THE BATTLE OF LE CATEAU
The principal thing about Le Cateau is that the soldiers pronounce it to
rhyme with Waterloo--Leacatoo--and all firmly believe that if the French
cavalry had come up to help us, as the Prussians came up at Waterloo,
there would have been no Germans to fight against us now.
It was a cold misty morning when we awoke, but later the day was fine
enough. We got up, had a cheery and exiguous breakfast to distant,
intermittent firing, then did a little work on our bicycles. I spent an
hour or so watching through glasses the dim movement of dull bodies of
troops and shrapnel bursting vaguely on the horizon. Then we were all
summoned to H.Q., which were stationed about a mile out from Reumont on
the Le Cateau road. In front of us the road dipped sharply and rose
again over the brow of a hill about two miles away. On this brow,
stretching right and left of the road, there was a line of poplars. On
the slope of the hill nearer to us there were two or three field
batteries in action. To the right of us a brigade of artillery was
limbered up ready to go anywhere. In the left, at the bottom of the dip
the 108th was in action, partially covered by some sparse bushes. A few
ambulance waggons and some miscellaneous first-line transport were drawn
up along the side of the road at the bottom of the dip. To the N.W. we
could see for about four miles over low, rolling fields. We could see
nothing to the right, as our view was blocked by a cottage and some
trees and hedges. On the roof of the cottage a wooden platform had been
made. On it stood the General and his Chief of Staff and our Captain.
Four telephone operators worked for their lives in pits breast-high, two
on each side of the road. The Signal Clerk sat at a table behind the
cottage, while round him, or near him, were the motor-cyclists and
cyclists.
About the battle itself you know as much as I. We had wires out to all
the brigades, and along them the news would come and orders would go.
The ---- are holding their position satisfactorily. Our flank is being
turned. Should be very grateful for another battalion. We are under very
heavy shell fire. Right through the battle I did not take a single
message. Huggie took a despatch to the 13th, and returned under very
heavy shrapnel fire, and for this was very properly mentioned in
despatches.
How the battle fluctuated I cannot now remember. But I can still see
those poplars almost hidden in the smoke of shrapnel. I can still hear
the festive crash of the Heavies as they fired slowly, scientifically,
and well. From 9 to 12.30 we remained there kicking our heels,
feverishly calm, cracking the absurdest jokes. Then the word went round
that on our left things were going very badly. Two battalions were
hurried across, and then, of course, the attack developed even more
fiercely on our right.
Wounded began to come through--none groaning, but just men with their
eyes clenched and great crimson bandages.
An order was sent to the transport to clear back off the road. There was
a momentary panic. The waggons came through at the gallop and with them
some frightened foot-sloggers, hanging on and running for dear life.
Wounded men from the firing line told us that the shrapnel was
unbearable in the trenches.
A man came galloping up wildly from the Heavies. They had run out of
fuses. Already we had sent urgent messages to the ammunition lorries,
but the road was blocked and they could not get up to us. So Grimers was
sent off with a haversack--mine--to fetch fuses and hurry up the
lorries. How he got there and back in the time that he did, with the
traffic that there was, I cannot even now understand.
It was now about two o'clock, and every moment the news that we heard
grew worse and worse, while the wounded poured past us in a continuous
stream. I gave my water-bottle to one man who was moaning for water. A
horse came galloping along. Across the saddle-bow was a man with a
bloody scrap of trouser instead of a leg, while the rider, who had been
badly wounded in the arm, was swaying from side to side.
A quarter of an hour before the brigade on our right front had gone into
action on the crest of the hill. Now they streamed back at the trot, all
telling the tale--how, before they could even unlimber, shells had come
crashing into them. The column was a lingering tragedy. There were teams
with only a limber and without a gun. And you must see it to know what a
twistedly pathetic thing a gun team and limber without a gun is. There
were bits of teams and teams with only a couple of drivers. The faces of
the men were awful. I smiled at one or two, but they shook their heads
and turned away. One sergeant as he passed was muttering to himself, as
if he were repeating something over and over again so as to learn it by
rote--"My gun, my gun, my gun!"
At this moment an order came from some one for the motor-cyclists to
retire to the farm where we had slept the night. The others went on with
the crowd, but I could not start my engine. After trying for five
minutes it seemed to me absurd to retreat, so I went back and found that
apparently nobody had given the order. The other motor-cyclists returned
one by one as soon as they could get clear, but most of them were
carried on right past the farm.
A few minutes later there was a great screaming crash
overhead--shrapnel. I ran to my bicycle and stood by waiting for orders.
The General suggested mildly that we might change our headquarters.
There was a second crash. We all retired about 200 yards back up the
road. There I went to the captain in the middle of the traffic and asked
him what I should do. He told us to get out of it as we could not do
anything more--"You have all done magnificently"--then he gave me some
messages for our subaltern. I shouted, "So long, sir," and left him, not
knowing whether I should ever see him again. I heard afterwards that he
went back when all the operators had fled and tried to get into
communication with our Army H.Q.
Just as I had started up my engine another shell burst about 100 yards
to the left, and a moment later a big waggon drawn by two maddened
horses came dashing down into the main street. They could not turn, so
went straight into the wall of a house opposite. There was a dull crash
and a squirming heap piled up at the edge of the road.
I pushed through the traffic a little and came upon a captain and a
subaltern making their way desperately back. I do not know who they
were, but I heard a scrap of what they said--
"We must get back for it," said the captain.
"We shall never return," replied the subaltern gravely.
"It doesn't matter," said the captain.
"It doesn't matter," echoed the subaltern.
But I do not think the gun could have been saved.
About six of us collected in a little bunch at the side of the road. On
our left we saw a line of infantry running. The road itself was
impassable. So we determined to strike off to the right. I led the way,
and though we had not the remotest conception whether we should meet
British or German, we eventually found our way to 2nd Corps H.Q.
I have only a dim remembrance of what happened there. I went into the
signal-office and reported that, so far as I knew, the 5th Division was
in flight along the Reumont-Saint-Quentin road.
The sergeant in charge of the 2nd Corps Motor-cyclists offered us some
hard-boiled eggs and put me in charge of our lot. Then off we went, and
hitting the main road just ahead of our muddled column, halted at the
desolate little village of Estrées.
It now began to rain.
Soon the column came pouring past, so miserably and so slowly,--lorries,
transport, guns, limbers, small batches of infantrymen, crowds of
stragglers. All were cursing the French, for right through the battle we
had expected the French to come up on our right wing. There had been a
whole corps of cavalry a few miles away, but in reply to our urgent
request for help their general had reported that his horses were too
tired. How we cursed them and cursed them.
After a weary hour's wait our subaltern came up, and, at my request,
sent me to look for the captain. I found him about two miles this side
of Reumont, endeavouring vainly to make some sort of ordered procession
out of the almost comically patchwork medley. Later I heard that the
last four hundred yards of the column had been shelled to destruction as
it was leaving Reumont, and a tale is told--probably without truth--of
an officer shooting the driver of the leading motor-lorry in a hopeless
endeavour to get some ammunition into the firing line.
I scooted back and told the others that our captain was still alive, and
a little later we pushed off into the flood. It was now getting dark,
and the rain, which had held off for a little, was pouring down.
Finally, we halted at a tiny cottage, and the Signal Company outspanned.
We tried to make ourselves comfortable in the wet by hiding under damp
straw and putting on all available bits of clothing. But soon we were
all soaked to the skin, and it was so dark that horses wandered
perilously near. One hungry mare started eating the straw that was
covering my chest. That was enough. Desperately we got up to look round
for some shelter, and George, our champion "scrounger," discovered a
chicken-house. It is true there were nineteen fowls in it. They died a
silent and, I hope, a painless death.
The order came round that the motor-cyclists were to spend the night at
the cottage--the roads were utterly and hopelessly impassable--while
the rest of the company was to go on. So we presented the company with a
few fowls and investigated the cottage.
It was a startling place. In one bedroom was a lunatic hag with some
food by her side. We left her severely alone. Poor soul, we could not
move her! In the kitchen we discovered coffee, sugar, salt, and onions.
With the aid of our old Post Sergeant we plucked some of the chickens
and put on a great stew. I made a huge basin full of coffee.
The others, dead tired, went to sleep in a wee loft. I could not sleep.
I was always seeing those wounded men passing, passing, and in my
ear--like the maddening refrain of a musical comedy ditty--there was
always murmuring--"We shall never return. It doesn't matter." Outside
was the clink and clatter of the column, the pitiful curses of tired
men, the groaning roar of the motor-lorries as they toiled up the slope.
Then the Staff began to wander in one by one--on foot, exhausted and
bedraggled. They loved the coffee, but only played with the chicken--I
admit it was tough. They thought all was lost and the General killed.
One murmured to another: "Magersfontein, Dour, and this--you've had some
successful battles." And one went to sleep, but kept starting up, and
giving a sort of strangled shout--"All gone! All gone!" When each had
rested awhile he would ask gently for a little more coffee, rub his
eyes, and disappear into the column to tramp through the night to Saint
Quentin. It was the purest melodrama.
And I, too tired to sleep, too excited to think, sat sipping thick
coffee the whole night through, while the things that were happening
soaked into me like petrol into a rag. About two hours before dawn I
pulled myself together and climbed into the loft for forty minutes'
broken slumber.
An hour before dawn we wearily dressed. The others devoured cold stew,
and immediately there was the faintest glimmering of light we went
outside. The column was still passing,--such haggard, broken men! The
others started off, but for some little time I could not get my engine
to fire. Then I got going. Quarter of a mile back I came upon a little
detachment of the Worcesters marching in perfect order, with a cheery
subaltern at their head. He shouted a greeting in passing. It was
Urwick, a friend of mine at Oxford.
I cut across country, running into some of our cavalry on the way. It
was just light enough for me to see properly when my engine jibbed. I
cleaned a choked petrol pipe, lit a briar--never have I tasted anything
so good--and pressed on.
Very bitter I felt, and when nearing Saint Quentin, some French soldiers
got in my way, I cursed them in French, then in German, and finally in
good round English oaths for cowards, and I know not what. They looked
very startled and recoiled into the ditch. I must have looked
alarming--a gaunt, dirty, unshaven figure towering above my motor-cycle,
without hat, bespattered with mud, and eyes bright and weary for want of
sleep. How I hated the French! I hated them because, as I then thought,
they had deserted us at Mons and again at Le Cateau; I hated them
because they had the privilege of seeing the British Army in confused
retreat; I hated them because their roads were very nearly as bad as the
roads of the Belgians. So, wet, miserable, and angry, I came into Saint
Quentin just as the sun was beginning to shine a little.