Then Foch attacked. As rapidly as his line of blue men had come up to
strengthen the British Front after the German break-through—I shall
never forget the ride of the French Cavalry, on lean horses wet with
sweat, and the hurried tide of blue transport waggons, driven by
coal-black negroes, and the endless line of guns with dusty, sullen
gunners coming to support us when our men had fought back for three
frightful weeks—he withdrew them from our Front. They vanished like
a dream army. English and Scottish Divisions were entrained for the
French Front. Our own lines were thin and weak. Foch was taking the
ultimate risks. American infantry and American Marines were put in at
Chateau Thierry for their baptism of blood. French infantry, withdrawn
from other parts of the line, left almost without defence, were rushed
to the Marne. The German salient thrust out like a battering ram,
pointing to Paris, was attacked on both sides, at its junctions with
the main line. It was pierced and broken. The enemy was panic-stricken
and thrown into a mad disorder.
“Who attacked?” asked German prisoners.
“Foch’s Army of Reserve,” was the answer.
“He has no Reserves!” they said with rage. “It was impossible for him
to have an Army of Reserve.”
It was an Army of Reserve gathered piecemeal, flung together, hurled
forward in a master stroke of strategy, at the last minute of the
eleventh hour. It was the second “Miracle” of the Marne.
That battle broke the spirit of the German people and of the German
army. They knew that only retreat and defeat lay ahead of them. They
had struck their last great blow and it had failed. They had used up
their man-power. They, certainly, had no Army of Reserve. They could
only hope that the French and British were as exhausted as themselves
and that the Americans were still unready. They prepared for a general
retreat when the British army took the offensive of August, 1918, and
never stopped fighting along the whole length of its line until the day
of armistice, while the French and Americans pressed the Germans on
their own front.
The American army, inexperienced, raw, not well handled by some of
its generals, fought with the valour which all the world expected,
and suffered great losses and made its weight felt. The sight of
the American troops was a message of doom to the Germans. They knew
that behind this vanguard was a vast American army, irresistible as
a moving avalanche. However great the slaughter of these soldiers
from the New World, pressing on in the face of machine-gun fire, and
lashed to death, millions would follow on, and then more millions.
The game was up for Germany, and they knew it, and were stricken. Yet
they played the game, this grisly game, to the end, with a valour, a
science and a discipline which was the supreme proof of their quality
as great soldiers. It was a fighting retreat, orderly and controlled,
although the British army never gave them a day’s respite, attacked and
attacked, captured masses of prisoners, thousands of guns, and broke
their line again and again.