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MONS, ANZAC AND KUT
BY AN M.P.
LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD
1919
[_All rights reserved_]
THIS BOOK
IS DEDICATED TO
LORD ROBERT CECIL
AND
THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS
PREFACE
Journals, in the eyes of their author, usually require an introduction
of some kind, which, often, may be conveniently forgotten. The reader
is invited to turn to this one if, after persevering through the pages
of the diary, he wishes to learn the reason of the abrupt changes and
chances of war that befell the writer. They are explained by the fact
that his eyesight did not allow him to pass the necessary medical
tests. He was able, through some slight skill, to evade these obstacles
in the first stage of the war; later, when England had settled down
to routine, they defeated him, as far as the Western Front was
concerned. He was fortunately compensated for this disadvantage by a
certain knowledge of the East, that sent him in various capacities to
different fronts, often at critical times. It was as an Interpreter
that the writer went to France. After a brief imprisonment, it was as
an Intelligence Officer that he went to Egypt, the Dardanelles and
Mesopotamia.
The first diary was dictated in hospital from memory and rough notes
made on the Retreat from Mons. For the writing of the second diary,
idle hours were provided in the Dardanelles between times of furious
action. The third diary, which deals with the fall of Kut, was written
on the Fly boats of the River Tigris.
In a diary egotism is inevitable. Julius Cæsar cloaked it by using the
third person and Lord French by preferring to blame others, rather than
to praise himself, but these devices are no precedents for one who is
not a generalissimo. There remains anonymity. True, it is a very thin
covering for modesty, but, like a modern bathing-dress, it may serve
its purpose.
When dots occur in the journal, they have their usual significance. The
author was thinking his private thoughts, or, perhaps, criticizing some
high authority, or concealing what, for the moment, at any rate, is
better not revealed.
In the Retreat from Mons, only Christian or nicknames have generally
been used. In the case of the other two Expeditions, names have been
used freely, though where it was considered advisable, they have
occasionally been disguised or initials substituted for them.
This diary claims to be no more than a record of great and small
events, a chronicle of events within limited horizons--a retreat, a
siege and an attack. Writing was often hurried and difficult, and the
diary was sometimes neglected for a period. If inaccuracies occur, the
writer offers sincere apologies.
CONTENTS
PAGE
MONS, 1914 5
ANZAC, 1915 61
KUT, 1916 189
MONS
1914
[Illustration: SIFTON, PRAED & CO. LTD. ST JAMES’ ST LONDON S. W.]
MONS
AUGUST 12-SEPTEMBER 13, 1914
On Wednesday, August 12, 1914, my regiment left Wellington Barracks at
seven in the morning. I fell into step in the ranks as they went out of
the gateway, where I said good-bye to my brother, who left that day. It
was very quiet in the streets, as the papers had said nothing about the
movement of troops. On the march the wives and relations of men said
good-bye to them at intervals, and some of our people came to see us
off at the station, but we missed them.
We entrained for Southampton--Tom, Robin, Valentine and I got into the
same carriage. We left Southampton without much delay. I was afraid of
a hitch, but got on to the ship without any trouble. On board everybody
was very cheerful. Most people thought that the first big engagement
would have begun and very likely have ended before we arrived. Some
were disappointed and some cheered by this thought. The men sang
without ceasing and nobody thought of a sea attack.
The next day (the 13th) we arrived very early at Le Havre in a blazing
sun. As we came in, the French soldiers tumbled out of their barracks
and came to cheer us. Our men had never seen foreign uniforms before,
and roared with laughter at their colours. Stephen Burton of the
Coldstream Guards rebuked his men. He said: “These French troops are
our Allies; they are going to fight with us against the Germans.”
Whereupon one man said: “Poor chaps, they deserve to be encouraged,”
and took off his cap and waved it and shouted “Vive l’Empereur!” He was
a bit behind the times. I believe if the Germans beat us and invaded
England they would still be laughed at in the villages as ridiculous
foreigners.
We were met by a Colonel of the French Reserves, a weak and ineffective
man, two Boy Scouts, and a semi-idiotic interpreter. We shed this
man as soon as we were given our own two excellent interpreters. We
had no wood to cook the men’s dinners, and I was sent off with Jumbo
and a hundred men to see what I could find. A French corporal came
reluctantly with us. We marched a mile, when we found an English
quartermaster at a depot, who let us requisition a heap of great
faggots, which we carried back.
After breakfast I was sent with Hickie to arrange for billeting the
men. Hickie rode a bicycle and lent me his horse, which was the most
awful brute I have ever mounted in any country. It walked ordinarily
like a crab; when it was frightened it walked backwards, and it was
generally frightened. It would go with the troop, but not alone, and
neither whip nor reins played any part in guiding the beast. Hickie
couldn’t ride it. Some French soldiers threw some stones at it and hit
me. Finally we got a crawling cab, then a motor, and went off about 11
kilometres to the Café des Fleurs, where the camp was to be. It was a
piping hot day. We got a house for the Colonel and Desmond belonging
to Monsieur Saville, who said he was a friend of Mr. Yoxall, M.P. He
had a very jolly arbour, where we dined. In the afternoon the troops
came marching up the steep hill in great heat. Hickie and I found a man
rather drunk, with a very hospitable Frenchman. The Frenchman said: “We
have clean sheets and a well-aired bed, coffee, wine or beer for him,
if he desires them.” There was no question about the man’s desiring
them. Hickie almost wept, and said: “How can you keep an army together
if they are going to be treated like this?” The sun had been delightful
in the morning at Le Havre, but was cruel on the troops, especially on
the Reservists, coming up the long hill.
The French had been very hospitable. They had given the men, where they
had been able to do so free of observation, wine, coffee and beer. The
result was distressing. About twenty of the men collapsed at the top of
the hill in a ditch, some of them unconscious, seeming almost dying,
like fish out of water. The French behaved very well, especially the
women, and stopped giving them spirits. I got hold of cars and carried
the men off to their various camps. Jack, Tom and I slept all right in
a tent on the ground. The next day I was sent down by the Colonel with
the drum-major, to buy beer for the regiment at 1s. 1d. a gallon, which
seemed cheap. I met Stephen while I was buying things. He told me we
were off that night, that we were to start at ten, but that we should
not be entrained till 4.30. I lunched with Churchill, who very kindly
tried to help me to get a horse. Long sent me back in his motor. At the
camp, the Colonel complained that the beer had not come, and that the
drum-major and the men had been lost. I commandeered a private motor
and went back at a tremendous rate into the town, all but killing the
drum-major at a corner. We had a capital dinner. M. Saville gave us
excellent wine, and the Colonel told me to make him a speech. We then
lay down before the march.
The next camp captured a spy, but nobody paid any attention. About
10.30 we moved off. It was a warm night with faint moonlight. Coming
into the town the effect was operatic. As we marched or were halted all
the windows opened and the people put their heads out to try and talk
to us. At about half-past eleven it began to rain, but the men whistled
the Marseillaise and “It’s a long way to Tipperary.” The people came
out of the houses, trying to catch the hands of the men and walking
along beside them. We were halted in front of the station, and waited
endlessly in the rain. We then had an almost unspeakable march over
cobbles, past interminable canals, over innumerable bridges, through
what seemed to be the conglomeration of all the slums of all the world,
to light that always promised us rest but never came. It poured without
ceasing. At last we arrived at the station, and when we saw the train
pandemonium followed. Everybody jumped into carriages and tried to keep
other people out, so as to have more room. We were all soaked to the
skin, and nobody bothered about any one else. After that we got out
and packed the men in. Tom, Charles, Jack, Hickie and I got into one
carriage. Lieutenants who tried to follow were hurled out. It was very
cold. Tom had a little brandy, which did us some good. At about 5 a.m.
we moved off. The next day we arrived at Amiens.
Saturday, the 15th, we arrived at Amiens to see a great stir and
bustle. We had not had much to eat. We found several officers of the
Coldstream Guards in their shirt-sleeves, who had got left trying to
get food. I got masses later on at a wayside station, and a stream of
people to carry it, and returned with rousing cheers from the men. At
every station we were met by enormous crowds that cheered and would
have kissed our hands if we had let them. They made speeches and piled
wreaths of flowers upon the Colonel, who was at first very shy, but
driven to make a speech, liked it, and became almost garrulous. At
Arras we had the greatest ovation of all. An old man in the crowd gave
me a post-card, which I directed to a relation at home and asked him
to post. This he did, adding a long letter of his own, to say that I
was well and in good spirits. This letter and my post-card got past the
censor.
Late that night we came to a place called Wassigny, where, after a lot
of standing about, we went up to a farmhouse. Hickie and I lay down on
the floor in a sort of an office at about half-past two, with orders
to be off at five. The Colonel slept outside, half on and half off a
bench. He never seemed to need sleep.
We left the next morning, Sunday, the 16th, at five, for Vadencourt. I
was wearing Cretan boots, and my feet already began to trouble me.
At Vadencourt we met the Maire and his colleague, Monsieur Lesur. He
took us first of all to the most beautiful place for a camp, a splendid
field by a river for bathing, wooded with poplars, but no sooner had we
got there than we were told the Coldstreamers had the right to it.
In Vadencourt everybody helped us. The people threw open their houses,
their barns and their orchards. They could not do enough; but it was a
long business and we had not finished until 1 o’clock, by which time
we were pretty tired. Then the troops turned up, and we had to get
them into billets. After that we lunched with the Colonel. The French
cottages were extraordinarily clean, never an insect, but plenty of
mice rioting about at night. There were many signs of religion in all
these cottages. Most of the rooms were filled with crucifixes and
pictures of the Saints. The priests seemed to have a great deal of
influence. Vadencourt was very religious, and the morning we went off
they had a special service for the men, which was impressive. All the
people seemed saintly, except the Maire, who was very much of this
world.
The men had fraternized with the people and, to the irritation of
the Colonel, wore flowers in their hair and caps. There was no
drunkenness--in fact the men complained that there was nothing strong
enough to make a man drunk. Generally there was not much to do, though
one day the men helped with the harvest. The people could not have been
kinder. It was, as one of the men said, a great “overtation.” Every day
there was a paper published in amazing English. In one paper we found
a picture of Alex Thynne, with contemptuous and angry references to a
speech he had made against English tourists going to France; he wanted
them to go instead to Bath, in his constituency, and so to please both
him and his constituents.
It was a quiet life. There was very little soldiering, and that,
as some one said, was more like manœuvres in the millennium than
anything else. Everywhere corn was offered for our horses and wine for
ourselves, but there was a great fear underlying the quiet. We were
constantly asked whether the Germans would ever get to Vadencourt, and
always said we were quite sure they would not. We used to mess at the
inn close to my house. Of French troops we saw practically nothing,
except our two interpreters, Charlot, who talked very good English,
and Bernard, a butcher from Havre, a most excellent fellow, who was
more English than the English, though he could only talk a few words
of the language. There was also another interpreter, head master of a
girls’ school in Paris. He said to me: “Vous trouverez toutes espèces
d’infames parmi les interprets, même des M.P.s.”
One day Hugo said that it would be interesting, before going into
battle, to have our fortunes told. I told him he could not get a
fortune-teller at Vadencourt. “Not at all, there is one in the
village; I saw it written over her shop, ‘Sage Femme’.” ... I was very
comfortable in my house, which was just out of bounds, but not enough
to matter.
Monsieur Louis Prevot came in one day, with a beautiful mare, brown to
bay, Moonshine II, by Troubadour out of Middlemas. He said that she
could jump two metres. Her disadvantages were that she jumped these two
metres at the wrong time and in the wrong place, that she hated being
saddled and kicked when she was groomed: while Monsieur Prevot was
showing me how to prevent her kicking she kicked right through the barn
door. I bought her for £40. I think Prevot thought that the French
authorities were going to take his stables and that I was his only
chance. When she settled down to troops she became a beautiful mount.
That day I went with Hickie through Etreux to Boué, foraging. I drove
with a boy called Vanston behind a regular man-killer. It was far worse
than anything that happened at Mons. Vanston talked all the time of
the virtue of Irishwomen, of the great advantage of having medals and
the delight old men found in looking at them, of the higher courage
of the unmarried man and his keen anxiety to get into battle, and of
the goodness of God. Hickie was upset because he thought that the
man-killing horse was going to destroy the Maltese cart, which was,
apparently, harder to replace than Vanston or me.
The night before we left the Colonel gave us a lecture. As an
additional preparation for the march we were also inoculated against
typhoid, which made some people light-headed.
We left Vadencourt on August 19th, Hickie and Hubert both ill,
travelling on a transport cart. I rode ahead, through pretty and
uneventful country. At Oisy, Hickie was very ill, and I got him some
brandy. We were to camp beyond Oisy. When we got to the appointed place
the Maire was ill and half dotty. S. and I laboured like mad to find
houses, but at last, when our work was finished we found that they
had already been given to the Coldstreamers. Some of the people were
excellent. One old fellow of seventy wept and wished that his house
was as big as a barn, that he might put up the soldiers in it. A rough
peasant boy took me round and stayed with us all the afternoon and
refused to take a penny. But some of them were not so kind. In the end,
billets were not found for a number of officers and men, who slept
quite comfortably in the new-mown hay. We passed a big monastery where
two Germans, disguised as priests, had been taken and shot the week
before. I slept in a house belonging to three widows, all like stage
creatures. They had one of the finest cupboards I have ever seen.
The next morning (August 20th) we marched off to Maroilles--a big dull
town, and again some of the people were not overpleased to see us. Here
we had an excellent dinner. I slept at a chemist’s. Hickie was sent
back from Maroilles to Amiens with rheumatic fever. We got up at 4
o’clock the next morning (August 21st), and had a pretty long march to
Longueville by Malplaquet.
As we crossed the frontier the men wanted a cheer, but they were
ordered to be quiet, “so as not to let the Germans hear them.” This
order gave an unpleasant impression of the proximity of the Germans.
The men began to fall out a great deal on the road. The heat was very
great. Many of the reservists were soft, and their feet found them
out. Their rough clothes rubbed them. Tom carried rifles all day, and
I carried rifles and kit on my horse, while the men held on to the
stirrups.
By this time the Maires of France seemed to be growing faint under the
strain of billeting. We never saw the Maire of Longueville. The country
made a wonderful picture that I shall never forget. We marched past
fields of rich, tall grass, most splendid pasture, and by acres and
acres of ripe corn which was either uncut or, if cut, uncarried.
There was any amount of food for our horses, but one felt reluctant at
first at feeding them in the standing corn. I went ahead when I could
to forage for the mess, and because Moonshine danced continuously and
produced confusion.
We lived chiefly on hard-boiled eggs, chocolate and beer, but we did
better than most other companies, because generally, as Valentine said,
the officers’ vocabulary was limited to “omelette” and “bière.”
Longueville is a very long town, with fine houses, and we did capitally
there, but the men were tired. No. 3 dined luxuriously at a farm. Hugo
and I billeted at two houses close to each other. At 6 o’clock I went
to get some rest, when my servant told me that the order had come to
stand to arms at once, as the Germans were close upon us.
I went outside and heard one cannon boom very faintly in the distance.
Women were wringing their hands and crying in the streets, and the
battalion was ordered to stand to arms. Then, after a time, we were
ordered to march at ten, and went back to quarters. At this time we
began to curse the Germans for disturbing the peace of Europe.
The women of the village brought us milk, bread, everything they could
for the march. While we were dining the order came to make ready for a
German attack. We went out at once. Bernard took me up and down various
roads, and we put iron and wire and everything we could lay hold of,
across them, making a flimsy defence. When we returned we heard that
we were to march at 2 a.m., and at 11 those who could lay down to
sleep. The woman in my house was very kind in getting bread and milk.
At 2 o’clock we began marching. The horses were all over the place.
Moonshine nearly kicked a man behind her heels, and Tom just missed
being killed by the ammunition horse in front. It was very dark.
We marched to a place called Senlis. Dawn came, and then an enemy
aeroplane appeared over us, which everybody at once shot at. Moonshine
broke up two companies in the most casual way. The aeroplane went on.
In Belgium the people were very good to us, during the week-end that
we spent there. They were honest and pathetic. There were no signs of
panic, but there was a ghastly silence in the towns.
Beyond Senlis we were halted on a plain near a big town which we did
not then know was Mons. We were drawn up and told that the Germans
were close to us and that we had to drive them back. Valentine and
I lay down under the shelter of a haystack, as it was raining. It
was a mournful day in its early hours. At about 10 a.m. I was sent
for by the Colonel, who had been looking for me, he said, for some
time. He told me to ride after S. to Quevy-le-Grand. I rode fast, and
caught up S. We stabled our horses and went round the town. Soames,
a Staff officer, told us we could have both sides of the road--as we
understood, the pompous main road. Unfortunately he meant both sides
of an insignificant road we had not even noticed. We took one of the
biggest and most beautiful farms I have ever seen for Headquarters, and
proposed to put seven or eight officers in it. We then, as usual, found
that this house and all the rest had been given to the Coldstreamers,
and we went to hunt for other billets. I thought I heard cannon, faint
and dim. As we went on with our work the noise grew louder and louder.
There was a big battle going on within four or five miles. Then in came
the battalion from Senlis (which was burnt twenty-four hours later) at
about twelve, and got into billets, while, at last, we had luncheon.
Valentine and I were eating an omelette and talking Shakespeare, when
suddenly we saw the battalion go past. We both got cursed because we
had not been able to prophesy that the battalion would start within
twenty minutes. We marched on till about half-past three, through
rising and falling land, under a very hot sun. We were getting nearer
to the battle. The sky was filled with smoke-wreaths from shells. “We
are going slap-bang at them,” said Hubert. At 3.30 we found ourselves
on a hill, by a big building which looked like a monastery. The road
was crowded with troops and frightened peasants. Below the road lay the
green valley with the river winding through it, and on the crest of the
wooded hills beyond were the Germans.
We left our horses and marched down to the valley. As we passed the
village of Harveng I inconsiderately tried to get a drink of water from
a house. The men naturally followed, but we were all ordered on, and I
had nothing to drink until 7 o’clock the next morning. The men, or some
of them, got a little water that night.
From behind us by the monastery the shells rose in jerks, three at a
time. The Germans answered from the belt of trees above the cliffs. Our
feelings were more violently moved against Germany as the disturber of
Europe. I went into the first fight prepared only for peace, as I had
left my revolver and sword on my horse. Tom said: “For goodness’ sake
don’t get away from our company; those woods will be full of Germans
with bayonets to-night.” We never doubted that we should drive them
back. The Colonel called the officers together and told us that the
trees above the chalk cliffs were our objective. We then lay down in
some lucerne and waited and talked. The order to move came about 5.30,
I suppose. We went down through the fields rather footsore and came
to a number of wire fences which kept in cattle. These fences we were
ordered to cut. My agricultural instinct revolted at this destruction.
We marched on through a dark wood to the foot of the cliffs and,
skirting them, came to the open fields, on the flank of the wood,
sloping steeply upwards. Here we found our first wounded man, though
I believe as we moved through the wood an officer had been reported
missing.
The first stretch was easy. Some rifle bullets hummed and buzzed round
and over us, but nothing to matter. We almost began to vote war a dull
thing. We took up our position under a natural earthwork. We had been
there a couple of minutes when a really terrific fire opened. We were
told afterwards that we were not the target--that it was an accident
that they happened to have stumbled on the exact range. But even if we
had known this at the time, it would not have made much difference. It
was as if a scythe of bullets passed directly over our heads about a
foot above the earthworks. It came in gusts, whistling and sighing.
The men behaved very well. A good many of them were praying and
crossing themselves. A man next to me said: “It’s hell fire we’re going
into.” It seemed inevitable that any man who went over the bank must be
cut neatly in two. Valentine was sent to find out if Bernard was ready
on the far left. Then, in a lull, Tom gave the word and we scrambled
over and dashed on to the next bank. Bullets were singing round us like
a swarm of bees, but we had only a short way to go, and got, all of
us, I think, safely to the next shelter, where we lay and gasped and
thought hard.
Our next rush was worse, for we had a long way to go through turnips.
The prospect was extremely unattractive; we thought that the fire came
from the line of trees which we were ordered to take, and that we
should have to stand the almost impossible fire from which the first
bank had sheltered us. This was not the case, as the German trenches,
we heard afterwards, were about 300 yards behind the trees, but their
rifle fire and their shells cut across. We had not gone more than
about 100 yards, at a rush and uphill, when a shell burst over my
head. I jumped to the conclusion that I was killed, and fell flat. I
was ashamed of myself before I reached the ground, but, looking round,
found that everybody else had done the same.
The turnips seemed to offer a sort of cover, and I thought of the
feelings of the partridges, a covey of which rose as we sank. Tom gave
us a minute in which to get our wind--we lay gasping in the heat, while
the shrapnel splashed about--and then told us to charge, but ordered
the men not to fire until they got the word. As we rose, with a number
of partridges, the shooting began again, violently, but without much
effect. I think we had six or seven men hit. We raced to the trees.
Valentine was so passionately anxious to get there that he discarded
his haversack, scabbard and mackintosh, and for days afterwards walked
about with his naked sword as a walking-stick.
When we reached the trees in a condition of tremendous sweat we found
an avenue and a road with a ditch on either side. We were told that our
trenches were a few yards over the farther hedge, faced by the German
trenches, about 250 yards off. There was fierce rifle and machine-gun
fire. Night fell; the wounded were carried back on stretchers; we
sat very uncomfortably in a ditch. I was angry with Tom for the only
time on the march, as he was meticulous about making us take cover in
this beastly ditch when outside it there was a bank of grass like a
sofa, which to all intents and purposes was safe from fire. We were
extremely thirsty, but there was nothing to drink and no prospect of
getting water. After some time we moved down the road upon which we
lay, getting what sleep we could. In the earlier part of the night
there were fierce duels of rifle fire and machine-guns between the two
trenches. It sounded as if the Germans were charging. Our men in the
road never got a chance of letting off their guns. Most of us dozed
coldly and uncomfortably on the hard road. I woke up about 2 a.m.,
dreaming that a mule was kicking the splash-board of a Maltese wagon
to pieces, and then realized that it was the German rifle fire beyond
the hedge, hitting the road. I walked up the road for a few yards
and heard two men talking, one of whom was, I suppose, Hubert, and
the other must have been C. Hubert said: “Have I your leave, sir, to
retire?” “Yes, you have; everybody else has gone; it is clear that we
are outflanked on the left, and it is suicide to stay.” The battalion
was then ordered to retire; No. 3 Company, doing rearguard, was ordered
back to the fields which we had already crossed. I said to Tom: “I hear
upon the best authority that this is suicide.” Tom said: “Of course it
is; we shall get an awful slating.” We moved back. There was a faint
light and a spasmodic rifle fire from the Germans as we went back to
the fields we had crossed. We could not make out why they did not open
on us with shrapnel, as they had the range. We lay down on the new-cut
hay, which smelt delicious. It seemed almost certain that we should be
wiped out when dawn came, but most of us went fast asleep. I did. At 4
o’clock we were hurried off. We went down into the blinding darkness of
the wood by the road we had gone the evening before. We went through
the wood, past the monastery, up into the village. There we waited. The
road was blocked, the villagers were huddled, moaning, in the streets.
The men were very pleased to have been under fire, and compared notes
as to how they felt. Every one was pleased. But they felt that more of
this sort of thing would be uncivilized, and it ought to be stopped by
somebody now. In the dawn we crossed a high down, where we expected to
be shelled, but nothing happened. We were very tired and footsore.
At 7 o’clock we got to Quevy-le-Petit and had a long drink, the first
for seventeen hours. The smell of powder and the heat had made us
very thirsty. Two companies were set to dig trenches. We were held
in reserve, and all the hot morning we shelled the Germans from
Quevy-le-Petit, while their guns answered our fire without much effect.
One shell was a trouble. The remainder of the ---- Regiment (men
without officers), who had had a bad time at Mons, had a shell burst
over them and rushed through our ranks, taking some of our men with
them. This was put right at once.
We were told that a tremendous German attack was to take place in the
evening; we disliked the idea, as, even to an amateur like myself, it
was obvious that there was hardly any means of defence. To stay was to
be destroyed, as the Colonel said casually, causing “une impression
bien pénible.”
We wrote farewell letters which were never sent. I kept mine in my
pocket, as I thought it would do for a future occasion. They began to
shell us heavily while we helped ourselves from neighbouring gardens.
We did this with as much consideration as possible, and Valentine and I
went off to cook some potatoes in an outhouse by a lane.
The peasants were flying, and offered us all their superfluous goods.
They were very kind. Then an order to retire came, and in hot haste
we left our potatoes. We retired at about 1 o’clock in the afternoon
and marched to Longueville, or rather to a camp near it called Bavai.
We reached this camp at about 10.30 at night. Moonshine behaved like
the war-horse in the Bible. She had hysterics which were intolerable;
smelling the battle a long way off. She must have done this the night
before, when it was much nearer and I had left her with Ryan, for when
I found her again she had only one stirrup. A sergeant-major captured
her and picketed her for the night.
The orchard in which we camped blazed with torch-light and camp-fires
and was extremely cheerful. Every now and then a rifle went off by
accident, and this was always greeted with tremendous cheers.
I was very tired, and threw myself down to sleep under a tree, when up
came the Colonel and said: “Come along, have some rum before you go to
bed.” I went and drank it, and with all the others lay down thoroughly
warm and contented in the long wet grass, and slept soundly for three
hours. Next morning we were woken about 3 o’clock, but did not march
off till 6 o’clock.
From Bavai we marched to Landrecies. Hubert rode ahead with me to
do the billeting. We pastured our horses in the luxuriant grass and
got milk at the farms. We did not see much sign of panic amongst the
people, but coming to a big railway station we saw that all the engines
of the heavy ammunition wagons had been turned round. Hubert saw and
swore. In the morning we occupied a farm, where I tried to buy a strap
to replace my lost stirrup. We lay about under haystacks and talked
to the farmer and his son. After about an hour it was reported that
two hundred Germans were coming down the road, and Eric went off after
them, with machine-guns.
The retreat had begun in real earnest. This whole retreat was curiously
normal. Everybody got very sick of it, and all day long one was hearing
officers and men saying how they wanted to turn and fight. I used to
feel that myself, though when one was told to do so and realized that
we were unchaperoned by the French and faced by about two million
Germans, it did something to cool one’s pugnacity, and one received
the subsequent order to retire in a temperate spirit. Men occasionally
fell out from bad feet, but the regiment marched quite splendidly.
There was never any sign of flurry or panic anywhere. I think that
most people, when they realized what had happened, accepted things
rather impersonally. They thought that as far as our Army in France was
concerned, disaster, in the face of the enormous numbers that we had to
fight, was inevitable, but that this disaster was not vital as long as
the Navy was safe.
My dates are not quite accurate here, as I cannot account for one day.
It was Sunday, August 23rd, that we had the fight at Mons; I remember
several men said: “Our people are now going to Evening Service at
home,” as we marched out; and it was Tuesday, September 1st, that we
had the fight in which I and the others were taken prisoners.
Hubert and I arrived at Landrecies about 1 o’clock. Going in, we met
S., a Staff officer, who told us where we could quarter the men. We
went to a big house belonging to a man called Berlaimont, which Hubert
wanted to have as Headquarters. Berlaimont was offensive and did not
wish to give his house. We went on to the Maire, who gave us permission
to take it. After lunch we went on billeting, finding some very fine
houses. We had a mixed reception. Berlaimont gave in ungraciously,
and wrote up rather offensive orders as to what was not to be done:
“Ne pas cracher dans les corridors.” In other houses, too, they made
difficulties. I said: “After all, we are better than the Germans.”
They soon had the chance of judging. The troops came in to be billeted.
At 6 o’clock fire suddenly broke out in the town, and the cry was
raised that the Germans were upon us. I ran back and got my sword and
revolver at Headquarters, and going out, found a body of unattached
troops training a Maxim on the estaminet that was my lodgings. I
prevented them firing. Troops took up positions all over the town. The
inhabitants poured out pell-mell. It was like a flight in the Balkans.
They carried their all away in wheelbarrows, carts, perambulators and
even umbrellas. I met and ran into M. Berlaimont, very pale and fat,
trotting away from the town; he said to me with quivering cheeks: “What
is it?” I said: “It is the Prussians, M. Berlaimont. And they will
probably spit in your corridors.”
We had some dinner in a very hospitable house. At 8 o’clock there was
some very fierce fighting; the Coldstreamers had been ordered outside
the town. The Germans came up, talking French, and called out to
Monk, a Coldstream officer: “Ne tirez pas; nous sommes des amis,” and
“Vive les Anglais.” A German knocked Monk under a transport wagon.
Then our men grasped what was happening; they charged the Germans and
the Germans charged them, three times, I believe. They brought up
machine-guns. Afterwards one of our medical officers said that we had
lost 150 men, killing 800 to 1,000 Germans. It was there that Archer
Clive was killed.
Just before dinner I met an officer of the regiment. I asked him if
he had a billet. He told me he could not get one, and I said he could
have mine and that I would find another. However, I found that my
kit had already been put into the estaminet, and took him up to the
market-place to find a lodging. We first went to an empty café, where
all the liquor was left out, with no master or servants. We left money
for what beer we drank. I then found a room in a tradesman’s house.
After dinner I went down to the main barricade with Jack. Wagons,
including one of our own that carried our kit, had been dragged across
the road and defences were put up like lightning. We loopholed the
houses and some houses were pulled down. It was an extraordinarily
picturesque scene. The town was pitch-black except where the torches
glowed on the faces and on the bayonets of the men, or where shells
flashed and burst. I thought of the taking of Italian towns in the
seventeenth century. The Germans shelled us very heavily. It did not
seem as if there was much chance of getting away, but no one was
despondent. At about 1 a.m. there was a lull in the firing, and I went
back to lie down in my room. There I fell asleep, and the shelling of
the town did not wake me, though the house next to me was hit. About
2.30, in my sleep I heard my name, and found Desmond calling me loudly
in the street outside. He said: “We have lost two young officers, L.
and W. Come out and find them at once. The Germans are coming into
the town, and we shall have to clear out instantly.” I said to him:
“I don’t know either L. or W. by sight, and if I did it is far too
dark to see them.” “Well,” he said, “you must do your best.” I went
out and walked about the town, which was still being shelled, but I
was far more afraid of being run over in the darkness than of being
hit. Troops were pouring out in great confusion--foot, artillery,
transport mixed--and there were great holes in the road made by the
German shells. I met Eric, who said: “Come along with me to Guise”;
also the driver of a great transport wagon, who said he had no orders,
and begged me to come with him: he felt lonely without an officer.
It was quite clear to me that it was impossible to find these two
officers. I met Desmond by Headquarters and told him so; he said: “Very
well, fall in and come along.” The regiment passed at that moment.
Hubert and Tom told me to fall in, but I would not leave Moonshine,
though there did not seem to be much more chance of finding her than
W. and L. My groom and servant had both disappeared. The houses were
all locked or deserted. I battered on a door with my revolver. Two old
ladies timidly came out with a light. They pointed to a house where
I could find a man, but at that moment a Frenchman came up, whom I
commandeered. I went off to Headquarters to see if a sergeant was left.
There was nobody there. The dinner left looked like Belshazzar’s feast.
I had a good swig of beer from a jug. My saddle and sword had gone. I
went out with the Frenchman and saw that the troops were nearly all
out of the town. I determined to stay, if necessary, and hide until I
could find my horse, but the Frenchman turned up trumps and we found
her. We were terrified of her heels in the dark. I thanked the old
ladies and apologized for having threatened them with my revolver.
There was no question of riding Moonshine bare-back. I went back to
get a saddle, below Headquarters, but the Germans were there, so the
Frenchman swore. It was too dark to see, but they weren’t our men. I
took her back to where the medical officer was billeted. He had been
waiting with a dying man and was about to leave the town. I asked him
to let one of his men lead her, and went forward to see if I could get
a saddle. In this I failed. As I got out of the town dawn was breaking.
For some obscure reason one of our gunners fired a shell. Everybody
said: “I suppose that is to tell them where we are.” We all thought
that the German artillery fire must catch us going out of the town. For
the second time they let us off. By that time we had grasped the fact
that they could outmarch us, but we did not know that they had come on
motor-cars, and ascribed their greater pace to what we believed to be
the fact--that we were entirely unsupported by the French. My regiment
were a good long way ahead. I joined an officer who was leading a
detachment, and he was anxious that I should stay with him. As I walked
along, pretty footsore, an unshaven man came up and asked me if I liked
this sort of thing better than politics. I didn’t say much, as I had
heard the soldiers discussing politicians in the dark at Landrecies,
cursing all politicians every time a shell fell, and saying: “Ah,
that’s another one we owe to them. Why aren’t they here?” He offered
me a horse. He was the Colonel of the Irish Horse, Burns-Lindow. I
took the horse gratefully, which had a slight wound on its shoulder
and was as slow as an ox, poor beast. This drove me almost mad after
Moonshine, and, meeting another officer, I fell into conversation with
him. I asked if he saw anything wrong in my taking the saddle off this
horse and putting it on to Moonshine, when I found her. He said it
was certainly irregular, and I then recognized who he was. I got away
from him as soon as possible and, finding another officer of the Irish
Horse, persuaded him to help me to take off the saddle and put it on to
Moonshine, whom I had regained fairly chastened. I found the Colonel,
and we rode on to Etreux. Here we brought down an aeroplane after
it had dropped a bomb on us. The officers tried to prevent the men
shooting, but the noise made their commands useless. The C.O. was very
angry. He said: “I will teach you to behave like a lot of ... s. Off
you go and dig trenches.” One of the men said as we marched off: “If
that was a friendly aeroplane, what did it want to drop that bomb on us
for?” He was quite right. It had done this, and the shell had fallen
about thirty yards away. Our fire prevented us hearing it. Stephen came
down in a Balaclava helmet and said that officers were the best shots
at aeroplanes because pheasants had taught them to swing in firing.
At Etreux we were ordered to dig trenches, which we did. After this I
slept under a hedge, where Bernard, the Frenchman, gave me some rum,
which was very welcome, as it was raining. At about 9 o’clock I felt
Hubert, very angry, thumping me, as he thought I was a private who had
taken his haversack to lie on.
The next morning everybody was in tremendous spirits. They had slept
very well in the trenches and those outside had been housed in nests
of straw. The officers were called up and spoken to by the Colonel. He
read out a message from Joffre to say that the British Army had saved
France. He told us that the retreat had been inevitable and had given
the French time to take up adequate defensive positions. The impression
I think most of us had was that we had been used as a bait. Then we
were once more ordered to retire.
As I rode along in the morning going to La Fère an aeroplane passed
fairly close over us; everybody fired at it at once; thousands of
rounds must have been fired, and I found it useful in teaching
Moonshine to stand fire. She took her first lesson well, though she
broke up the formation of half a company. We often saw aeroplanes, and
they were nearly always shot at, whether they belonged to friend or foe.
That day we marched to Origny, where we camped below a hill with a
steep cliff to it. I went into the town and bought eggs, brandy,
etc. There was every kind of rumour about: that we were completely
surrounded by the Germans; that there were millions of them in front
and behind; also that there had been a great French defeat at Charleroi.
We were all very jolly. At night the artillery poured past with the
sound of a great cataract. We lay down on the hillside, and every
man going to get straw to cover him walked over Tom’s face, who
swore himself almost faint with rage. All our kit had been lost at
Landrecies, and many of us had not great-coats.
We started at dawn; but had to wait to let other troops pass us. I was
sent back to look for communicating files of the regiment that had been
lost. I found them with difficulty and brought them on. The Germans
were too near to us. That day we marched through great avenues of tall
poplars and through a pleasant smiling country to La Fère. Moonshine
began to grow lame. I stayed behind to get food for my company and lost
the regiment, only finding them again after long wanderings and with
the greatest difficulty. We camped near La Fère. The regiment forgot
its tiredness in a hunt after a strange horse which strayed into our
camp and which Eric finally captured for the transport. Both Desmond
and he tried hard to take my saddle from me; for the saddle which I
had first put upon Moonshine was Hickie’s harness. Then Hickie was
invalided, and I lost his saddle at Landrecies and then got the saddle
from B. L., Colonel of the Irish Horse. I beat them in argument, but
thought they were quite capable of taking the saddle in spite of that.
We stopped some time to smoke and rest. The men were drawn up on a
torrid cornfield. Valentine was overdone. He volunteered, like the
man in the Bible, to get water. Finding that he would have to wait
in a long queue, he returned without the water. Tom’s anger beat all
records. A deputation from another regiment came and asked him to
repeat what he had said. They were surprised to find that it was his
brother-in-law who had provoked these comments.
I saw John Manners and George Cecil, and gave them cigarettes. Near a
great factory of some kind we marched past Sir Douglas Haig. I hurried
past him.
La Fère was an old fortified city. We were told we were to have a rest
and the next day’s march was to be a very short one. We camped near
Berteaucourt. It was very hot. I hobbled up to the village to get
provisions, and found a French girl, the daughter of a farmer, who
talked fair English. Near the village I spoke to a number of people. I
told one peasant I thought it was a mistake that everybody should fly
from their houses if they did not mean to clear out altogether, and
that it was an invitation to the Germans to loot and burn. He said:
“Monsieur, I quite agree with you. Moi, je vais agir en patriote quand
ils viendront. Je vais tout bonnement descendre dans ma cave.” The next
day (the 29th) we camped above the village of Pasly. On the road I got
boracic cream for my horse’s cracked heel. We passed through a big
town, Coucy, crowded with curious, frightened, silent people. It had a
very fine castle. I bought some cigarette-holders, with cinema pictures
inside, for the Colonel. People pressed chocolate and all they could
get into my hands, taking payment unwillingly. Moonshine lost a shoe,
but I managed to get her shod there. Reluctantly at Pasly I lent her
to Robin, who went off to post his men in the village. The moment he
had gone the O.C. sent for me and told me we had got outside the area
of our maps, and asked if I could get him a map. I started off at once
to walk to Soissons. When he discovered where I was going he said it
was out of the question; so I walked down to Pasly either to get a map
there or to take the Maire’s carriage and drive to Soissons. In Pasly
there was a tenth-rate Maire and a schoolmaster. They provided me with
an ancient map, the date of which was 1870. It did not even mark the
monument of the schoolmasters whom the Germans had lightheartedly shot
on their last visit to the village.
I found a half-wit, and paid him to carry up some wine, bread and eggs.
We camped above a quarry and talked of what was going to happen. There
seemed only two alternatives. One was that we should get into Paris and
take first-class tickets home to England, and the other that we should
stay and get wiped out. For we still saw no French troops; we still
believed ourselves to be 100,000 against a force of anything from one
to two millions.
Eric had met a Lancer who had been full of the German atrocities. I
met him and talked to him afterwards. His stories sounded improbable.
Eric had also seen an extraordinary thing happen that morning. He had
seen an aeroplane which we were bombarding. It was flying in the blue
sky when it was struck. It was there, and then it was not. It just
disappeared.
_August 31st._ We got up fairly early, and I rode with Eric past caves
in which there were houses and quarries down the steep hillside to the
plain of Soissons. It was a beautiful morning, very peaceful, and the
air was scented. There was bright sunlight over the marching soldiers
and the fields of green, tall grass. The C.O. told me that our camping
ground was at Cœuvre. I asked leave to ride into Soissons and see if
I could not get clean shirts and handkerchiefs to replace what we had
lost at Landrecies.
Soissons was like a sunlit town of the dead. Four out of five houses
were shut. Most of the well-to-do people had gone. It was silent
streets and blind houses. The clattering which Moonshine made on the
cobbles was almost creepy. I stopped first of all at a saddler’s shop
and tried to get a proper bridle. The saddler was a rough democratic
Frenchman, not a bad fellow, the sort of man who made the Republic. He
took me to a boot shop which was my first need, where the people were
very kind, and I bought a capital pair of boots for twelve francs. I
went into the “Lion d’Or.” They refused me a stall for Moonshine on the
ground that the landlord and all his family were going. I insisted,
and bought her some fodder, also some food for myself. They drove hard
bargains.