Two days later the Sixth Brigade, to which the Eighth Chasseurs
belonged, had been christened by the men "The Flying Column," for it had
been designed to support the other brigades in action. Since their
retreat from the Meuse, Edmond Valentin had marched with his regiment
hither and thither; marched until he was footsore, with few intervals of
rest, sometimes engaging the enemy, and then moving forward again to
some new position, blindly, but with the knowledge that it was upon some
general, previously conceived plan.
War is truly a strange experience. The mere man in the fighting-line
shoots in a trench, lies low, smokes a cigarette and chaffs his
comrades, shoots again, then advances--or retreats, as the case may be.
Rumours pass from mouth to mouth of success or of defeat; he knows not
which is the truth. Retire or advance, what does it matter? If one
retires it is for strategic purposes; if one advances it does not mean
victory. Edmond Valentin, _sous-officier_ of infantry, was but a mere
little pawn in that colossal game of world-power.
They had made a great detour around Liege, behind the forts of Lanlin,
Loncin, and Flemalle, and as the fighting had now become intense near
Fort Boncelles, they had been called up to assist the attacked brigade.
It was night when they reached the little village of Esneux, prettily
situated on the river. On the previous day the place had been occupied
by the Germans under Von Emmich, but the big guns from Boncelles had
been turned upon them, and the Bavarians had been compelled to evacuate
the place, not, however, before they had driven out the poor frightened
inhabitants and sacked it. But the heavy shell-fire from the Boncelles
fort had wrecked the town and set fire to it, so that when the Chasseurs
arrived they found it only a heap of still smoking ruins.
About nine o'clock that evening Edmond's company took up a position in a
dark wood close to an old ruined chateau above the burnt-out village,
but presently, with about thirty others, he was ordered out to the edge
of the wood where the highroad ran to Liege. Once there, every one of
them was left to his own thoughts, and Edmond, having fixed his gun in
position in a ditch well covered behind a wall, sat back with his men,
lit a cigarette and reflected.
He was thinking of Aimee, as he thought of her always every hour,
wondering whether she had fled from Belgium, now that invasion was an
accomplished fact. That day the wildest rumours had reached them--
rumours of German successes everywhere, save at Liege. It was declared,
from mouth to mouth, that the French had been driven back all along the
line, and that the enemy were already marching through Holland on to
Antwerp--German-made lies which were, later on, proved to have been
circulated to create panic.
As they waited there, gazing anxiously across the river where blood-red
glares showed away in the distance--farms and homesteads fired
deliberately by the Uhlans--the moon rose brightly in the clear sky.
Now and then could be heard the distant rumble of heavy artillery, while
at infrequent intervals the forts of Embourg across the river and
Boncelles on their left roared forth, showing sharp, angry flashes in
the night.
Close by where Edmond had taken up his position was a small stone-built
hut, roofless and in ruins; but upon its walls he noticed that a big
white paper had been pasted.
He strode up to it, and in the moonlight examined it. The poster was
one of the enemy's proclamations which had been printed in Berlin in
readiness months before, and he read as follows: