THE PERILS OF ESCAPE
The German firing-party, sobered by superstitious terror and stunned
by the lightning flash, looked blankly at the charred body of their
officer. Before they could make a move, however, from a house near by
ran a gray-haired woman, a small starred banner in her hand.
Aunt Abigail faced the men with a fine scorn.
"You call yourselves German soldiers!" she cried in tones of utter
contempt, "so much the worse for Germany! You sow the seeds of the Tree
of Hate and for years to come you will eat its bitter fruit. Mark my
words! Is that the work of men--" she pointed to the foot of the cross,
"or of drunken, ignorant and fear-ridden brutes? And you are cowards,
too, like all bullies," she cried, her voice rising as she shook the
flag in their faces, "you dare not fire on this flag, for well you know
that if you did, our young, clean-living American boys would come over
here and drive decency into your souls with your own weapons!"
One of the men, half understanding English, lurched forward savagely,
but a non-commissioned officer pushed him back.
"Let her alone," he said, "we've gone far enough."
Aunt Abigail saw the action.
"You're a man," she said, "at least."
Then stepping out before the rifles, she knelt beside the groaning form
of little Jacques Oopsdiel.
Horace, who had followed his aunt, realized that the Germans might hold
back from murder while they were still shaken by their lieutenant's
death by lightning, but it was quite likely that they would shake off
this merciful mood. A reckless desire on the part of each soldier
to show his comrades that he was not afraid might spur them to any
extremity. The moment must be seized. So, stepping forward quietly, he
picked up the body of Jacques in his arms and started up the street.
"Where are you going, Horace?" his aunt demanded.
"To the house, Aunt," the boy replied, "this little chap needs nursing."
The word "nursing" was as a battle cry to Aunt Abigail. Ever since
the first wounded man had been brought into Beaufays, she had slaved
night and day, giving her time to Germans and Belgians alike. Hence,
when Horace carried the injured lad toward the house, his aunt followed
without further question.
[Illustration: _Courtesy of "Le Monde Illustré."_
FRENCH CAVALRY ON PATROL.
The dashing force which harassed and hindered the German advance upon
Paris and twice routed the Uhlans.]
In his inmost heart, Horace never expected to reach the threshold. At
every step he seemed to feel the bullet in his back. None the less,
he did not falter or look around and he reached the house in safety,
without any further action from the soldiers.
Swift examination showed that little Jacques had no chance for life.
He lingered until late in the evening and then breathed his last, one
more of the thousands of children wantonly killed by the Germans during
their occupation of Belgium.
Late that night, Horace was wakened by a light tapping at his window.
He darted out of bed on the instant, knowing well that this cautious
signal could not come from Germans, who, instead, undoubtedly would
have battered the door with the butt-ends of their rifles. Peering out,
he saw the hunchback, still carrying the caged eagle.
"Croquier!" he gasped, in astonishment, for the hunchback's
disappearance had been a matter of the most intense curiosity and
mystery in the village. "Wait a second, I'll open the door."
The hunchback shook his head and lifted up the cage.
"Take hold of this," he directed.
Horace took the cage and set it on the floor in his room. The amber
eyes glittered as evilly as ever.
"Now," said Croquier, still in that same strained whisper, "give me a
hand up."
Bracing himself firmly, Horace leaned down and held out his hand.
The hunchback grasped it in his terrible grip and with a jerk which
almost pulled the boy's arm out of its socket, he clambered to the
window and climbed in. Then, moving so quietly that he made absolutely
no noise, he squatted down on the floor beside the cage.
"Where in the name of wonder have you been?" asked Horace.
The hunchback brushed the question aside.
"I've doubled on those fiends a dozen times," he said. "They haven't
caught me yet, and they never will. Now, listen to me closely. Those
pigs of Germans have found a keg of brandy and they're drinking
themselves courageous so as to be brave enough to attack this house.
You and your aunt must leave and leave now!"
"Aunt won't go," said Horace, "there's no use asking her. I spoke about
it, again, this evening."
"She has got to go or there's no saying what will happen," the
hunchback answered. "I'm not telling what I think, but what I know.
Bring her here at once, but do it, if you can, so that none of the
wounded suspect anything."
The boy thought for a moment.
"I'll try," he said.
Slipping on some clothes, the boy went stumbling noisily through the
next room where two wounded German officers were lying. He knew, if he
stepped softly, it might arouse suspicion. Reaching his aunt's room, he
said loudly, as he knocked and was bidden enter,
"Aunt Abigail, I'll have to have that mustard poultice put on, after
all."
The woman looked at him shrewdly. Knowing that nothing had been said
that evening concerning a poultice, she realized that there was a
meaning hidden behind the words.
"Do you need it now?" she asked.
"Right away, please," the boy replied. "I'll go back to my room and be
ready as soon as you come."
The old maid got up hastily. Taking the still warm kettle from the
stove and carrying a box of mustard, she passed by the wounded officers
into the lad's room beyond.
A whispered word or two cleared up the situation.
As Horace had expected, she refused point-blank.
"No," she said, "I'm not going, no matter what happens. I said I'd
stay, and I'll stay. If they kill me they'll have to fight America. If
they take me to Germany as a prisoner, I'll probably find something for
my fingers to do there. But run--that I won't."
"And the boy?" asked Croquier.
"He's got to go," the old maid replied sharply, "that's quite
different. Those beasts wouldn't hesitate to fire on him when, perhaps,
their officers might succeed in preventing the murder of their nurse.
"You're right, Monsieur Croquier, Horace must go."
"It's a matter of minutes," the hunchback warned.
"Then what are you waiting for?" she retorted testily. "Go, and go
quick, both of you. And take that bird! I don't want it around here."
"You don't think I'd leave that, do you?" the hunchback said
emphatically, and, grabbing it, he swung himself out of the window.
"Good-bye, Aunt," said Horace, and prepared to follow.
His aunt looked at him sharply but there was affection, also, in her
glance.
"You'll need a wool shirt, wool socks, and your heavy boots," she said,
"and if you break through the lines, send a cablegram to your father.
Off with you, now!"
As she spoke, a sound of riotous singing was heard in the village
street.
Horace did not hesitate. He dropped from the window-sill.
He had hardly picked himself up when some clothing came flying out of
the window and landed beside him with a thump. He hastily picked up the
shirt, socks, and boots.
"Follow me," said the hunchback, "and go quietly."
His heart in his mouth, Horace dived after Croquier into the bushes
back of the house. They climbed two walls and a hedge, the hunchback
clambering as soft-footed as a cat in spite of his ungainly shape,
and then passed through a hedge. Crossing a couple of gardens they
came to an old well. There the hunchback swung over the well-head and
disappeared.
The hole was black, damp and uninviting, but a sound of hammering told
that the soldiers had reached the house and the boy followed Croquier
without hesitation. As he swung his legs over, his feet touched the
rungs of a rough ladder. The hunchback gripped his arm and drew him
sideways through a hole in the well-curb.
Drawing breath, Horace found himself in a tunnel.
"Where does this go?" he whispered.
"It connects with the vaults under the church," Croquier answered.
"How did you find out about it?"
"I didn't," said the hunchback; "I made it."
"When?"
"Last week. The story of me and the eagle was all over the village and
the Germans were looking for me everywhere. There wasn't a corner they
didn't search.
"To have a hiding-place which no one could reveal, even under torture,
meant life and death. Therefore I had to make it myself. This well is
in my neighbor's garden."
"Is it? I hadn't followed which way we were going. But wasn't it a lot
of work?"
"Yes," said the hunchback, "but when it's your life that's at stake,
you're willing to do some work. It wasn't so hard to figure the course
of the tunnel from here to the church," he explained; "one couldn't
help striking the vaults somewhere, they're so big."
"So that's how you escaped this afternoon from out of the church."
"Of course."
"It's a bully hiding-place," said Horace, "but how about food?"
"I've a whole storehouse here."
"And air?"
"None too good. I drove a length of iron pipe upwards to the surface of
the ground. Just where it comes out I don't know. I never had a chance
to look. It isn't much, but it's something."
"How much longer do you expect to stay here?" asked Horace.
"Not a minute longer than I can help. I'm clearing out to-night."
"To-night?"
"Just as soon as things quiet down, we start. It's our last chance.
To-morrow the troops will march on, Liége will be put under regular
German rule, patrols and sentries will be established and we'll be
trapped. It's to-night or not at all. We have got to escape in the
confusion of this last day's bombardment."
The boy thought a moment.
"I'm ready enough," he said. "I don't want to stay here under the
Germans. The school's burned down, so that my promise to M. Maubin
couldn't be kept."
"It couldn't be kept, anyway," the hunchback replied. "I overheard the
Germans say that you were to be disposed of, no matter who escaped. You
were present in the school defiance, don't forget, and it was you who
carried off little Jacques. You're an American and an eye-witness of a
good deal. No, they won't let you go, you know too much."
"So?" said the boy thoughtfully. "Well, I'm not surprised. But if we
clear out from here, where do you plan to go?"
"To France."
"Why not to Holland?" queried Horace. "That's nearer. The Germans are
all heading for France and we'll only run into them again."
"Go to Holland if you want to," said the hunchback, "but I'm not
leaving here to save my own skin. I'm looking for a chance to fight."
There was a certain reproach in his tones and Horace felt it, but he
hesitated before he replied.
"You're a Frenchman, Croquier," he said, "after all, and it's your
scrap; but, you see, I'm an American, and however much I might want to,
perhaps I ought to keep out of it."
The hunchback made no reply.
"Of course," continued Horace, slowly, "I know what Father would do."
"I don't know your father very well," said Croquier, "but if your aunt
were in your place, I know what she'd do."
"Oh, yes, Aunt Abigail would fight. So would Father, especially if,
like me, he'd seen the Germans blind Deschamps, burn Mme. Maubin alive,
massacre the curé and kill little Jacques. I don't see any other decent
way out of it, Croquier, I've got to fight."
"I never doubted that you would," the hunchback replied.
"Very well, then," said the boy, squaring his shoulders, "it's for
France, then. How do we get there?"
"I've been working it all out," said the hunchback, "and keeping my
ears open. We've got to go either by Namur or Dinant."
"I thought the Germans were going there."
"They are," Croquier agreed. "That shows they expect to face the French
army there. If we want to join the French, it is necessary for us to be
there before the Germans take up positions. Every hour makes it harder.
With the fall of the forts, the railway lines are open to the Germans
for troop transport. Besides that, several days ago, we saw divisions
marching by to the southward, not stopping to join in the Liége attack.
We've got to creep through or go round them. One must move quickly, for
Namur won't hold long."
"I thought Namur was stronger than Liége."
"From the talk I've overheard this last week, while I've been hiding,"
the hunchback replied, "Von Buelow won't attack Namur with his infantry
until the forts are smashed by their heavy siege guns. Those have gone
on ahead."
"I guess they lost too heavily at Liége to want to repeat the dose,"
said Horace.
"It is that, exactly. So, what we've got to do is to slide through
the German armies while they are on the march and before they take up
definite positions on the battle-line. After that, a rat won't be
able to get through."
[Illustration: ROYAL BOY WARRIORS.
_British Official Photograph._
Captain the Prince of Wales, who fought with his regiment at the Battle
of Neuve Chappelle.
_Courtesy of "The Graphic."_
Prince Umberto of Italy, who has joined the colors, now that his
kingdom has been invaded.]
"Can we do it?" asked the boy, anxiously.
"If we were Red Indians, I would say 'yes,'" Croquier answered; "being
what we are, I only say, 'I don't know.' We may be killed if we go, but
we'll have a chance to fight for ourselves and for France; we're sure
to be killed if we stay, and we won't have a chance to fight."
"What's your plan?"
"To travel through woods and on by-paths. The armies crowd every road
which is wide enough to take a wheeled wagon. We can dodge them if we
go carefully and fast."
"When do we start?"
"Have you got your shoes on?"
"Yes."
"Then we start now."
The hunchback went to the well-head and peered out cautiously.
"All's quiet," he said, returning, "and, so far as I can see, your
house is safe. They haven't burned it down, in any case. Now, fill your
pockets with food as full as you can hold. We don't want to waste time
looking for provisions. Are you ready?"
"Ready," said Horace, soberly, realizing the peril into which he was
plunging.
"Have no fear," said the hunchback as a last piece of advice, "you're
as safe with me as you could be with anybody. A poor chap, like I
used to be, must know a good bit about the country. I ran away from a
circus when I was a boy, so I learned early how to take care of myself.
There's one rule--avoid the roads!"
"But an army might camp in the fields."
"At night, perhaps, but by day it is marching and that, not through the
fields, but along the roads. In the old days, when men fought with cold
steel, one could push troops over rough country and each company could
forage for its own food, travel its own road and be ready for fighting
when it was time to fight.
"There is nothing like that now. An army is ten times as large. It is
fed at regular hours, in regulated companies, on a diet regulated in
advance, cooked by motor kitchens supplied by a provision train of a
score of heavy motor-trucks which are traveling at a regulated number
of miles from a central supply depot.
"As a health measure it cannot be more than a certain number of miles
from drinkable water. Even on the march, the ammunition column
must be kept in close connection with the guns. It must operate or
advance behind a cavalry screen, and, at all times, must be in direct
communication with its staff officers. All that means travel on hard
roads, at a certain pace, over a certain route, so that a general can
know, at any given minute, where every section of his army is to be
found. It is that which is in front of us, and we've got to outguess it
and outmarch it."
The hunchback had filled his pockets and attended to a number of minor
matters as he talked. Now he slipped out of the well and waited for the
boy to follow, carefully closing the hole in the well curb after him.
"You're not going to carry that cage all the way to France, surely?"
queried Horace in surprise, as he noted that Croquier held the black
eagle in his hand.
His companion raised his eyebrows.
"Think you that I am going to donate it for the Germans?"
"Leave it in the tunnel," the boy said; "they'll never find it there."
"Mme. Maubin said it must never escape. It is my trust!" He lowered his
voice suddenly.
"I see," said Horace, "it would break the prophecy."
"This cage is going to Paris," said the hunchback. "The Kaiser said he
would be in Paris before the year is out. I will make good his boast.
It will make all Paris laugh."
The eagle croaked harshly in the darkness.
"Can't you keep it quiet?" said Horace, his nerves on edge.
The hunchback laughed softly.
"Little noises don't mean much these days," he said, "when there's a
wounded man groaning in every cottage."
They passed out of the kindly shelter of gardens into the fields
beyond, and silently, stooping low, ran through a hollow into a small
copse.
"Where now?"
"One must cross the river," said Croquier. "Not at Tilff or Esneux. The
bridges there are guarded."
Horace thought a minute.
"Will it take us much out of our way to go down by Poulseur?" he asked.
"No. Why do you ask?"
"I remember a place where a big tree has fallen right across the
stream," the lad replied. "We could crawl over it quite easily. I
found it, one day, when I was bird's-nesting. I think I can find the
spot again."
"Good. Now, as little noise as possible. Go round all clearings. Keep
your ears wide open. If I stop, you stop. If in danger, don't move;
remember that every wild animal's first defense is movelessness."
He slipped into the woods.
Horace had expected to find the hunchback a retardation to escape, and,
in the tunnel, he had wondered whether he would not be wiser, after
all, to escape to Holland and thence to America. However, when the boy
remembered that the hunchback had saved his life, this idea seemed rank
ingratitude.
Once on the trail, Horace found to his vast surprise that the shoe was
on the other foot. Instead of being compelled to humor his companion
and to help him from time to time, the boy had much ado to keep up with
his comrade. At a stumbling pace which was neither walk nor run, the
hunchback forced his way through bush and shrub, leapt clumsily from
stone to stone and kept up a steady, swift gait which kept the boy
panting for breath.
Safely and without raising the alarm, they reached the fallen tree
spanning the river. The former time that Horace had been there, he had
been content to lie down and wriggle across, but the hunchback, for all
his apparent clumsiness, went across it like a tight-rope walker, and
Horace, for very shame, could not do otherwise. The hunchback turned
his head over his shoulder--he could do so, in the most uncanny way,
without turning his body--and watched him.
"Your nerve is good," he grunted, approvingly.
They went on at the same swift pace, hour after hour, over stumps,
fallen trees, and stones, down gullies and up ridges, all in the black
dark, the hunchback scouting in advance. From time to time they crossed
a road, and this was done with the utmost circumspection. At last,
the chill which heralds the dawn warned them of the dangers of coming
daylight. The hunchback commenced to quest about, like a dog seeking
the scent.
"What are you looking for?" asked Horace.
"A place to hide and sleep," Croquier answered. "We won't move by day.
A hunchback with a caged eagle accompanied by a boy--oh, no, that would
be much too easy to trace! We can only travel by night. Well, we ought
to be somewhere near the village of Hamoir. I don't want to be too
close. The village might be occupied by the enemy."
Presently, with a low exclamation of satisfaction, Croquier called to
the lad.
"I've found the place," he said. "Let us walk back a little way."
"Why?" asked Horace.
"You'll see," was all the reply he got.
Obediently the lad walked back to the point designated, where a narrow
footpath crossed the stream.
"Now," said the hunchback, "walk through the water and over on the
other side and then walk back again."
Though puzzled by this performance, Horace did so several times, the
hunchback following in his tracks.
"Turn up-stream!" came the next order, and, with the word, he turned
directly into the water.
"Whatever you do," warned the hunchback, "don't step on anything that
projects out of the water and don't touch the bank."
Completely at a loss to understand his companion's purposes, Horace
obeyed to the letter. After wading up stream for a hundred yards or so,
Croquier handed the cage to Horace.
"Give me a leg up to that branch," he said, pointing to the limb of a
large tree that overhung the river, bifurcating from the bank.
Taking the hunchback's foot in one hand, Horace gave a heave, just
enabling his companion to reach the branch overhead. Next he handed
up the cage. Then the hunchback, leaning down, grasped the boy's
outstretched hand and pulled him to the bough, beside him. Thence he
slid down the sloping trunk to the point where the roots divided,
forming a natural deep hollow. Here he ensconced himself comfortably,
and Horace followed.
"Breakfast and a good sleep," said the hunchback, "are the two things
we need now."
Horace agreed heartily. He was worn out by trying to keep up with the
hunchback.
"But why did you go to all this trouble to get here?" he asked. "We
could have stepped right on to this tree from the bank."
"To have some stray village dog chance upon our scent and bark itself
hoarse over our heads, attracting the attention of any one who might be
passing in the fields? No, thank you! Coming the way we did, there's no
trail for a dog to scent, no track to follow. We can afford to sleep
soundly. Even if the crippled bird croaks, it will only sound like one
of the natural noises of the wood."
Thus reassured, Horace ate a good breakfast, and, wearied by the
night's exertions and excitement, fell into a sound sleep. It was late
in the afternoon before he woke, but, as he slowly came to wakefulness,
a hand was put over his mouth.
The boy struggled, for the first dazed moment not realizing where he
was, but the hunchback's grip would have held a lion. Then Croquier,
seeing recognition in the lad's eyes, freed him, but laid a finger on
his lip.
Horace repressed a yawn and listened. Voices could be heard close by,
talking in German. The boy could only distinguish a word here and
there. Evidently the men were strolling along the river bank, at the
end of a day's march. Horace shivered to think how near they might have
been to discovery had the hiding-place been less carefully chosen.
"Could you catch what they said?" the hunchback queried in a whisper,
when the voices had receded into the distance.
"I only caught a word or two. The name 'Bomal' was repeated several
times. They seemed to be going to camp there for the night."
Croquier nodded. Bomal, a railway station on the road from Liége to
Jemelle and a junction of four high roads, was evidently a good place
to avoid.
As evening came on, the fugitives ate heartily from the contents of
their pockets and, as soon as the darkness favored, struck south and a
little east to avoid Bomal and the main roads.
The flames of a burning village, sure evidence that the Germans were
near, drove them west again. A wide road thronged with motor-lorries,
one following upon another so that they almost touched, delayed them
for two hours, but they crossed under a culvert near Odeigne.
The woods were filled with refugees from near by villages, and though
these were loyal Belgians, Croquier would not allow himself to be seen
by them, lest they should let a word slip. The two fugitives passed
scores of bodies of women and children, murdered by the Germans and
left unburied. Corpses were thrown into the wells, contaminating the
water. Those who had been wounded were abandoned, without any attempt
to relieve their sufferings. The men remaining had been commandeered to
dig trenches and build defensive works against troops of their own
country, in defiance of the laws of warfare, just as, in other places,
women were herded together to walk in front of the German troops during
the fighting, their living bodies being made to serve as a human shield
against machine-gun fire. When they fell they were left to die.[9]
Horace and the hunchback passed through this zone of misery and camped
for the succeeding day on the Ourthe River, three quarters of a mile
north of Laroche.
[Illustration: LIQUID FIRE PROJECTED FROM THE GERMAN TRENCHES.]
[Illustration: _Courtesy of "L'Illustration."_
LIQUID FIRE PROJECTED FROM PORTABLE RESERVOIRS.]
Hilly and rugged country made the next night's traveling difficult,
and, many times, with their hearts in their mouths, the two fugitives
were compelled to dart for a few hundred yards along a road, though
every highway leading to Jemelle--which seemed to be a German
rendezvous--was choked with troops and supporting wagon-trains.
Near Grupont, they found a woman sitting on the bank of a road, beside
the body of a boy, six years old.
"Can we be of any service, Madame?" Croquier asked, stopping.
"Not unless you can raise the dead," she answered bitterly, but
dry-eyed. "See you, Monsieur, my little Theophile was playing with a
toy gun, a thing of wood, Monsieur, and painted red, which shot a cork
on the end of a string, when the Germans came.
"'He will learn to shoot a real gun some day,' an officer said, 'kill
the young viper before he learns to bite.' So they shot him and marched
on, laughing."[10]
There was little to say, little comfort to give. Though every moment
was precious, Horace and his companion dug a grave and twisted two
boughs into a rude cross. They left the woman sitting there, but
weeping and more content. Owing to this delay, it was already daylight
before they reached the Lesse River, where they might hide for the
night.
Horace was slightly in advance, when, quite suddenly, he saw a German
soldier on the path, not more than twenty yards ahead of him. He ducked
into the bushes, Croquier, who was behind him, following suit.
The soldier heard the rustling and, though Horace had hidden so quickly
that he had not been seen, the soldier pointed his rifle at the point
where he had heard the noise and called:
"Who's there? Come out, or I fire!"
In a flash Horace saw the danger to Croquier, for the story of the
"captive Kaiser" had traveled far and wide. Should the hunchback be
seen and suspected, his death was certain. The boy parted the bushes
and stepped out. He answered, in German:
"I am here."
The soldier dropped the butt of his rifle on the ground, seeing an
unarmed boy. To all his questions Horace replied truthfully, except
that he said he was alone. He stated that he was an American, hoping to
make his way into France and there take ship for America.
"Why didn't you go to Holland?" the soldier asked.
"I couldn't break through to the north," the boy answered.
"Then, if you're an American, why didn't you stay in Liége? You would
have been safe."
Horace looked the soldier firmly in the face.
"Would I have been safe?" he queried. "There was a woman on the road a
little way back," he continued, and told the story of the toy gun.
The German listened, without comment.
"I've passed through villages where your army has been," the boy
continued, "and I've seen--"
The soldier raised his hand.
"There's no need to tell me about it," he said, "I've seen it, too,
and I don't like it any more than you do. You're a boy and you know
nothing of war, but I tell you that sort of thing is bound to happen.
I'll admit that it's horrible. Many of us are sickened by it. But don't
believe that every German soldier is a brute. It's not true. War makes
savages and you'll find them in every army.
"Then," he continued desperately, "what is a man to do? We've got to
obey orders! Our officers tell us that a town is to be burned and
pillage is allowed. It's not the soldiers who organize firing parties
and order citizens to be lined up against a wall. Our officers do that.
"It's true that when you've been in the thick of blood all day, when
your brain is dulled by the terrific noise and every nerve is jangled
with the strain of fighting, when you see your friend fall dead by a
bullet shot by a sniper from some house, when you've only got to put a
bayonet to an inn-keeper's throat to get all the liquor you can drink,
why, things look different then. All the standards by which you're
accustomed to live have gone into the scrap-heap. You've gone back to
the days of barbarism. It's another world altogether. You don't feel
that you're the same person as the comfortable home-loving workman of a
month before."
Horace listened, his hopes for personal safety rising, for he realized
that his captor--if captor he should prove--was a man as well as a
soldier.
"The blame is on the officers, then?"
"No," the German answered, shaking his head, "the blame is on War, on
the horrible, necessary thing itself, War. The officers can't control
the cruelties which go hand-in-hand with war any more than we can,
at least, not individually. They are taught that an invaded country
must be terrorized. Should any officer weaken, he would be suspected
and refused promotion. They're as much a part of the system as we
are. The system is deliberately intended to wipe out the instincts of
kindliness. To be humane is to be weak. Still, I believe and most of us
believe that the system is right. War is war. It is a struggle for life
and death, not a duel of politeness. It is an appeal to force and the
only rule that it knows is force. War is war, and we're going to win if
we have to march on the corpses of men, women and children all the way
from here to the sea."
Suddenly his tone changed.
"Here comes an officer!" he said. "Quick, boy, hide! I will say
nothing!"
Horace slid into the bushes like a snake.
The officer came clanking by on the path, and Horace held his breath,
lest the soldier should change his mind, or lest, in the presence of
the officer, the force of military discipline should urge him to reveal
the presence of the fugitive. The soldier, however, simply stepped off
the path and saluted, as the officer passed with the customary insolent
swagger and negligent salute in reply.
When the sound of footsteps could no longer be heard, the soldier spoke
in a low voice.
"Stay where you are," he said. "Remember, I've not seen you. But if,
when you get to America, you hear stories of German brutality, tell
them your story that they may know the German soldier isn't cruel just
because he wants to be. It is that he must be. War is war."
He turned on his heel.
Horace was bursting to reply that the soldier's confession was a worse
indictment of Germany as a whole than if the outrages were merely due
to a few brutal individuals in the soldiery, but he restrained himself.
A faint rustling told of Croquier's approach.
"That was a plucky thing to do," he whispered. "You meant it to cloak
my being here."
"Of course."
"I'll not forget it," said the hunchback. "But we'd better move on
a bit, even though it's daylight. That soldier might repent of his
kindness or drop a word about having met an American. It's healthier
for us to be somewhere else."
"I'm ready to go," said Horace. He was beginning to have an acute
perception of the narrowness of his escape, for he saw that if there
had been two soldiers instead of one, neither would have dared to trust
the other, and, in all probability, he would have had a bayonet thrust
through him before there was time for any explanations.
Next evening the two fugitives crossed ridge after ridge, on the
high country to the south of the Lesse River, fortunately getting a
midnight meal from a peasant who had a small farm between Hour and
Pondrome. This man had picked up a great deal of information from a
German transport corps which had commandeered all his grain and all
his horses, leaving him poverty-stricken and unable to carry on the
work of his farm. The information meant little to the peasant, but
coupled with the items that Horace had been able to gather and that
Croquier had found out, it gave a definite picture of the German Army's
movements.
Thus they learned that, when leaving Liége, they had crossed the track
of the army under Von Kluck (of which Von Emmich's army was only an
advance guard). Soon after, they had crossed the path of the Second
Army, under Von Buelow. The transport corps which had taken the horses,
had come up from the south, from the Third Army, under the Duke of
Würtemberg.
"Then what's the army we passed yesterday?" asked the boy.
The hunchback considered the problem thoughtfully.
"That's right," he said, "there is another army in between, but a day's
march behind the rest. It seems," he continued, "that Von Kluck is
striking due west, evidently to flank Namur; Von Buelow is moving on
the forts themselves; Würtemberg's army is going to strike lower down,
probably at Dinant."
He paused, for emphasis.
"But what's this other army in between?"
He sat for a few moments, sunk in thought.
"Hadn't we better be going on?" suggested Horace.
"Yes," said Croquier, rousing himself. "I was just wondering where. I
think we'll have to try and cross the Meuse south of Dinant, between
that and the French frontier, which is only four miles away."
"Why not go directly to the French frontier?" asked the lad.
"Too heavily guarded," was the reply. "Our only chance is south of
Dinant. Luckily, I know a man who lives close to Waulsort. We ought to
reach his place this evening."
By starting early in the evening from the loft where they had hidden
all day, the fugitives reached the banks of the Meuse before midnight.
There, the Meuse is deep and wide, flowing at the bottom of a deep
valley. The hunchback skirted the woods in the direction of the little
farm that he knew and cautiously knocked on the door.
A white, drawn face looked out.
"We are peaceful peasants here!" said a sullen voice, with both terror
and hate in the tone.
"Sh! Pierre!" said the hunchback, "we are good Belgians, like
yourselves. Let us in quickly."
Surprised and unwillingly the peasant opened the door.
"It is the circus boy!" he exclaimed.
Croquier wasted no time in greetings.
"We must cross the river," he said. "I have information of value to the
French. You have a boat?"
"I did have," was the answer, "but the Germans took it to-day."
"Are they near here?"
"You can see the light of their fires."
"The river is guarded, I suppose?"
"Every foot of it."
"Yet we must cross."
"Swim, then," responded the peasant, laconically.
"Swim, carrying this?" retorted the hunchback, holding up the iron
cage, and showing the "captive Kaiser," while, in a few words, he
described the omen of victory.
The peasant nodded his head in evident appreciation of the symbol.
"The Germans must not be allowed to get it," he said, obviously more
interested in the fate of the bird than of his friend. "But there are
three men guarding the boat."
"Only three," said Croquier significantly; "there are three of us."
Horace shrank back as the meaning of the words became clear.
The hunchback looked at him.
"Remember Deschamps," he said. "Remember the curé, remember little
Jacques, and remember Mme. Maubin!"
Horace pulled himself together.
"There are three of us," he agreed.
The peasant had not spoken but, from a hiding-place in the frame of the
bed, he pulled out a long knife and offered it to Croquier.
"Keep it, you," said the hunchback; "I have my hands."
"And the boy?" asked the peasant.
"I've a pistol I took from a dead German near Liége," the boy answered,
showing it. "It's loaded."
"Too much noise," said the peasant, shaking his head.
"It's all I can do," protested the boy. "I haven't Croquier's grip, and
somehow, I couldn't use a knife. It's too much like murder."
"And you?" queried the hunchback, turning to his friend. "You dare? You
are not afraid?"
"Hear you!" the peasant answered. "My brother-in-law lives in a mining
village. There was a battle near by, the day before yesterday. They
made him march in front of the troops and he was killed by a French
bullet.
"A wounded French sergeant dragged himself to the house. My sister hid
him. Soon after, a German officer came. He asked for food. When my
sister commenced to get it ready, they complained that she was slow. He
struck her. He behaved like a brute and--"
"Well?" queried Croquier, as the man paused.
"The wounded sergeant," the peasant continued, "drew his pistol and
shot the German.
"Emile, my nephew, was there. The dying Frenchman asked for water. The
boy went to the well and brought some. When he returned, other Germans
were in the house. An officer asked him for the water. He answered,
politely enough:
"'In a minute, sir,' and gave a drink first to the wounded man."
"That was sure to bring ruin," said the hunchback. "A German always
thinks he is more important than any one else."
"The commanding officer immediately ordered Emile shot and his eyes
were bandaged. Then the officer changed his mind. He took off the
bandage and handed the boy a gun.
[Illustration: BOY HEROES OF THE FRONT.
_Courtesy of "Le Miroir."_
A Servian lad, sharpshooter, 12 years old, who fought gallantly at
Belgrade.
_Courtesy of "J'ai Vu."_
"Petit Jean" of the Zouaves, who won revenge against the Germans who
burned his French home.
_Courtesy of "Ill. London News."_
A Russian lad, 14 years old, full member of a gun crew, which saw much
action.]
"'Shoot the Frenchman, you!' he said. 'That will make you a good
German.'
"The boy took the gun, pointed it at the French sergeant, then wheeled
suddenly and fired point-blank at the German commander, who fell dead.
So," said the peasant slowly, "they first tortured my nephew and then
killed him. After that they set fire to the house and burned alive the
wounded man inside. My sister escaped from the burning house and told
me the story last night."[11]
"And she?"
"She went mad early this morning and drowned herself in the river. Do
you think I would let fear stop me from revenge?"
No more was said. They filed out of the farmhouse, creeping through
the forest down the steep slopes to the river below. At a tiny
landing-stage two German soldiers were standing.
The hunchback held up two fingers and the boy's spirits rose with
relief at the thought that he would not be compelled to take part in a
cold-blooded though necessary slaughter.
"Take the bird," whispered Croquier to him, "and, whatever happens, see
that the Germans do not get it. If you are about to be caught, throw
the cage in the river. Its weight will sink it."
"I will," said the boy. He would have said more, as his fingers closed
upon the iron ring, but his companions had slipped off into the
darkness.
The few minutes of waiting that followed seemed like hours. Far, far
away, there was a faint sound of cannonading, which, although the
boy did not know it, was the advance-guard knocking at the gates of
Namur. It rose and fell on the night breeze above the indistinguishable
murmur around him, born of the presence of hundreds of thousands of
men encamped on both sides of the river, of the rattle of harness, of
the hum of motor-vehicles and of the tramp of feet. A dull, angry red
flickered spasmodically in the sky, here and there, the reflections of
burning villages below.
Silently, so silently that it seemed to Horace as though he were
watching a play of shadows, two men arose from the ground behind the
sentries. The blue steel in the peasant's hand flashed in the faint
moonlight of an aged moon and the sentry fell with a choked cry. From
the other sentry's throat there came no sound and the dumb struggle
was a fearful thing to see. The hunchback's fingers, however, would
have strangled an ox, and, before a minute had passed, a dead man lay
on the ground, the iron grip still on his windpipe.
At that instant, Horace heard a voice humming the snatch of a German
song and the third sentry came along the path, returning to his post.
The boy fingered his revolver, but he could not bring himself to shoot
a man unprepared. His gorge rose at the thought. Yet, if he allowed
the sentry to pass, the alarm would be given and he and his companions
would be killed.
A trick of boyhood flashed through his mind.
Quickly seizing a dead branch which lay near by, he thrust it between
the sentry's legs as he passed, with a sudden jerk tripping him up, so
that he fell headlong from the narrow stony path into the bushes on the
side. Then the boy sped for the wharf like a deer.
"The third sentry!" he gasped.
There was no time for explanations. The two fugitives and the peasant
leaped into the boat and a few short, sharp strokes took them well into
the strong current of the river.
The sentry who had been tripped, quite unsuspicious and blaming only
the roughness of the path in the darkness, got up, grumbling, rubbed
himself where he had been bruised and searched for his spiked helmet,
which had fallen off.
These few seconds were salvation for the fugitives.
Before half a minute had elapsed, the sentry reached the landing-stage
and saw the stretched-out bodies of his comrades. Taken by surprise, he
lost another ten or twenty seconds staring around him before he caught
sight of the boat on the river.
Then, and not till then, did the sentry grasp that a surprise attack
had been made and that his fall on the path had been purposed and not
due to an accident. Raising his rifle, he fired, but the shots flew
wide.
"I heard the Germans couldn't shoot straight!" declared the hunchback,
in contempt. "Now I know it's true."
Horace thought the bullets were quite close enough, and when one of
them nipped the oar he was using and raised a sliver of wood from the
feathered blade, he had an uncomfortable feeling inside. But, before
the alarm could be widely given, the boat shot into the shadow of the
western bank and reached the shore in safety.
French advance posts took the three in charge as soon as they touched
land, and, when morning arrived, brought them before the ranking
officer. Horace was able to give but little information, but Croquier,
who had read widely of military tactics, was able to combine the
various items that he had gleaned during the escape to make a report of
great value and importance.
"You are sure," the officer asked him, "that, in addition to the armies
of Von Kluck and Von Buelow to the north, and the Duke of Würtemberg
and the Crown Prince to the south, there is another army, hurrying up
between?"
"We saw it, sir," Croquier replied.
"Under whose command?"
"I couldn't find out, sir."
The officer gnawed his mustache.
"Our air men report a gap in the German line, there," he said. "We're
counting on it."
"There isn't such a gap, sir," the hunchback insisted, earnestly.
"Every road we crossed was filled with troops, and, sir," he added,
"there seemed to be an independent siege-train. It looked like a
complete army."
"It would be hard to distinguish such a force from divisions of the
other armies," the officer said, "unless you had more facts than you
were able to gather, but I'll convey your information to headquarters.
It may prove very useful. Now, just what shall I do with you?"
"I'd like to fight, sir," said the hunchback, "if I could find some one
to guard the Kaiser."
The officer stared at him as though he thought Croquier had gone mad.
"What are you talking about," he said, "to 'guard the Kaiser'?"
The hunchback pointed to the cage in his hand, which he had positively
refused to give up to the orderly.
"Here's the Kaiser, sir," he said, "withered left arm and all!"
His questioner bent forward, as Croquier described the capture, and, in
spite of the responsibilities weighing upon him, the officer laughed
aloud.
"It is a true omen of victory!" he said. "Stay with this division. It
will bring us luck."
"I'll be glad to, sir," said Croquier.
"Do any of the men know about it?"
"It must be all over the camp by now, sir," the hunchback answered.
"I've told the story at least a dozen times this morning."
The colonel smacked his leg with delight.
"That bird," he said, "especially if we have to retreat, is worth half
a regiment of men. Next to good food, good spirits keep an army going.
You stay here and 'guard the Kaiser' yourself.
"As for the lad," he continued, turning to Horace, "why, we'll send you
on to Paris, the first chance we get. The front is no place for a boy,
and, in any case, military regulations are rigid against the presence
of non-combatants. Even war correspondents are not allowed, no matter
how strong their official credentials."
Horace would have protested, but he knew that while French military
discipline is not as machine-made as that of Germany, it is not less
strict. Boy-like, he trusted to chance that something might happen,
and, in any case, he would probably see a battle that day. If he could
just see one battle, he thought, he would be content, particularly if
it were a German defeat.
Partly owing to his capture of "the Kaiser," because of the pluck he
had shown in escaping from Liége, and partly owing to the stories he
had to tell of German atrocities in Belgium, Horace was very popular
with the "poilus,"[12] as the French soldiers familiarly called
themselves.
It was in conversation, that morning, with one of the veterans of
the army, a non-commissioned officer who had seen active service in
Morocco and Madagascar, and who was studying with the aim of winning
his shoulder-straps, that Horace gained his first clear idea of the
huge scale upon which modern war operations are conducted. Evidently
the veteran had worked out for himself the main elements of General
Joffre's plan, and Horace's information concerning the location of the
German troops revealed further developments of the campaign to the old
soldier's eyes. Resting in readiness to support the advance line should
the reserves be called on, the veteran delivered himself oracularly as
to the situation.
"The battle-line now," he said, "is a right angle running north from
Dinant to Namur and then west from Namur to Condé. The south to north
line, where we are now, is held by the Fourth French Army, under
General Langle de Cary. We're protected by the gorge of the Meuse, and
it's our little job to try and keep the Boches[13] from crossing.
"Namur is the bend of the angle. It is strongly fortified, with nine
forts in ring formation, and is held by the Belgian army under General
Michel. From Namur westward through Charleroi to Binche is held by the
Fifth French Army under General Lanrezac, and is protected by a narrow
river, the Sambre. Westward from Binche, through Mons to Condé, is held
by the British Expeditionary Force under Sir John French, only lightly
protected by the Mons barge-canal. The first attack will fall on Namur.
I hear it has already started."
"It won't last long," interjected Croquier, "for the lad and I saw the
42-centimeter guns (16.5-inch howitzers) on their way to Namur. Once
those siege-guns get into position, the forts are gone. They won't be
able to stand ten shells apiece."
"The forts will hold for a week," the veteran answered, for he
discounted the rumors which had come of the power of the great
siege-guns. "In any case, they'll hold for three days, and that's
as long as necessary. So, you see, the English face Von Kluck, the
Belgians face Von Buelow--and we're holding Würtemberg's army."
"All very well," said the hunchback, "but, as I've told you, we saw
another army coming up through the Ardennes."
"If there were, our airmen would have seen it," said the veteran, "and
our staff would know all about it. You're mistaken, that's all. The
battle-line is just about the way I've said it and the real clash is
between the French and German systems of strategy."
"Are they very different?" asked Horace. "I should have thought that
strategy was pretty exact and every one worked in more or less the same
way."
"Don't think it for a moment!" the veteran replied earnestly. "German
strategy and French strategy are as far apart as the feelings of the
two races. They are the result of different principles. They work in
different ways. The German depends on massed force, the French on
individual courage; the German thinks mainly of attack and his favorite
word is 'annihilation,' the French thinks mainly of defense and his
favorite word is 'France.' It is for this war to show which of the two
is the stronger--German aggression or French defense.
"German strategy," he explained, "begins with the formation of an
extended line. In action it plans heavy massed attacks at various
points along a battle front, in order to keep the whole of the opposing
line engaged, while, at the same time, at least a full army corps is
thrown out on each end of the battle-line, two or three divisions of
cavalry being thrown out farther still, to act as a screen and hide the
movements behind it. This maneuver is for the purpose of curling round
the ends of an enemy's line, flanking it and, by cutting its line of
communication in the rear, rolling it up and annihilating it."
"That, I should think," said Horace, "needs a lot of men."
"It does," the veteran agreed, "and that is one of the reasons that
Germany never advances unless she has a big preponderance of men.
Don't think that because Germans seldom attack with equal forces they
must therefore be cowards. It is because their tactics are based
on the principle of flanking, enveloping and securing a decisive
victory, rather than the principle of saving men, taking advantage of
natural conditions and winning a number of small engagements. It is
terribly wasteful of men, but it produces big military results--when
successful--and an appalling human sacrifice, when unsuccessful.
"A German attack, therefore, my boy, means that you will have to suffer
a succession of driving blows directed at two or three points of the
main line, reënforced by a concentration of artillery far greater than
is possessed by any other army, coupled with wide flanking movements
by huge bodies of troops supported by cavalry and a very mobile field
artillery."
"All right," said the boy; "I understand that clearly. Now what's the
French idea?"
"French strategy," the veteran replied, "always presupposes the
necessity of being compelled to fight having an army less in numbers
but superior in individual dash and bravery. It is the problem of
winning a battle with a smaller number of men than the enemy. The
principle is that of a spring bent back to the utmost, which, when
released rebounds forward with tremendous force. We call it the
'strategic lozenge.'"
"I've heard of that," said Horace. "It's sometimes called the
'strategic square,' isn't it? It seems something like our baseball
diamond," and, with boyish animation, he explained the position of the
bases.
"It is very like," said the bearded poilu, smiling at the comparison of
military strategy with a baseball game; "perhaps I can explain it to
you in that way. In this strategic lozenge, the whole army is divided
in four parts. The rear, or the reserve army, is where you call 'home
base.' The fighting or operative corner is at 'second base,' and the
other two armies are at 'first base' and 'third base' respectively. You
understand the positions?"
[Illustration: _Courtesy of "Panorama de la Guerre."_
"OUR ENEMIES SHOWED GREAT GALLANTRY."
German gunners saving their 77-mm. piece in the teeth of a French
infantry attack in the Argonne.]
"Of course," said the boy, "that's quite easy. But it doesn't look
particularly strong. I should think a long line, like the German one
you were telling me about, could come on both sides of that point, or
'second base' army and gobble it up."
"So it could," said the veteran, nodding appreciation of the lad's
perception, "if the 'second base' army stayed there to be gobbled
up. That, my boy, is exactly what it doesn't do. When the enemy line
advances, it is halted by this sharp point. The flanking movement is
impossible, because if the long line bends round the corner, it would
take several days for the ends to close in, and, when they did close
in, they would only be confronted by a new army, let us say at 'third
base.' Long before they could reach there, the fourth army, at 'home
base,' could have marched up to reënforce the operative corner and
smashed the weakened middle of the opposing line, which, with its
wings gone, would have no reserves on which to fall back."
"Great!" cried the boy. "Then the German army would be cut in half!"
"Precisely! It would! And, my boy, if the line be cut, then our armies,
which had broken through, could fall on the line of communications and
cut off the enemy's provisions and supplies.
"If, on the other hand, the German commanders saw this danger, which,
of course, they would, they could halt all along the extended line,
reënforcing from either side the masses thrown against the operative
corner."
"Ow!" said Horace, "that would be awkward."
"Yes," the veteran responded, "if there were no strategical reply. But
when the line halts, the three armies in reserve in the diamond can
be swung either to right or left. So, since they have only a short
distance to go, they can force the battle on their own chosen ground
much more quickly than the opposing troops--which are stretched out in
a long line--can come up to defend it."
"I don't see that," said Horace.
The veteran smiled.
"You don't see it," he said, "because you don't realize that the
Wonder of War is not the machines used by the men who wage it, but
the men themselves and the handling of them. Modern war, like ancient
war, consists only in the spirit of the fighters and the skill of the
commanders. There's not a great deal of difference between a bayonet
and flint knife, a rifle is but an explosive form of bow and arrow, and
the great 42-centimeter siege-gun of the Boches is only a sling-shot
made a little bigger and throwing a little farther. The morale of men,
my boy, and the strategy of generals are the wonders of war, as they
were in the days of Rameses, Cæsar and Napoleon. It's more difficult,
now, because you're moving millions of men and tens of millions of tons
of munitions and material.
"Let us take the strategy of the present situation, as the greatest
armies of the world face it this sunny summer morning. Namur is the
'second base' or operative corner. Paris is the 'home base.' Verdun
is 'first base.' Condé, to the extreme left of the English troops, is
'third base.' The German long line is bent round the angle. This has
been very skillfully done, for it enables the line to attack at any
point. But, see, we could throw our reënforcing fourth army on either
the left or the right wing in two days' time. Suppose we threw it on
the western wing. It would take at least two weeks before the enemy's
eastern wing could march up, even if it were good tactics to do so."
"Why?"
"Because of the enormous difficulty of moving hundreds of thousands
of men. No civilian has any idea of it. Suppose you want to move five
army corps--that's a quarter of a million men--how long do you think
it would take? Your easternmost corps would have to begin the march by
retreating at least thirty miles before they could begin to turn, in
order to leave room for the rest to turn inside them. The first army
corps would have to wait until the second countermarched in line with
it, both first and second would have to wait for the third, and four
corps would be idle while the fifth corps came into position.
"To deploy them in line would take weeks. Then, even after they had
been got in order and were marching from south to north, the corps
nearest to the battle line would have to mark time while the rest
pivoted on it. That would mean a couple more days' lost time. The same
delay would arise when it was necessary to pivot the line in position
for attack. In addition to that, my boy, there would be the waste of
time in strategical handling caused by the change of direction. New
lines of communication would have to be established, new supply depots
built, new routes mapped out, rolling stock shifted to other railway
systems, all the plans which the General Staff had made before the
opening of the campaign must needs be altered and the huge body of
officers would have to receive new orders so that they might learn the
entire change of tactics in detail. Meantime, the battle would be over."
"Well, then," said Horace, scornfully, "German strategy is all
nonsense."
"Don't jump to conclusions," warned the veteran. "There's another side
to it. Suppose that the operative corner is attacked so fast and so
furiously that, instead of being able to retreat upon its reserves
in good order, it is annihilated, what then? In that case, the enemy
can plunge right in between the supporting armies, going to what, I
suppose, you would call the 'pitcher's box,' cut the dissevered troops
apart and deal with them one at a time.
"Everything depends upon the operative corner, especially on its
tenacity. This strategy is possible in the French Army, where
individual courage and resiliency is the highest of all armies of the
world. It is only equaled by some of the Irish and Highland Scotch
regiments of the British Army, and the Bersaglieri and other corps of
the Italian Army. It is not suitable to the bulldog tactics of the
English, which depend on wearing down the enemy; nor to the 'wolf-pack'
system of the Germans, which depends on mere weight of numbers."
Horace leaned forward, thoughtfully.
"There's a good deal more to this than I thought," he said.
"The operation of war on land," said the veteran, "is one of the most
marvelous processes known to the human brain. There is no machine so
enormous, none that requires so much detail and fineness of adjustment.
I've studied it from a soldier's point of view, ever since I've been in
the army, and now that I'm trying to get my commission, I'm studying it
all the closer.
"Men don't win a war. Guns don't win a war. Food and munitions don't
win a war. You can have ten million men and a hundred million tons of
food and munitions and what good will they be unless the food gets to
the men, the munitions to the guns, and the men and guns to the front?
What good will it do then, unless the men have, first, the spirit to
fight, and second, the skill to fight?
"You say that the prophecy about the bird declares that America will
have to join the war. Perhaps. But if the United States had started to
prepare ten years ago, she would still have been twenty years too late.
To expect to make an army by waiting until it is needed, is just about
as sensible as to wait for the sowing of wheat until the harvest-time
when the crop is needed. And when you get back to America, you can tell
them so."
The poilu wiped his forehead, for he had become thoroughly roused on
the point. Then, after a moment, he continued:
"To return to our strategy question. The present position of the
French and English armies, supporting Namur, is that of an operative
corner. Probably we will be driven back, but it is on the springiness
of our resistance that the campaign hangs. The more we retreat, the
stiffer grows the spring, for we are falling back on reënforcements
and shortening our lines of communication and transport all the time.
The more the enemy advances, the weaker his line grows, for he is
losing men which he cannot replace and is lengthening his lines of
communication and transport all the time. Sooner or later, the rebound
of the spring is stronger than the force pressing back, and then, if
the pressure is weakened the least bit, the spring darts back. That is
the rebound or recoil. It is the rebound which will save France."
"Then you expect to retreat?"
"What would be the use of an operative corner if we didn't retreat on
the masses of maneuver?" the veteran retorted. "We all know that. The
public won't understand it, of course, and a good many of the younger
soldiers are apt to lose their heads over it, but the statesmen know,
the generals know, the officers know, and arrangements are already made
for it in advance. We are well prepared.
"The two greatest armies that the world has ever seen are facing each
other, and the two great principles of strategy are to be fought out,
as well as the moral principle between a nation that breaks its word
and one that keeps it. Within a month will be settled, perhaps forever,
the greatest question in military tactics--which is better, the massed
line and flanking movements of the Germans or the strategic diamond of
the French.
"If Namur holds, you will see the supporting armies swing up against
one or the other side of the long German line and send it flying
back. If Namur falls resistingly, you will see the whole operative
corner from Condé through Mons, Binche, Thuin, Charleroi, Namur,
Dinant, Givet, and Montmedy to Verdun narrow its lines, shorten its
communications and draw closer and closer in. The spring will be
stiffening for the rebound. If the corner is smashed and the Germans
break clear through--the whole war is lost, the whole world is lost!"
FOOTNOTES:
[9] Report of Belgian Royal Commission.
[10] Report of French Commission of Inquiry.
[11] This happened in the village of Lourches, near Douchy. The boy's
name was Emile Despres and he was fourteen years old.
[12] "Poilu" means hairy, and conveys the sense of shaggy strength.
[13] The Germans are called "Boches" by the French and "Huns" by the
British. The origin of the word "Boche" is disputed; the word "Hun" is
used to denote ruthless barbarity.