THE BATTLE OF THE AISNE.
I'm going to start by giving you an account of what we thought of the
military situation during the great marches and the battle of the
Aisne--for my own use. What happened we shall be able to look up
afterwards in some lumbersome old history, should we forget, but, unless
I get down quickly what we thought, it will disappear in
after-knowledge.
You will remember how the night we arrived on the Aisne Huggie and I
stretched ourselves on a sand-heap at the side of the road--just above
Ciry--and watched dim columns of Germans crawling like grey worms up the
slopes the other side of the valley. We were certain that the old
Division was still in hot cry on the heels of a rapidly retreating foe.
News came--I don't know how: you never do--that our transport and
ammunition were being delayed by the fearsome and lamentable state of
the roads. But the cavalry was pushing on ahead, and tired infantry were
stumbling in extended order through the soaked fields on either side of
us. There was hard gunnery well into the red dusk. Right down the valley
came the thunder of it, and we began to realise that divisions, perhaps
even corps, had come up on either flank.
The ancient captain of cuirassiers, who had hauled me out of my shrine
into the rain that afternoon, made me understand there was a great and
unknown number of French on our left. From the Order before the Marne I
had learnt that a French Army had turned the German right, but the first
news I had had of French on our own right was when one staff-officer
said in front of me that the French away to the east had been held up.
That was at Doué.
Our retreat had been solitary. The French, everybody thought, had left
us in the lurch at Mons and again at Le Cateau, when the cavalry we knew
to be there refused to help us. For all we knew the French Army had been
swept off the face of the earth. We were just retiring, and retiring
before three or four times our own numbers. We were not even supported
by the 1st Corps on our right. It was smashed, and had all it could do
to get itself away. We might have been the Ten Thousand.
But the isolation of our desperate retreat dismayed nobody, for we all
had an unconquerable belief in the future. There must be some French
somewhere, and in spite--as we thought then--of our better judgments, we
stuck to the story that was ever being circulated: "We are luring the
Germans into a trap." It was impressed upon us, too, by "the Div." that
both at Mons and Le Cateau we were strategically victorious. We had
given the Germans so hard a knock that they could not pursue us at once;
we had covered the retirement of the 1st Corps; we had got away
successfully ourselves. We were sullen and tired victors, never
defeated. If we retreated, it was for a purpose. If we advanced, the
Germans were being crushed.
The Germans thought we were beaten, because they didn't realise we knew
we were victorious the whole time.
I do not say that we were always monotonously cheerful. The night after
Le Cateau we all thought the game was up,--until the morning, when
cheerfulness came with the sun. Then we sighed with relief and
remembered a little bitterly that we were "luring the Germans on."
Many a time I have come across isolated units in hot corners who did
not see a way out. Yet if a battery or a battalion were hard hit, the
realisation of local defeat was always accompanied by a fervent faith
that "the old Fifth" was doing well. Le Cateau is a victory in the
soldier's calendar.
Lè Cateàu and Là Bassèe,
It jolly well serves them right.
We had been ten days or more on the Aisne before we grasped that the
force opposite us was not merely a dogged, well-entrenched rearguard,
but a section of the German line.
Soon after we arrived a French cavalry officer had ridden into D.H.Q.,
and after his departure it was freely rumoured that he had ridden right
round the German position. News began to trickle in from either flank.
Our own attacks ceased, and we took up a defensive position. It was the
beginning of trench-warfare, though owing to the nature of the country
there were few trenches. Then we heard vaguely that the famous series of
enveloping movements had begun, but by this time the Division was tired
to death, and the men were craving for a rest.
Strategy in the ranks--it was elementary stuff pieced vaguely together.
But perhaps it will interest you at home to know what we thought out
here on this great little stage. What we did you have heard. Still,
here is the play as we acted in it.
* * * * *
Along the Aisne the line of our Division stretched from Venizel to the
bridge of Condé. You must not think of the river as running through a
gorge or as meandering along the foot of slopes rising directly from the
river bank. On the southern side lie the Heights of Champagne,
practically a tableland. From the river this tableland looks like a
series of ridges approaching the valley at an angle. Between the
foothills and the river runs the Soissons-Rheims road, good _pavé_, and
for the most part covered by trees. To the north there is a distance of
two miles or so from the river to the hills.
Perhaps I shall make this clearer if I take the three main points about
the position.
* * * * *
_First._ If you are going to put troops on the farther side of the river
you must have the means of crossing it, and you must keep those means
intact. The bridges running from left to right of our line were at
Venizel, Missy, Sermoise, and Condé. The first three were blown up.
Venizel bridge was repaired sufficiently to allow of light traffic to
cross, and fifty yards farther down a pontoon-bridge was built fit for
heavy traffic. Missy was too hot: we managed an occasional ferry. I do
not think we ever had a bridge at Sermoise. Once when in search of the
C.R.E. I watched a company of the K.O.S.B. being ferried across under
heavy rifle fire. The raft was made of ground-sheets stuffed, I think,
with straw. Condé bridge the Germans always held, or rather neither of
us held it, but the Germans were very close to it and allowed nobody to
cross. Just on our side of the bridge was a car containing two dead
officers. No one could reach them. There they sat until we left, ghastly
sentinels, and for all I know they sit there still.
Now all communication with troops on the north bank of the river had to
pass over these bridges, of which Venizel alone was comparatively safe.
If ever these bridges should be destroyed, the troops on the north bank
would be irrevocably cut off from supplies of every sort and from
orders. I often used to wonder what would have happened if the Germans
had registered accurately upon the bridges, or if the river had risen
and swept the bridges away.
_Second._ There was an open belt between the river and the villages
which we occupied--Bucy-le-Long, St Marguerite, Missy. The road that
wound through this belt was without the veriest trace of cover--so much
so, that for a considerable time all communication across it was carried
on by despatch riders, for a cable could never be laid. So if our
across-the-river brigades had ever been forced to retire in daylight
they would have been compelled, first to retire two miles over
absolutely open country, and then to cross bridges of which the
positions were known with tolerable accuracy to the Germans.
_Third._ On the northern bank four or five spurs came down into the
plain, parallel with each other and literally at right angles to the
river. The key to these was a spur known as the Chivres hill or plateau.
This we found impregnable to the attack of two brigades. It was steep
and thickly wooded. Its assailants, too, could be heavily enfiladed from
either flank.
* * * * *
Now you have the position roughly. The tactics of our Division were
simple. In the early days, when we thought that we had merely a
determined rearguard in front of us, we attacked. Bridges--you will
remember the tale--were most heroically built. Two brigades (14th and
15th) crossed the river and halted at the very foot of the hills, where
they were almost under cover from alien fire. The third brigade was on
their right in a position I will describe later.
Well, the two brigades attacked, and attacked with artillery support,
but they could not advance. That was the first phase. Then orders came
that we were to act on the defensive, and finally of our three brigades,
one was on the right, one across the river, and one in a second line of
trenches on the southern bank of the river acted as divisional reserve.
That for us was the battle of the Aisne. It was hard fighting all
through.[13]
Under these conditions there was plentiful work for despatch riders. I
am going to try and describe it for you.
When D.H.Q. are stationary, the work of despatch riders is of two kinds.
First of all you have to find the positions of the units to which you
are sent. Often the Signal Office gives you the most exiguous
information. "The 105th Brigade is somewhere near Ciry," or "The Div.
Train is at a farm just off the Paris-Bordeaux" road. Starting out with
these explicit instructions, it is very necessary to remember that they
may be wrong and are probably misleading. That is not the fault of the
Signal Office. A Unit changes ground, say from a farm on the road to a
farm off the road. These two farms are so near each other that there is
no need to inform the Div. just at present of this change of residence.
The experienced despatch rider knows that, if he is told the 105th
Brigade is at 1904 Farm, the Brigade is probably at 1894 Farm, half a
mile away.
Again, a despatch rider is often sent out after a unit has moved and
before the message announcing the move has "come through" to the
Division.
When the Division is advancing or retiring this exploration-work is the
only work. To find a given brigade, take the place at which it was last
reported at the Signal Office and assume it was never there. Prefer the
information you get from your fellow despatch riders. Then find out the
road along which the brigade is said to be moving. If the brigade may be
in action, take a road that will bring you to the rear of the brigade.
If there are troops in front of the brigade, strike for the head of it.
It is always quicker to ride from van to rear of a brigade than from
rear to van.
The second kind of work consists in riding along a road already known. A
clever despatch rider may reduce this to a fine art. He knows exactly at
which corner he is likely to be sniped, and hurries accordingly. He
remembers to a yard where the sentries are. If the road is under shell
fire, he recalls where the shells usually fall, the interval between the
shells and the times of shelling. For there is order in everything, and
particularly in German gunnery. Lastly, he does not race along with nose
on handle-bar. That is a trick practised only by despatch riders who are
rarely under fire, who have come to a strange and alarming country from
Corps or Army Headquarters. The experienced motor-cyclist sits up and
takes notice the whole time. He is able at the end of his ride to give
an account of all that he has seen on the way.
D.H.Q. were at Serches, a wee village in a hollow at the head of a
valley. So steeply did the hill rise out of the hollow to the north that
the village was certainly in dead ground. A fine road went to the west
along the valley for three miles or so to the Soissons-Rheims road. For
Venizel you crossed the main road and ran down a little hill through a
thick wood, terribly dark of nights, to the village; you crossed the
bridge and opened the throttle.
The first time I rode north from Venizel, Moulders was with me. On the
left a few hundred yards away an ammunition section that had crossed by
the pontoon was at full gallop. I was riding fast--the road was
loathsomely open--but not too fast, because it was greasy. A shell
pitched a couple of hundred yards off the road, and then others, far
enough away to comfort me.
A mile on the road bends sharp left and right over the railway and past
a small factory of some sort. The Germans loved this spot, and would
pitch shells on it with a lamentable frequency. Soon it became too much
of a routine to be effective. On shelling-days three shells would be
dropped one after another, an interval of three minutes, and then
another three. This we found out and rode accordingly.
A hundred yards past the railway you ride into Bucy-le-Long and safety.
The road swings sharp to the right, and there are houses all the way to
St Marguerite.
Once I was riding with despatches from D.H.Q. It was a heavy, misty day.
As I sprinted across the open I saw shrapnel over St Marguerite, but I
could not make out whether it was German shrapnel bursting over the
village or our shrapnel bursting over the hills beyond. I slowed down.
Now, as I have told you, on a motor-cycle, if you are going rapidly, you
cannot hear bullets or shells coming or even shells bursting unless they
are very near. Running slowly on top, with the engine barely turning
over, you can hear everything. So I went slow and listened. Through the
air came the sharp "woop-wing" of shrapnel bursting towards you, the
most devilish sound of all. Some prefer the shriek of shrapnel to the
dolorous wail and deep thunderous crash of high explosive. But nothing
frightens me so much as the shrapnel-shriek.[14]
Well, as I passed the little red factory I noticed that the shrapnel was
bursting right over the village, which meant that as 80 per cent of
shrapnel bullets shoot forward the village was comparatively safe. As a
matter of fact the street was full of ricochetting trifles.
Transport was drawn up well under cover of the wall and troops were
marching in single file as near to the transport as possible. Two horses
were being led down the middle of the street. Just before they reached
me the nose of one of the horses suddenly was gashed and a stream of
blood poured out. Just a ricochet, and it decided me. Despatch riders
have to take care of themselves when H.Q. are eight miles away by road
and there is no wire. I put my motor-cycle under cover and walked the
remaining 200 yards.
Coming back I heard some shouting, a momentary silence, then a flare of
the finest blasphemy. I turned the bend to see an officer holding his
severed wrist and cursing. He was one of those dashing fellows. He had
ridden alongside the transport swearing at the men to get a move on. He
had held up his arm to give the signal when a ricochet took his hand off
cleanly. His men said not a word,--sat with an air of calm disapproval
like Flemish oxen.
It was one in the morning and dark on the road when I took my next
despatch to St Marguerite. Just out of Bucy I passed Moulders, who
shouted, "Ware wire and horses." Since last I had seen it the village
had been unmercifully shelled. Where the transport had been drawn up
there were shattered waggons. Strewn over the road were dead horses, of
all carcasses the most ludicrously pitiful, and wound in and out of
them, a witches' web, crawled the wire from the splintered telegraph
posts. There was not a sound in the village except the gentle thump of
my engine. I was forced to pull up, that I might more clearly see my
way between two horses. My engine silent, I could only hear a little
whisper from the house opposite and a dripping that I did not care to
understand. Farther on a house had fallen half across the road. I
scarcely dared to start my engine again in the silence of this desolate
destruction. Then I could not, because the dripping was my petrol and
not the gore of some slaughtered animal. A flooded carburettor is a
nuisance in an unsavoury village.
At the eastern end of St Marguerite the road turns sharply south. This
is "Hell's Own Corner." From it there is a full and open view of the
Chivres valley, and conversely those in the Chivres valley can see the
corner very clearly. When we were acting on the offensive, a section of
4.5 in. howitzers were put into position just at the side of the road by
the corner. This the Germans may have discovered, or perhaps it was only
that the corner presented a tempting target, for they shelled to
destruction everything within a hundred yards. The howitzers were
rapidly put out of action though not destroyed, and a small orchard just
behind them was ploughed, riven, and scarred with high explosive and
shrapnel.
The day St Marguerite was shelled one of the two brigadiers determined
to shift his headquarters to a certain farm. N'Soon and Grimers were
attached to the brigade at the time. "Headquarters" came to the corner.
N'Soon and Grimers were riding slowly in front. They heard a shell
coming. Grimers flung himself off his bicycle and dropped like a stone.
N'Soon opened his throttle and darted forward, foolishly. The shell
exploded. Grimers' bicycle was covered with branches and he with earth
and dust. N'Soon for some reason was not touched.
The General and his staff were shelled nearly the whole way to the farm,
but nobody was hit. The brigade veterinary officer had a theory that the
safest place was next the General, because generals were rarely hit, but
that day his faith was shaken, and the next day--I will tell you the
story--it tottered to destruction.
I had come through St Marguerite the night after the brigade had moved.
Of course I was riding without a light. I rounded Hell's Own Corner
carefully, very frightened of the noise my engine was making. A little
farther on I dismounted and stumbled to the postern-gate of a farm. I
opened it and went in. A sentry challenged me in a whisper and handed me
over to an orderly, who led me over the black bodies of men sleeping to
a lean-to where the General sat with a sheltered light, talking to his
staff. He was tired and anxious. I delivered my despatch, took the
receipted envelope and stumbled back to the postern-gate. Silently I
hauled my motor-cycle inside, then started on my tramp to the General
who had moved.
After Hell's Own Corner the road swings round again to the east, and
runs along the foot of the Chivres hill to Missy. A field or so away to
the left is a thick wood inhabited for the most part by German snipers.
In the preceding days N'Soon and Sadders had done fine work along this
road in broad daylight, carrying despatches to Missy.
I was walking, because no motor-cyclist goes by night to a battalion,
and the noise of a motor-cycle would have advertised the presence of
brigade headquarters somewhere on the road. It was a joyous tramp of two
miles into the village of dark, ominous houses. I found a weary
subaltern who put me on my way, a pitch-black lane between high walls.
At the bottom of it I stepped upon an officer, who lay across the path
asleep with his men. So tired was he that he did not wake. On over a
field to the farm. I delivered my despatch to the Brigade-Major, whose
eyes were glazed with want of sleep. He spoke to me in the pitiful
monotone of the unutterably weary. I fed off bully, hot potatoes, bread
and honey, then turned in.
In the morning I had just finished my breakfast when a shell exploded
fifty yards behind the farm, and others followed. "Headquarters" turned
out, and we crawled along a shallow ditch at the side of a rough country
road until we were two hundred yards from the farm. We endeavoured to
get into communication with the other brigade by flag, but after the
first message a shell dropped among the farther signallers and we saw no
more of them.
Shells began to drop near us. One fellow came uncomfortably close. It
covered us with dirt as we "froze" to the bottom of the ditch. A little
scrap of red-hot metal flew into the ground between me and the signal
sergeant in front of me. I grabbed it, but dropped it because it was so
hot; it was sent to the signal sergeant's wife and not to you.
We crawled a hundred yards farther along to a place where the ditch was
a little deeper, and we were screened by some bushes, but I think the
General's red hat must have been marked down, because for the next hour
we lay flat listening to the zip-zip of bullets that passed barely
overhead.
Just before we moved the Germans started to shell Missy with heavy
howitzers. Risking the bullets, we saw the village crowned with great
lumps of smoke. Our men poured out of it in more or less extended order
across the fields. I saw them running, poor little khaki figures, and
dropping like rabbits to the rifles of the snipers in the wood.
Two hundred yards south of the St Marguerite-Missy road--that is,
between the road and the ditch in which we were lying--there is a single
line of railway on a slight embankment. Ten men in a bunch made for the
cover it afforded. One little man with an enormous pack ran a few yards
in front. Seven reached the top of the embankment, then three almost
simultaneously put their hands before their eyes and dropped across the
rails. The little man ran on until he reached us, wide-eyed, sweaty, and
breathing in short gasps. The Brigade-Major shouted to him not to come
along the road but to make across the field. Immediately the little man
heard the voice of command he halted, stood almost to attention, and
choked out, "But they're shelling us"--then, without another word he
turned off across the fields and safely reached cover.
In the ditch we were comfortable if confined, and I was frightened when
the order came down, "Pass the word for the motor-cyclist." I crawled
up to the General, received my despatch, and started walking across the
field. Then I discovered there is a great difference between
motor-cycling under rifle fire, when you can hear only the very close
ones, and walking across a heavy turnip-field when you can hear all.
Two-thirds of the way a sharp zip at the back of my neck and a
remembrance of the three men stretched across the rails decided me. I
ran.
At the farm where the other brigade headquarters were stationed I met
Sadders with a despatch for the general I had just left. When I
explained to him where and how to go he blenched a little, and the
bursting of a shell a hundred yards or so away made him jump, but he
started off at a good round pace. You must remember we were not used to
carrying despatches on foot.
I rode lazily through St Marguerite and Bucy-le-Long, and turned the
corner on to the open stretch. There I waited to allow a battery that
was making the passage to attract as many shells as it liked. The
battery reached Venizel with the loss of two horses. Then, just as I was
starting off, a shell plunged into the ground by the little red factory.
As I knew it to be the first of three I waited again.
At that moment Colonel Seely's car came up, and Colonel Seely himself
got out and went forward with me to see if the road had been damaged.
For three minutes the road should have been safe, but the German machine
became human, and in a couple of minutes Colonel Seely and I returned
covered with rich red plough and with a singing in our ears. I gave the
Colonel a couple of hundred yards start, and we sprinted across into the
safe hands of Venizel.
Beyond Missy, which we intermittently occupied, our line extended along
the foot of the hills and crossed the Aisne about three-quarters of a
mile short of Condé bridge--and that brings me to a tale.
One night we were healthily asleep after a full day. I had been "next
for duty" since ten o'clock, but at two I began to doze, because between
two and five there is not often work for the despatch rider. At three I
awoke to much shouting and anxious hullabaloo. The intelligence officer
was rousing us hurriedly--"All motor-cyclists turn out. Pack up kit.
Seven wanted at once in the Signal Office."
This meant, firstly, that Divisional Headquarters were to move at once,
in a hurry, and by night; secondly, that the same despatch was to be
sent simultaneously to every unit in the Division. I asked somebody to
get my kit together, and rushed upstairs to the Signal Office. There on
the table I saw the fateful wire.
"Germans entrenched south side of Condé bridge and are believed to be
crossing in large numbers." I was given a copy of this message to take
to the 15th Brigade, then at St Marguerite. Away on the road at full
speed I thought out what this meant. The enemy had broken through our
line--opposite Condé there were no reserves--advance parties of the
Germans might even now be approaching headquarters--large numbers would
cut us off from the Division on our right and would isolate the brigade
to which I was going; it would mean another Le Cateau.
I tore along to Venizel, and slowing down at the bridge shouted the news
to the officer in charge--full speed across the plain to Bucy, and
caring nothing for the sentries' shouts, on to St Marguerite. I dashed
into the general's bedroom and aroused him. Almost before I had arrived
the general and his brigade-major--both in pyjamas--were issuing
commands and writing messages. Sleepy and amazed orderlies were sent out
at the double. Battalion commanders and the C.R.E. were summoned.
I started back for D.H.Q. with an acknowledgment, and rattling through
the village came out upon the plain.
Over Condé bridge an ochreous, heavy dawn broke sullenly. There was no
noise of firing to tell me that the men of our right brigade were making
a desperate resistance to a fierce advance. A mile from Serches I passed
a field-ambulance loaded up for instant flight; the men were standing
about in little groups talking together, as if without orders. At
Headquarters I found that a despatch rider had been sent hot-foot to
summon two despatch riders, who that night were with the corps, and
others to every unit. Everybody carried the same command--load up and be
ready to move at a moment's notice.
Orders to move were never sent. Our two ghastly sentinels still held the
bridge. It was a SCARE.
The tale that we heard at the time was the tale of a little German
firing--a lost patrol of ours, returning by an unauthorised road,
mistaken in the mist for Germans--a verbal message that had gone wrong.
As for the lieutenant who--it was said--first started the hare, his name
was burnt with blasphemy for days and days. The only men who came out of
it well were some of our cyclists, who, having made their nightly patrol
up to the bridge, returned just before dawn to D.H.Q. and found the
Division trying to make out that it had not been badly frightened.
I did not hear what really happened at the bridge that night until I
published my paper, "The Battle of the Aisne," in the May 'Blackwood.'
Here is the story as I had it from the officer principally concerned:--
Condé bridge was under our control by shell-fire alone, so that we were
obliged to patrol its unpleasant neighbourhood by night. For this
purpose an "officer's patrol" was organised (in addition to the
"standing patrol" provided by the Cyclists) and supplied every night by
different battalions. So many conflicting reports were received nightly
about the bridge that the officer who told me the story was appointed
Brigade Patrolling Officer.
He established himself in a certain wood, and on the night in question
worked right up beyond Condé bridge--until he found a burning house
about 200 yards beyond the bridge on the south side of it. In the flare
of the house he was surprised to discover Germans entrenched in an old
drain on the British side of the river. He had unknowingly passed this
body of the enemy.
He heard, too, a continuous stream of Germans in the transport marching
through the woods towards the bridge. Working his way back, he reported
the matter personally to the Brigadier of the 13th, who sent the famous
message to the Division.
It appears that the Germans had come down to fill their water-carts that
night, and to guard against a surprise attack had pushed forward two
platoons across the bridge into the drain. Unfortunately one of our
patrols disobeyed its orders that night and patrolled a forbidden
stretch of road. The officer shot two of these men in the dark.
Three days later the outpost company on Vesle bridge of the Aisne was
surrounded, and, later still, Condé bridge passed out of our artillery
control, and was finally crossed by the Germans.
I have written of this famous scare of Condé bridge in detail, not
because it was characteristic, but because it was exceptional. It is the
only scare we ever had in our Division, and amongst those who were on
the Aisne, and are still with the Division, it has become a phrase for
encouragement--"Only another Condé."
During the first days on this monotonous river, the days when we
attacked, the staff of our right brigade advanced for a time into open
country and took cover behind the right haystack of three. To this
brigade Huggie took a message early one morning, and continued to take
messages throughout the day because--this was his excuse--he knew the
road. It was not until several months later that I gathered by chance
what had happened on that day, for Huggie, quite the best despatch rider
in our Division, would always thwart my journalistic curiosity by
refusing resolutely to talk about himself. The rest of us swopped yarns
of an evening.
These haystacks were unhealthy: so was the approach to them. First one
haystack was destroyed. The brigade went to the next. This second was
blown to bits. The staff took refuge behind the third. In my letters I
have told you of the good things the other despatch riders in our
Division have done, but to keep up continuous communication all day with
this be-shelled and refugee brigade was as fine a piece of despatch
riding as any. It received its proper reward, as you know.
Afterwards the brigade emigrated to a hillside above Ciry, and remained
there. Now the German gunner in whose sector Ciry was included should
not be dismissed with a word. He was a man of uncertain temper and
accurate shooting, for in the first place he would shell Ciry for a few
minutes at any odd time, and in the second he knocked a gun out in three
shells and registered accurately, when he pleased, upon the road that
led up a precipitous hill to the edge of the Serches hollow. On this
hill he smashed some regimental transport to firewood and killed a dozen
horses, and during one of his sudden shellings of the village blew a
house to pieces just as a despatch rider, who had been told the village
that morning was healthy, rode by.
You must not think that we were for ever scudding along, like the
typical "motor-cyclist scout" in the advertisements, surrounded with
shells. There was many a dull ride even to Bucy-le-Long. An expedition
to the Div. Train (no longer an errant and untraceable vagabond) was
safe and produced jam. A ride to Corps Headquarters was only dangerous
because of the innumerable and bloodthirsty sentries surrounding that
stronghold.
One afternoon a report came through to the Division that a motor-car lay
derelict at Missy. So "the skipper" called for two volunteers who should
be expert mechanics. Divisional Signal companies were not then provided
with cars, and if the C.O. wished to go out to a brigade, which might be
up to or over eight miles away, he was compelled to ride a horse,
experiment with a motor-cycle that was probably badly missed by the
despatch riders, or borrow one of the staff cars. Huggie and the elder
Cecil volunteered.
As soon as it was dusk they rode down to Sermoise, and crossing by the
ferry--it was perilous in the dark--made their way with difficulty
across country to Missy, which was then almost in front of our lines.
They found the car, and examining it discovered that to outward
appearance it was sound,--a great moment when after a turn or two of the
handle the engine roared into the darkness, but the noise was alarming
enough because the Germans were none too far away.
They started on their journey home--by St Marguerite and Venizel. Just
after they had left the village the beam of an alien searchlight came
sweeping along the road. Before the glare had discovered their nakedness
they had pulled the car to the side of the road under the shelter of the
hedge nearest the Germans, and jumping down had taken cover. By all the
rules of the game it was impossible to drive a car that was not exactly
silent along the road from Missy to Hell's Own Corner. The searchlight
should have found them, and the fire of the German snipers should have
done the rest. But their luck was in, and they made no mistakes.
Immediately the beam had passed they leaped on to the car and tore
scathless into St Marguerite and so back to the Division.
After its capture the car was exhibited with enormous pride to all that
passed by. We should not have been better pleased if we had captured the
whole Prussian Guard. For prisoners disappear and cannot always be shown
to prove the tale. The car was an [Greek: aei ktêma].
In the morning we rode down into Sermoise for the motor-cycles. Sermoise
had been shelled to pieces, but I shall never forget a brave and
obstinate inhabitant who, when a shell had gone through his roof and
demolished the interior of his house, began to patch his roof with
bully-tins and biscuit-tins that he might at least have shelter from the
rain.
Elated with our capture of the car we scented greater victories. We
heard of a motor-boat on the river near Missy, and were filled with
visions of an armoured motor-boat, stuffed with machine-guns, plying up
and down the Aisne. Huggie and another made the excursion. The boat was
in an exposed and altogether unhealthy position, but they examined it,
and found that there was no starting-handle. In the village forge, which
was very completely fitted up, they made one that did not fit, and then
another, but however much they coaxed, the engine would not start. So
regretfully they left it.
To these adventures there was a quiet background of uncomfortable but
pleasant existence. Life on the Aisne was like a "reading party"--only
instead of working at our books we worked at soldiering.
The night that Huggie and I slept down at Ciry, the rest of the despatch
riders, certain that we were taken, encamped at Ferme d'Epitaphe, for
the flooded roads were impassable. There we found them in the morning,
and discovered they had prepared the most gorgeous stew of all my
recollection.
Now, to make a good stew is a fine art, for a stew is not merely a
conglomeration of bully and vegetables and water boiled together until
it looks nice. First the potatoes must be cut out to a proper size and
put in; of potatoes there cannot be too many. As for the vegetables, a
superfluity of carrots is a burden, and turnips should be used with a
sparing hand. A full flavour of leek is a great joy. When the vegetables
are nearly boiled, the dixie should be carefully examined by all to see
if it is necessary to add water. If in doubt spare the water, for a rich
thick gravy is much to be desired. Add bully, and get your canteens
ready.
This particular stew made by Orr was epic. At all other good stews it
was recalled and discussed, but never did a stew come up to the stew
that we so scrupulously divided among us on the bright morning of Sept.
12, 1914, at Ferme d'Epitaphe, above Serches.
Later in the day we took over our billet, a large bicycle shed behind
the school in which D.H.Q. were installed. The front of it was open, the
floor was asphalt, the roof dripped, and we shared it with the
Divisional Cyclists. So close were we packed that you could not turn in
your sleep without raising a storm of curses, and if you were called out
of nights you were compelled to walk boldly over prostrate bodies,
trusting to luck that you did not step on the face of a man who woke
suddenly and was bigger than yourself.
On the right of our dwelling was a little shed that was once used as a
guard-room. A man and woman were brought in under suspicion of
espionage. The woman was put in the shed. There she shrieked the night
through, shouted for her husband (he had an ugly-sounding name that we
could not understand), and literally tore her hair. The language of the
Cyclists was an education even to the despatch riders, who once had been
told by their Quartermaster-Sergeant that they left the cavalry
standing. Finally, we petitioned for her removal, and once again slept
peacefully. The Court of Inquiry found the couple were not spies, but
unmarried. So it married them and let them go.
The Cyclists were marvellous and indefatigable makers of tea. At any
unearthly hour you might be gently shaken by the shoulder and a voice
would whisper--
"'Ave a drop o' tea--real 'ot and plenty o' sugar."
Never have I come back from a night ride without finding a couple of
cyclists squatting out in the gloom round a little bright fire of their
own making, with some fine hot tea. Wherever they go may they never want
a drink!
And never shall I forget that fine bit of roast pork my friend Sergeant
Croucher insisted on sharing with me one evening! I had not tasted fresh
meat for weeks.
George was our unofficial Quartermaster. He was and is a great man,
always cheerful, able to coax bread, vegetables, wine, and other
luxuries out of the most hardened old Frenchwoman; and the French,
though ever pathetically eager to do anything for us, always charged a
good round price. Candles were a great necessity, and could not be
bought, but George always had candles for us. I forget at the moment
whether they were for "Le General French, qui arrive," or "Les pauvres,
pauvres, blessés." On two occasions George's genius brought him into
trouble, for military law consists mainly of the commandment--
"Thou shalt not allow thyself to be found out."
We were short of firewood. So George discovered that his engine wanted a
little tuning, and started out on a voyage of discovery. Soon he came
upon a heap of neatly cut, neatly piled wood. He loaded up until he
heard shouts, then fled. That night we had a great fire, but in the
morning came tribulation. The shouts were the shouts of the C.R.E. and
the wood was an embryonic bridge. Severely reprimanded.
Then there was the Honey Question. There were bees in the village and we
had no honey. The reputation of George was at stake. So one night we
warily and silently approached some hives with candles; unfortunately we
were interfered with by the military police. Still an expedition into
the hedgerows and woods always had an excuse in time of war, and we made
it.
The village of Acy, high on the hill above the road to Venizel, was the
richest hunting-ground. First, there was a bread-shop open at certain
hours. George was often late, and, disdaining to take his place in the
long line of those who were not despatch riders, would march straight in
and demand bread for one of his two worthy charities. When these were
looked upon with suspicion he engineered a very friendly understanding
with the baker's wife.
Then there was a dark little shop where you could buy good red wine, and
beyond it a farmer with vegetables to sell. But his greatest find was
the chateau, which clung to the edge of the hill and overlooked the
valley of the Aisne to Condé Fort and the Hill of Chivres.
Searching one morning amongst a pile of captured and derelict stuff we
discovered a canvas bath. Now, not one of us had had a bath since Havre,
so we made arrangements. Three of us took the bath up to the chateau,
then inhabited by a caretaker and his wife. They brought us great pails
of hot water, and for the first time in a month we were clean. Then we
had tea and talked about the Germans who had passed through. The German
officer, the old woman told us, had done them no harm, though he had
seized everything without paying a sou. Just before he left bad news was
brought to him. He grew very angry, and shouted to her as he rode off--
"You shall suffer for this when we return;" but she laughed and shouted
back at him, mocking--
"When you return!"
And then the English came.
After tea we smoked our pipes in the terraced garden, watched the
Germans shelling one of our aeroplanes, examined the German lines, and
meditated in safety on the war just like newspaper correspondents.
It was in Serches itself that George received the surprise of his life.
He was after potatoes, and seeing a likely-looking old man pass, D.H.Q.
ran after him. In his best French--"Avez-vous pommes-de-terre à vendre?"
The old man turned round, smiled, and replied in broadest Yorkshire,
"Wanting any 'taters?" George collapsed.
It seems that the old fellow had settled in Serches years and years
before. He had a very pretty daughter, who spoke a delectable mixture of
Yorkshire and the local dialect. Of course she was suspected of being a
spy--in fact, probably was--so the military police were set to watch
her,--a job, I gathered later from one of them, much to their liking.
Our life on the Aisne, except for little exciting episodes, was restful
enough. We averaged, I should think, a couple of day messages and one
each night, though there were intermittent periods of high pressure. We
began to long for the strenuous first days, and the Skipper, finding
that we were becoming unsettled, put us to drill in our spare time and
gave some of us riding lessons. Then came rumours of a move to a
rest-camp, probably back at Compiègne. The 6th Division arrived to take
over from us, or so we were told, and Rich and Cuffe came over with
despatches. We had not seen them since Chatham. They regarded us as
veterans, and we told them the tale.
One afternoon some artillery of this division came through the valley.
They were fine and fresh, but not a single one of us believed they
equalled ours. There was a line of men to watch them pass, and everybody
discovered a friend until practically at every stirrup there was a man
inquiring after a pal, answering questions, and asking what they thought
in England, and how recruiting was going. The air rang with crude,
great-hearted jokes. We motor-cyclists stood aside just criticising the
guns and men and horses. We felt again that shyness we had felt at
Chatham in front of the professional soldier. Then we remembered that we
had been through the Retreat and the Advance, and went back to tea
content.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] I do not pretend for a moment that all these details are
meticulously accurate. They are what I knew or thought I knew at the
time this was written.
[14] Curiously enough, months after this was written the author was
wounded by shrapnel.