With the Naval Brigade at Antwerp
Fort de Wavre Ste Catherine had fallen. Unable to fire an effective
shot in reply to the terrible bombardment of the formidable German
28-cm. shells, the strongest of the outer line of Antwerp defences
suffered the same fate as the steel-clad cupolas of Liege.
Antwerp was doomed. The Belgians themselves realized the fact. Their
one hope was that the German infantry would attempt to rush the
trenches. Then it would be proved again that the Belgian infantryman
was as good as or better than his Teutonic foe.
Nevertheless, driven from the outer forts on the southern side of the
defences, the garrison was not dismayed. In spite of the fact that by
their resistance Antwerp itself would presumably suffer at the hands of
the Germanic hordes, the Belgians knew that their sacrifice would not
be in vain. To take the city a huge force of Germans would be
required--and that force was badly needed elsewhere. Day by day, hour
by hour, the British and French allied forces were extending their left
wing from the Aisne to the Belgian frontier, circumventing all the
efforts on the part of their foes to turn their flank. The "holding
up" of the German besiegers of Antwerp was sufficient to enable the
Allies firmly to establish their threatened left flank upon the coast
of the North Sea.
One by one the outer forts fell. A shell demolished the waterworks and
threatened the city's water supply. Back fell the Belgians,
reluctantly relaxing their hold upon the trenches, in which they were
subjected to a heavy fire without even so much as a glimpse of a
hostile grey-coat.
During these momentous days Kenneth and Rollo were busily employed
conveying important messages under fire. It was a matter of
impossibility for them not to realize the hopelessness of the position,
but they did not relax their efforts on that account. The Belgians
were not fighting with their backs to a wall. Behind them lay the
neutral territory of Holland. At any given time they could evacuate
the city and allow themselves to be interned; but this they would not
do until they received news that their allies were firmly established
in their proposed position.
On the second day of October preparations were made for the Government
to abandon Antwerp, when suddenly the exodus came to a standstill. The
word flew from mouth to mouth that a strong British force was to be
thrown into Antwerp, and, with the aid of the Belgian army, to raise
the siege and turn the enemy's flank.
"That's good news," remarked Kenneth; but Rollo was far from optimistic.
"We've heard such a lot of this sort of talk before, old man," he said.
"Until I see a British regiment in Antwerp I'll have my doubts."
Early on the morning of the 4th, the lads were roused from their
slumbers by a roar of cheering. Emerging from their shell-proof
shelter, they were surprised and delighted to find that rumour had
merged into fact. Surging along towards the trenches in the direction
of Lierre were hundreds of men dressed in the well-known British naval
uniform. As yet they were not under shellfire, for the German guns
were devoting their energies towards the works at Lierre, and the
hostile air-craft had not noted the approach of British reinforcements.
Presently the bluejackets halted and piled arms. It was their last
breathing-space before they dashed into the shell-swept trenches.
"Let's go and see them," suggested Rollo; and his companion agreeing,
the two chums hurried towards the resting bluejackets, who were
surrounded by hundreds of their Belgian allies, for the present off
duty from the firing-line.
"I wonder how we manage to spare this crowd of sailors," remarked
Kenneth as they made their way towards their fellow-countrymen. "I
should have thought that every man would be wanted for service with the
fleet."
"At any rate, they're here," said Rollo; "and there are fellows in
khaki coming along the Lierre road, if I'm not much mistaken."
The lads stood watching the sailors for some time. Their insular
reserve kept them from immediately entering into conversation, although
they were filled with impatience to know what had happened.
For the most part the bluejackets were young men of good physique.
They lacked the bronzed appearance of seamen who have braved the
breezes of the five oceans. Many of them were pale, not with
apprehension, but with a consciousness that they had before them a
stern task that would tax their energies and courage, for they were
going under fire for the first time.
Presently one of the bluejackets strolled up to the spot where Kenneth
and his chum were standing.
"Est-ce--est-ce que vous--oh, hang it! what's the French for----" he
began.
"Try English, old man; it will be a jolly sight easier for you," said
Kenneth, laughing.
"Why, you're British, and in Belgian get-up!" exclaimed the bluejacket
in surprise. "What are you doing here, I should like to know?"
"Exactly the same question we want to ask you," replied Kenneth.
"We're dispatch-riders in the Belgian service. We heard that British
troops were to be sent here, but we didn't expect sailors."
"Nor are we," replied the other. "Candidly we're not, although we are
the Collingwood Battalion of the Naval Brigade."
"Never heard of it before," remarked Rollo.
"You haven't? Have you heard of Kitchener's army, then?"
The lads shook their heads.
"Then you are behind the times. Whatever have you been doing with
yourselves? I'll tell you. As soon as war broke out Kitchener asked
for half a million men. He got them right enough. In addition they
started Naval Brigades. It was a good wheeze, for a lot of fellows
joined for the sake of wearing a naval uniform instead of khaki,
although there was no intention of using us at sea--at least, not at
present. Two months ago I was an actor. To quote the words of the
immortal _Pinafore_: 'I never was upon the sea'."
"'What, never?'" queried Rollo, continuing the words of the song.
"'Well--hardly ever'. Fact is that until I left Walmer to cross the
Channel my longest trip was from Portsmouth to Ryde. I was beastly
sea-sick crossing, but I'm jolly glad I'm here. We stand a chance of
doing a bit before Kitchener's army gets a sniff of a look-in. We'll
do our little bit, never fear. Well, so long; hope to see you again."
The division was falling in, preparatory to advancing in open order
towards the trenches facing the River Nethe, close to the village of
Lierre. Steadfastly, and with the quiet courage that distinguishes
Britons under fire, the lads of the Naval Brigade marched into the zone
of danger to attempt to stem the advance of the German hordes upon the
city of Antwerp.
"Ah, messieurs!" exclaimed Major Planchenoit, as the dispatch-riders
reported themselves for orders. He was in high spirits, for, like the
rest of the Belgian troops, he was greatly cheered by the fact that the
long-promised aid was at last forthcoming. "Ah, messieurs! to-day you
will report yourselves at Lierre. You will be of service as
interpreters, for your gallant fellow-countrymen do not seem
particularly well acquainted with our language."
It was hot work making their way to the trenches, for already the
Germans had renewed their destructive fire. Briton and Belgian, lying
side by side in the hastily-constructed shelters, were subjected to a
galling shrapnel fire without being able to make an adequate reply.
From the rear, two British heavy naval guns were resolutely hurtling
shells towards the invisible German battery; but of what use were two
against so many?
Manfully the untried men of the Naval Brigade took their gruelling. It
was one of the hardest tasks that men, going for the first time into
action, had to endure: to be subjected to a tremendous bombardment
without being able to fire a shot in return. Nevertheless they stuck
it grimly, waiting and praying that they might have a chance of meeting
the German infantry on anything like level terms.
That chance came at last. At night the German artillery-fire
slackened. Pouring onwards in dense masses came the grey-uniformed
legions, intent upon forcing the passage of the River Nethe in the
neighbourhood of Lierre.
Already the British Marines had blown up the bridge, while across the
main street of the shell-wrecked village a strong barricade of carts
faced with sandbags had been constructed. Working desperately, the
German engineers succeeded in throwing pontoons across the stagnant
river. With shouts of "Deutschland ueber Alles" the infantry poured
across, greeted by a withering fire from Briton and Belgian.
The Naval Brigade's rifle-firing was as steady as that of a veteran
battalion. Maxims added to the general clatter. All along the
trenches flashed the deadly spurts of fire from the small-arms. The
German infantry, swept away like chaff, failed to make good the
position: the Briton proved a better man than the vaunted Teuton. Then
came the recurrence of the deadly shrapnel. The Belgian infantry on
the right were compelled to retire, and into the position they vacated
poured other German regiments, covered by a fierce artillery fire that
was impartial as to whether it struck friend or foe.
It was now that the Naval Brigade failed to come up to the standard of
thoroughly trained and seasoned troops. Having repelled the attack
upon their immediate front, they could not easily be induced to retire.
The desire to "stop and have another shot at the beggars" was uppermost
in the minds of these stalwart youths. They failed to realize that
with the Allied line pressed they were in danger of being enfiladed.
But reluctantly and doggedly they eventually fell back within the
shelter of the inner line of forts.
For the next two days the German heavy guns pounded the weak line of
defence. Inexplicably, although the city was well within range, no
projectiles fell in Antwerp. Perhaps it was because the invaders hoped
to take a practically undamaged port.
Meanwhile the Belgian army, with the British Naval Brigade, was being
withdrawn from Antwerp. Further resistance was hopeless, while by this
time the Anglo-French armies were in their allotted positions according
to General Joffre's plan. All that remained to be done in Antwerp was
to destroy everything likely to be of military value to the enemy, and
extricate the defenders from what promised to be a veritable trap.
In vain, during the night of the retirement, Kenneth and Rollo sought
to regain their regiment. Whither the 9th of the Line had gone no one
seemed to know. Some had it that the devoted regiment had perished
almost to a man in the trenches; others that it was on its way to
Ostend; others that it had crossed the frontier into Holland.
"Now what's to be done?" asked Rollo.
"Find the girls, if they haven't already left, and get them to a place
of safety," replied Kenneth grimly. "We can do no more at present for
Belgium; we must look after ourselves and our friends. Lead on: to the
St. Nicholas Hospital."