PAST COMPIÈGNE
KING HENRY. _The sum of all our answer is but this:
We would not seek a battle, as we are;
Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it.
* * * * *
We are in God's hand, brother, not in theirs.
March to the bridge;
Beyond the river we'll encamp ourselves,
And on to-morrow bid them march away._
The destruction of a bridge, especially if it spans a river, always
seems to me so pathetic. Bridges are such companionable things; they
fall so readily into one's mood, and there are, I imagine, few persons
who do not possess pleasant memories of one or another. Whether in
town or country, there is always fascination in staying one's journey
for a few minutes to lean over the parapet and watch the stream--the
basking of a trout amongst the pebbles, the sway of the water-weeds,
the trailing of heavy barges, or the twinkling shore-lights.
In Compiègne there is a particularly handsome structure which spans the
River Oise. The French people love a noble bridge to ferry their broad
highways over the rivers, and I cannot help thinking that it was not
alone special reliance upon the workmanship of our sappers which
induced the French authorities to resign to them the destruction. For,
whenever possible, British sappers were called in for the work. They
made such a clean job of it, the French would say. No; it was, I feel
sure, their affection and pride for beautiful works of art with tender
associations that made them reluctant to lay sacrilegious hands upon
them.
It must have been on Sunday, the 30th, that the last of the Force
marched through or past Compiègne, and the bridge, besides many
another, was blown up. The R.F.A. of the rear-guard passed through the
town and halted, guns unlimbered, about 500 yards out the other side,
ready to open fire, if necessary, for they were being hard pressed.
The fuses were laid and lighted literally in face of the advancing
enemy, and two R.E. officers who were doing the work were killed by
enemy bullets. With a terrific crash the bridge fell, cut in two, and
the retirement was continued while the Germans hurled impotent curses
and (at that time) ineffectual shells after the column.
The Second Corps had now reached country which was very difficult; not
only for manoeuvre, but especially so for transport. Immediately after
you leave Compiègne its glorious forest is entered, and directly that
is passed it is a country of very steep ravines, thickly wooded, with
little villages clinging limpet-like to the ridges. The heat of the
day, too, was most trying.
The First Corps, which had joined up at Noyon, crossed the Aisne, and
continued its retirement via Soissons.
The German pursuit, which during the last two or three days had seemed
to slacken off, began to get serious again on the afternoon of Monday,
the 31st.
About 3 P.M. three field batteries and the Brigade of Guards (First
Corps) were out by Villers-Cotterets, and the Germans were pushing on
almost as fast as they did during the first days. Their guns came into
action at about 1,700 yards, and as our brigade there was far
outnumbered, orders were given to go on retiring.
Well, the major of one of the batteries was "fed up" with retiring
without getting some of his own back, so he put his telescope (a
battery carries a telescope) to his blind eye and said he'd be hanged
before he retired (or words to that effect), and "let's give them a
dressing down first."
So it was "Halt; action right!" and, after a couple of ranging shots,
"Two rounds gun-fire!" And that was all that battery got in. The
Germans put a couple of guns out of action, and then turned their
attention to the wagon line, where they made a considerable mess-up
with the teams.
That settled it. "Signal the teams up and let's get out of it!" said
the major; and it was so. The quartermaster-sergeant put the fear of
God, not the Germans, into the drivers; up came the teams, "rear limber
up," and away they went, damaged guns and all. The Guards meanwhile
had gone on.
There was nothing particularly heroic about it all, but it was very
excusable, and it certainly helped to buck the men up a little.
The Guards, however, gave further excellent evidence of their fighting
qualities in a series of stiff hand-to-hand encounters in the forest
glades. While they suffered badly, they succeeded again and again in
beating back the enemy's attacks, and so further relieving the pressure
on the rear.
Now, despite the continuous fighting and marching, there was no doubt
whatever that the men were daily becoming more war-hardened and fit.
The worst was over, and with that firm conviction their spirits grew
lighter. During the first few days the troops were marching perhaps 25
to 30 miles a day, apart from the fighting. Take, for instance,
Wednesday, the 26th. The men had begun that great fight practically
tired out. They fought all day, and then at the end of it did a
retirement of some 25 miles. Staff officers were simply worn out by
the nerve-racking ordeal, and General Smith-Dorrien himself says that
he did not average more than two hours' sleep during the first six days.
But the week's campaigning had done more for the troops than ten years'
peace work. Their self-reliance, their confidence in and affection for
their officers were evidenced in a hundred ways; while officers, for
their part, had perfect confidence in their men and knew that, however
impossible an order might seem, it would be carried out. The Force
was, in short, one big happy family. Everybody seemed to know
everybody else, and that meant that everybody helped everybody else.
After the Marne it was never quite the same, because the Force began to
increase in size. New-comers were immediately recognised, and the old
hands could never resist a momentary exhibition of very pardonable
pride at having "been out since the beginning."
The heavy losses in officers and N.C.O.'s had an inevitable effect on
discipline, though it might well have been worse had not the sense of
discipline amongst the rank and file been so strong. It must be
remembered that so soon as the vanguard of the retiring Force passed
through a village, practically the whole of the inhabitants would pack
up such few of their belongings as they could carry on light carts,
perambulators and any available vehicle, and then join the ever-growing
stream of refugees. So the next units to pass through would find
nothing but empty houses, and the temptation to carry away a few
"souvenirs" was very hard to check, especially in the case of food.
One man of an infantry regiment "found" a horse wandering loose in a
field. He was very tired, so why, thought he, should he not take what
the gods sent him? He did, and rode the horse for a couple of days.
Knowing nothing about horses, the poor beast got little enough to eat,
and the man thought that the heaven-sent gift was becoming a nuisance.
So he talked the matter over with a pal, and swopped his charger for--a
packet of Woodbines! And I don't think the pal was a canny Scot either.
I remember particularly the date September 1st, and going through the
little town of Crépy-en-Valois, because we then realised for the first
time that something was wrong about that "strategical retirement"
business. Our maps included Belgium and all N.E. France, but Compiègne
was the farthest point south; and when we had retired below that town
we knew that retreat so far south was not a part of the original scheme.
Then most of us saw some French troops for the first time, and, ominous
sign, they were always engaged in barricading and mining the roads,
opening the barricades to let us pass through.
But Tuesday, September 1st, must ever be a red-letter day in the annals
of the Royal Regiment, on account of the famous fight of L Battery,
R.H.A., at Nery, hard by Compiègne. I always regard that episode as
one of the most wonderful incidents in this war. Nor do I think so
because it was my own regiment, though naturally one can appreciate it
the more from being a Gunner. The story is, of course, well known, but
no repetition can mar the effect, however bald the telling of it may be.
L Battery was working with the 1st Cavalry Brigade, which was made up
of the 2nd Dragoons (Queen's Bays), the 11th Hussars, and the 5th
Dragoons. For the benefit of the uninitiated it may be explained that
a horse artillery battery of six guns forms an integral part of a
cavalry brigade; wherever the cavalry go, there can go the "Horse
Gunners," for the gun is of lighter calibre than that of the field
batteries.
About 2 o'clock in the morning word reached Second Corps H.Q. that a
strong force of Germans, 90 guns and cavalry, was moving towards the
1st Cavalry Brigade in bivouac at Nery. The Third Army Corps, which
was still included in General Smith-Dorrien's command, was also not far
away. Our cavalry were actually bivouacked within about 600 yards of
the Germans, and I believe that our outposts were, for some reason or
other, not sufficiently advanced.
In an earlier chapter, writing of Captain Francis Grenfell, I have
remarked that there was one other to whose life might well be applied
the phrase: "_Sans peur et sans reproche_." That other was Captain E.
K. Bradbury, of L Battery. All that I have ventured to say of Grenfell
I would say also of Bradbury. I doubt whether there ever lived a
Gunner officer who was more beloved by his men, or one more worthy to
be so beloved. And when that is said, what else remains?
Half-past four in the morning, and the mists have scarcely begun to
rise above the beech trees. You picture the guns of L Battery parked
in line just on the downward slope of a slight hill and in a little
clearing of the woods. The horses of the gun-teams are tethered to the
gun and limber-wheels; others are down at a little stream hard by,
where some of the men are washing and scrubbing out their shirts. The
Queen's Bays are in bivouac in a neighbouring field.
"Some of our scouts out there, aren't they?" remarked a shoeing-smith,
pointing to some rising ground about 500 yards to the north; "or is it
French cursers?" (cuirassiers).
"Looks more like Germans to me," said one of the gunners. "Let's have
a squint through the telescope."
"What's up?" said the sergeant-major, passing at the moment.
"Half a mo!" mumbled the gunner, eye glued to the battery telescope.
"Yes, it is--Germans--I can see the spiky helmets."
"Rot," returned the sergeant-major; "can't be!"
"Anyway, I'm off to report to the captain," said the gunner.
Bradbury was talking to the horses by one of the guns when a breathless
gunner of the battery staff appeared with the telescope.
"Beg pardon, sir, but there are----"
CRASH! A percussion shell burst clean in the middle of the battery,
followed the next instant by a couple more. And in the few moments'
breathless pause it was realised that practically every horse and every
driver was either killed outright or wounded.
"Action rear!" yelled Bradbury, who found himself in command.
Their leader's voice above the unholy din pulled them together, and the
gun detachments, such as were left, leaped to the trails to get the
limbers clear. But no more than three guns could they get into action.
Now a tornado of shell and machine-gun bullets from close range burst
over and through the devoted remnant--Bradbury, three subalterns
(Giffard, Campbell and Mundy), the sergeant-major, a sergeant, a couple
of gunners, and a driver. And in action against them were ten German
field-guns, and two machine-guns enfilading from the wood.
Of their three guns, they had now to abandon two.
"All hands number 2 gun!" called Bradbury, who, with the sergeant, had
already opened fire.
The others rushed the few yards to Bradbury's gun; but even in that
short space Giffard was hit five times. Bradbury acted as No. 1
(layer), the sergeant No. 2, while Mundy acted as observing officer.
One of the gunners and the driver carried across all the ammunition by
hand, through the hail of lead, from the firing battery wagons.
The range was, say, 600 yards, but in such a nerve-racking storm it was
difficult for the little detachment to work clearly with no one to
observe the burst of the shells. There was only a little chance, but
Mundy took it, and stepped calmly out from the shelter of the
gun-shield to observe.
Then No. 2 gun began its work in earnest.
"Five minutes more left," said Mundy; "add twenty-five."
Crack went the report. "One out!" said Mundy.
"Ten minutes more right; drop twenty-five."
Crack again! "Short," murmured Mundy; then, "add twenty-five."
"Two out!" he counted.
When three German guns had been counted out, Bradbury called over his
shoulder to the sergeant-major:
"Take my place; I'll load for a bit."
He had barely changed places when a bursting shell carried away a leg
at the thigh. Yet, by some superhuman will-power, he stuck to his post
and went on loading.
Now Mundy was mortally wounded. Then Campbell fell. But still the gun
was served, laid, and fired. And as surely were the German guns being
counted out, one by one.
Then there burst true another shell. The gallant Bradbury received his
death-wound, and his other leg was carried away. The rest of the
detachment were all wounded. Still that tiny remnant stuck to it
through the storm.
Now only are left the sergeant-major, Sergeant Nelson, the gunner, and
the driver. Still they work. Still they watch one enemy gun after
another ceasing to fire, until all are counted out but one.
All the ammunition is finished. Nothing left now but to crawl back out
of that hell. I Battery coming up? Well, they can finish it. Lend us
some "wheelers" to get our guns back.
So were the six guns of L Battery brought out of action. Torn and
battered, but safe. Glorious relics of perhaps the most wonderful
action a battery of the Regiment has ever fought--and won.
I Battery opened on the massed columns of the German cavalry now
appearing, and rent mighty lanes through their ranks, turned and
scattered them. The Queen's Bays, who had been working as infantry,
for their horses stampeded when the firing began, collected up, and
with I Battery and the Lincolns went over the hill after the retiring
enemy.
There they found the German battery out of action and abandoned.
And Bradbury? His last conscious words were an appeal for morphia and
to be carried away as quickly as possible that his men might not
witness his agony and be unnerved.
So passed that heroic soul away. A life nobly spent, a death nobly
encountered.
Nothing is here for tears,
... nothing but well and fair
And what may quiet us in a death so noble.