Our
impression was that it had gone off its course. The chauffeur had released
the muffler cut-out and the engine was running very quietly now. A man
sitting beside the driver and leaning far out over the side was yelling in
broken English that they were lost, and he gesticulated toward the body
of the car in such a way as to make us think that he had badly wounded men
with him.
We began scrambling back onto the road. Our war was not against the
wounded and suffering, so we would let them pass.
Suddenly the ambulance stopped; the sides of it quickly rose; machine guns
showed their ugly muzzles.
"Br-r-r-r-r t-t-t," they began to sputter.
I leaped backward and fell headlong into the ditch. Everybody was jumping
for cover. The bullets lashed the road and ricocheted far upon it.
Scarcely a man of us was hit, but we were in wild confusion. I cannot
describe the scene. No one seemed to think of putting his rifle to his
shoulder. The horror of it--the passionate anger against such vile
trickery--drove us into a rage; but--for the moment--it was an impotent
rage. We seemed to be at their mercy.
Then the platoon commander's voice rose above the rat-a-tat of the machine
guns:
"Steady, men! Fire at will, but pick your men carefully."
We had heard him speak in the same tone on parade. It brought us to our
senses. The edge of the ditch on each side of the road fairly flamed with
the sputter of rifle fire. The "ambulance" was riddled. A Prussian officer
toppled into the middle of the road. Half a dozen men sprang from the
ditch and rushed at him with bayonets. They killed him like a rat. There
was no compunction about it.
There was now heard the thrumming of more motors approaching. Round the
turn in the road they came. This time it was transports--laden with German
troops. There was no attempt at disguise with this mob. They thought that
their camouflaged battery would by now have done its dirty work. Sweating
and tugging and straining, we managed to topple the "ambulance" over in
the road. The trucks came dashing up as we retreated--retreated only to
get in touch with our support. The men cheered wildly as two of our own
machine guns came up. We turned the wee fellows loose on the Germans--gave
them a taste of their own medicine.
Some of them came running toward us shouting: "_Kamerad! Kamerad!_" We
shot them down as they ran--shot them without hesitation--after the
dastardly trick they had played on us. Probably they were even then trying
another ruse.
The fight surged backward and forward. The Germans tried to press ahead.
Then something happened which we had not expected. A burst of shrapnel
sprayed over the Germans. In a few seconds there was another. Then two
shells exploded at once--three--four! A rain of fire, as the French say,
was upon them. We were getting support from our own artillery. That was
something new and it put heart into us.
The regiment re-formed and proceeded with an orderly retirement, while the
artillery, like a barrier of steel, held the enemy at his distance all the
rest of the day. We were near to exhaustion and some of the men dropped
out of the ranks only to die of the strain. Although our pipers were as
weary as the rest of us, they sensed that we needed encouragement, and
with great effort struck up a march. Very soon we had left the forest
behind us.
It is impossible to describe the effect of the skirl of those pipes that
day. It was like a message from Heaven. We had not heard them since Mons,
and now they were leading us out of a forest that was a picture of
weirdness itself; leading us out into the beautiful open country. What joy
we felt!
At this time we were retiring almost directly toward Paris. For seventeen
hours we marched with halts only when it was absolutely necessary. We had
been in France four weeks, though it seemed like four years.
One of our chief discomforts was the lack of water. Toward evening we
halted alongside a cucumber patch. The men simply went wild, running into
the field and sucking the juicy young cucumbers. I "drank" twelve myself,
but we had not had time to satisfy ourselves when the Prussian artillery
got the range again and we had to get out of the field--those of us who
could. I have heard some "cussing" during my career in the army, but I
don't think I ever listened to anything quite like the brand that
accompanied our departure from that field.
After marching a considerable distance, we were billeted in barns in a
small village. This was a cheering circumstance, as the farmer gave us
chickens and allowed us to get vegetables to make up a _real_ warm meal,
which I can assure you was enjoyed royally. We expected to stay here some
time, so we made for the barns and lay down among the hay.
I don't think you could possibly form an idea of the _utter_ weariness of
the men or of the manner in which we were incessantly harassed. We never
got a decent chance to eat, drink, or rest. The incidents of the cornfield
and the cucumber patch are typical. Many men died of sheer exhaustion.
When we entered the barn I was so absolutely petered out that I went to
sleep almost before my body touched the hay.
We had been in the barn only about two hours when there was a great
commotion. I waked up half suffocated, but I didn't care. Somebody kicked
me in the ribs as I was turning over to sleep again.
"_The barn's on fire!_" he yelled.
There was an odour of paraffin. It seemed that some German agent had
started the fire. Probably it was the owner of the place, using German
"kultur." Germany had left scores of such spies planted in the country,
after 1871.
After the fire in the barn we got a couple of hours more sleep, then moved
off again about three o'clock in the morning. We were on the Metz road
going east, but did not know it until our officers informed us that we
were heading toward the Franco-German frontier. They were ever optimistic
and helped to lighten the burdens of men who were on the last lap by
carrying sometimes the rifles of four of them at one time on their
shoulders. In the afternoon we came to Coulommiers. Most of the
inhabitants were leaving, and a herald--such as existed in the Middle
Ages,--was going through the town beating a kettle-drum and crying to all
the civilians to take everything they could carry and leave the place. But
this herald was a middle-aged woman.
About two o'clock that same day, we were on the banks of a stream and the
whole regiment began making preparations for a swim. Some were already in
the water, but had scarcely got entirely wet when the German artillery
began churning the water with shrapnel. The bodies of many of my comrades
went floating down stream.
That night my company guarded a road protected by barbed-wire
entanglements and lined with poplar trees; just the kind of road you so
often see pictured in France or Belgium. The main body of the regiment was
dug in the side of a hill overlooking this road. It was again the luck of
my section to protect the road some two hundred yards in advance of the
regiment. We entrenched ourselves on each side in such a manner that one
could advance within ten yards without detecting our position. We placed a
few strands of the barbed-wire fencing across the road a little distance
ahead of us.
About midnight, I was awakened by someone tugging at me. It was the
sentry. He pointed far up the road, and, as there was a certain amount of
moonlight, I could see something moving between the tall poplar trees. He
asked me what it was and I told him that it was our cavalry. However, I
told him he should inform the section commander; and then I rolled off to
sleep again.
Presently I felt a second tug at me. On looking up I found it was our
sergeant; he whispered: "Be ready to spring up at a moment's notice." The
others were already in position. In the dim light I could see the
queer-shaped lance-caps that the Uhlans wore.
"Halt! Who goes there?" shouted the sentry.
"Freunden," said a voice in reply.
With that they were almost on the barbed-wire, and we greeted them in the
way such "friends" should be greeted. There was a tremendous turmoil. All
but two fell into our hands. To be exact, fifteen were captured and three
killed. Three of the captives were officers.
One of the officers, when searched, was found to have in his possession a
novelty mirror with the photograph of a girl on the back. He made no fuss
about giving up anything but the mirror. This, however, he insisted upon
having back. Finally the examining officer, Major Lord George Stewart
Murray, became suspicious and decided that the Boche's sentiment was not
on the level. He stripped the photograph off the back. Under it he found a
thin sort of skin and, underneath that, pasted to the back of it, a paper
covered with writing. He returned the mirror to the German officer, but he
retained the paper; and the writing gave the staff much satisfaction.
All night long we were troubled by similar parties of Uhlans. They were
evidently feeling out for an attack, but, not being able to gauge our
strength, they never made it. Some of our boys crawled out from the
trenches to rescue a trooper with a broken leg, and they said that only a
few paces away they could not distinguish the trench or tell how many men
were there. If the Uhlans had only known the facts they could have swarmed
over us. In the morning we collected souvenirs from the field. One of the
fellows picked up a lance with two bullet holes clean through the steel
tubing shaft.
Our next stop was at Nesles. We drew up alongside a field of beets just
before going into the village, and most of the men fell out of ranks and
lay down alongside the road. Some were in the ploughed earth between the
rows of beets. The artillery had been firing at us most of the day, but
they hadn't found the range. There were some heavy guns hammering at us,
as we could tell from the explosions of the shells.
As usual, when it came time for a rest, the Germans began to locate us.
One of the heaviest shells I had yet seen exploded in the field and
scattered beets all over the surrounding country. A member of our company
right near me was stunned for a few seconds.
Before any one had recovered himself enough to go to his aid, he sat up
unsteadily, his head wobbling, his face a mass of red. A few yards behind
him was his forage cap. He put his shaking hand up to his head; withdrew
it, then looked at his fingers which were dripping red.
"Ah weel, lads, Ah've got it noo!" he lamented. "Ah'm sair-r-r-tainly din
fur 'cause Ah dinna feel a theng. Ah on'y wesh Ah could 'a got ane o' the
deevils tae me credit afore this!"
By this time two or three of us had run forward and were wiping his head
and face. There was no evidence of a wound. Then suddenly some one roared
with laughter. The man was covered with the red juice of beets and was
entirely unhurt. He had only been stunned. This is the way Mars jests. His
humour is always mixed with grimness.
We learned that we were to stop at Nesles overnight, and this, coupled
with the fact that we had commenced advancing, put new enthusiasm into us.
Before we arrived there were large vineyards at each side of the road
leading up a hill overlooking a beautiful little town, on the south bank
of the Petit Morin River. We had a few minutes' halt within reach of the
lovely French grapes, which hung most temptingly in clusters, so it was
quite natural that some of the boys who were extremely thirsty and warm
from the scorching sun, should partake of this inviting fruit.
Discipline in the British army is second to none; and we were commanded to
observe it strictly while on the retreat. One of our orders was "not to
pluck fruit," as it came under the category of "Looting." Very soon the
few fellows who had disobeyed that order were rolling on the ground,
holding their stomachs. Later we were told that the grapes on both sides
of the road had been poisoned by the Germans. This was punishment enough
for those who had eaten the fruit, and a lesson that every one of us "took
home."