In The Firing Line 18

In The Firing Line 18

That’s the Germans all over, to “kid” themselves into the belief that

they have got a soft thing, and then when they find it’s too hard, to

run away from it. Our lads have made up their minds to give them no

rest once we get on to them, and they’ll get as much of the British

Army as they can stand, and maybe a little more. The French are greatly

pleased with the show we made in the field, and are in much better

spirits than they were.

 

* * * * *

 

_Letter 78.--From a Non-commissioned Officer of Dragoons:_

 

All our men--in fact, the whole British Army--are as fit as a fiddle,

and the lads are as keen as mustard. There is no holding them back. At

Mons we were under General Chetwode, and horses and men positively flew

at the Germans, cutting through much heavier mounts and heavier men

than ours. The yelling and the dash of the Lancers and Dragoon Guards

was a thing never to be forgotten. We lost very heavily at Mons, and

it is a marvel how some of our fellows pulled through and positively

frightened the enemy. We did some terrible execution, and our wrists

were feeling the strain of heavy riding before sunset. With our tunics

unbuttoned, we had the full use of our right arm for attack and defence.

 

After Mons I went with a small party scouting, and we again engaged

about twenty cavalry, cut off from their main body. We killed nine,

wounded six, and gave chase to the remaining five, who, in rejoining

their unit, nearly were the means of trapping us. However, our men

dispersed and hid in a wood until they fell in with a squadron of the

----, and so reached camp in safety. After that a smart young corporal

accompanied me to reconnoitre, and we went too far ahead, and were

cut off in a part of the country thick with Uhlans. As we rode in the

direction of ---- two wounded men were limping along, both with legs

damaged, one from the Middlesex and the other Lancashire Fusiliers, and

so we took them up.

 

Corporal Watherston took one behind his saddle and I took the other.

The men were hungry, and tattered to shreds with fighting, but in fine

spirits. We soon came across a small village, and I found the curé a

grand sportsman and full of pluck and hospitality. He seemed charmed

to find a friend who was English, and told me that the Germans were

dressed in the uniforms of British soldiers, which they took from the

dead and from prisoners in order to deceive French villagers, who in

many places in that district had welcomed these wolves in sheep’s

clothing. We were warned that the enemy would be sure to track us up

to the village. The curé said he could hide the two wounded men in the

crypt of his church and put up beds for them. It has a secret trapdoor,

and was an ancient treasure-house of a feudal lord, whose castle we saw

in ruins at the top of the hill close by.

 

Then he hid away our saddlery and uniforms in the roof of a barn, and

insisted upon our making a rest-chamber of the tower of his church,

which was approached by a ladder, which we were to pull up to the

belfry as soon as we got there. He smuggled in wine and meat and bread

and cakes, fruit and cigarettes, with plenty of bedding pulled up by

a rope. We slept soundly, and the owls seemed the only other tenants,

who resented our intrusion. No troops passed through the village that

night. In the morning the curé came round at six o’clock, and we heard

him say Mass. After that we let down the ladder, and he came up with

delicious hot chocolate and a basket of rolls and butter.

 

Our horses he had placed in different stables a mile apart, and put

French “fittings” on them, so as to deceive the enemy. He thinks we are

well away from the main body of the German army moving in the direction

of Paris, but will not hear of our leaving here for at least three

days. But I cried, “Curé, we are deserters!” The old man wept and said,

“Deserters, no, no--saviours, saviours; you have rescued France from

the torments of slavery.”

 

However, we have now secured complete disguises as French

cultivateurs--baggy corderoy trousers, blue shirts, boots, stockings,

belt, hat, cravat, everything to match--and as we have not shaved for

two weeks, and are bronzed with the sun, I think that the corporal and

myself can pass anywhere as French peasants, if only he will leave all

the talking to me.

 

The two wounded soldiers don’t wish us to leave them, because I am

interpreter, and not a soul speaks English in the village. So we have

explained to the curé that we shall stay here until our comrades

are able to walk, and then the party of four will push our way out

somewhere on horseback and get to the coast. The sacristan at once

offered to be our guide, and it is arranged that we take a carrier’s

wagon which travels in this district and drive our own horses in it,

and pick up two additional mounts at a larger village on the way to the

coast.

 

We must get back as soon as ever we can. Nothing could be kinder than

the people here, but this is not what we came to France for, and

hanging about in a French village is not exactly what a soldier calls

“cricket.”

 

You cannot imagine how complete the Germans are in the matter of rapid

transport. Large automobiles, such as the railway companies have for

towns round Harrogate and Scarborough, built like char-à-bancs, carry

the soldiers in batches of fifty, so that they are as fresh as paint

when they get to the front. But in point of numbers I think one of our

side is a fair match for four of the enemy. I hope that the British

public are beginning to understand what this war means. The German is

not a toy terrier, but a bloodhound absolutely thirsty for blood.

 

* * * * *

 

_Letter 79.--From Private Tom Savage, to his relatives at Larne:_

 

At Sea.

 

Just a line to let you know that we are landing outside ----. They

kept us without any knowledge of how and where we were going till the

last moment. I am quite well and extra specially fit. It is good fun

on a troopship, and we are going to have a nice little holiday on the

Continent. I’ll be able to “swank French” when I come back. I’ll write

a good long letter when I settle down. I’m writing this at tea time

just before we land. I have got two very nice chums, Jack Wright, the

footballer, who has seen service before, and Billy Caughey, both of

Belfast.

 

 

In France.

 

I am writing this note while on outpost duty. I can’t say where we are,

or anything like that, but I am in the best of health and enjoying

the life. I am getting a fine hand at French. There is plenty of food

and the people are all very nice. It’s great fun trying to understand

them. Plenty of fruit here, pears and apples galore, and as for bread

big long rolls and rings of it, and all very cheap. When you happen

to be riding through a town the people give you cigarettes, fruit,

chocolates, and cider.

 

If you are all extra good I’ll bring you home a pet German. How is Home

Rule getting on? Send me a paper, but I don’t know when I’ll get it or

you’ll get this. I suppose the papers are full of this ruction. I can

write no more as I’ll soon have to go on guard.

 

* * * * *

 

_Letter 80.--From Mons. E. Hovelange, of Paris, written on August

30th, to Sir William Collins_ (_Published in the “Sussex Daily

News”_):

 

How serious the situation is here it is hard for you to realize in

London. We may be encircled at any moment by these hordes of savages.

Such murderous cruelty has never been seen in the annals of war. The

Turks and the Bulgarians were no worse. It is the rule to fire on

ambulances and slaughter the wounded. I know it from eye-witnesses. The

Germans are drunk with savagery. It is an orgy of the basest cruelty.

They are rushing Paris at all costs, squandering their men recklessly

in overwhelming numbers. Our troops are submerged and can only retreat,

fighting desperately, but the spirit of our soldiers is splendid.

All the wounded I have seen laugh and joke over their wounds and are

burning to have another go at the barbarians. Victory is certain. But

what disastrous changes shall we know before it comes. I am prepared

for the worst--another month of hopeless struggle perhaps. But we will

light to the last man. The tide will turn, and then--woe to them. I

know you will stand by us in the cause of civilization, common honest

truth till the bitter end. But if you want to help us you must hasten.

 

* * * * *

 

_Letter 81.--From a young officer who has been through the whole

campaign, from the landing of the British at Boulogne:_

 

I wish you would try to make the people in England understand that

they should be most exceedingly thankful that they are living on an

island and not in the midst of the dreadful things which are happening

on the Continent. Do enforce upon the public that England must fight

this thing out, and must conquer even if it has to spend the blood

of its young men like water. It will be far better that every family

throughout England should have to sorrow for one of its members than

that England should have to go through similar ordeals to those which

Continental countries are suffering.

 

The sight of old women and men fleeing from village to village; young

mothers with babies in arms, with their few personal effects on their

backs, or in some more fortunate cases with their goods and chattels

surrounding the aged grandmother stowed away in an old farm cart, drawn

by a nag too venerable to be of service to the State; this is what one

has seen daily. Picture to yourself our night marches with the burning

villages on all sides set fire to by German shells--and the Germans

have been rather careless whether their shells struck fortified and

defended positions, or open ones. In some cases the fires were caused

intentionally by marauding patrols.

 

Do not imagine that things are not going well with us. We are all

satisfied and confident of the end; but at the same time the only

possible end can be gained by sacrifice on the part of those at home

only. All is well with me personally; I have a busy time, but it is

most interesting work.

 

 

IN HOSPITAL.

 

(1) _At Salisbury._

 

A non-commissioned officer of the Royal Field Artillery, invalided home

with shrapnel wounds in the thigh, from which he hopes soon to recover,

has given this vivid description of his experiences at the front after

passing north of Amiens, to a _Daily Telegraph_ correspondent:

 

 

Pushing forward from our rest camp, covering from twenty to thirty

miles a day, with the infantry marching in front and cavalry protecting

us on either flank, we received information that we were within a few

hours’ march of the enemy. Needless to say, this put us on the alert.

There was no funk about us, for we were all anxious to have a go at the

Germans, about whom we had heard such tales of cruelty that it made our

blood run cold.

 

Our orders were to load with case shot, for fear of cavalry attack, as

shrapnel is of little use against mounted troops. The order was soon

obeyed, and after passing the day on the road, we moved across country

north of ----, where the infantry took up a strong position. We saw the

French troops on our right as we moved up to gun positions which our

battery commanders had selected in advance. It was Sunday morning when

the attack came, and the sun had already lit up the beautiful country,

and as I looked across at the villages which lay below in the valley

with their silent belfries I thought of my home on the Cotswolds and

of the bells ringing for morning service. I pictured dad and my sister Nell going to church.