Our men have been fighting for six days and nights like this, after the
first storm of shells and gas, until their beards have grown long and
their faces haggard and worn for lack of sleep, and their clothes have
become torn on wire and covered with dust of mud and chalk. I saw a
small party of them today so weary with this endless battle they could
hardly walk, and they were holding hands like tired children and leaning
against each other like drunken men, but for the most part they hold
their heads up gamely, because so far luck has been against them.
The whole movement of the army under the necessity of withdrawal from
fixed positions is as orderly as though on manoeuvres in England. I can
say honestly I have seen no officer show sign of being flurried.
It is all an amazing drama, because this open warfare is a new thing to
the army, and the menace of the enemy is strong and serious, and
retirement under the terrific pressure of the human avalanche now hurled
against the defenders is by no means pleasant. But in the inevitable
turmoil of this situation, in roads crowded with traffic of men and
guns, in villages seething with troops rushed up toward the battle line,
on the field of battle itself, the British Army retains its
self-control, its will power, and its supreme, inspired courage.