STORIES OF THE RETREAT FROM MONS TO ST. QUENTIN.
From what you have read in the two previous chapters you will gather that, during the four days' battle which was fought between Mons and St. Quentin, incident crowded upon incident. You may be sure that our soldiers had much to say of their experiences when they wrote home, or when they arrived on this side of the Channel to nurse their honourable wounds. Before, however, I tell you some of their stories, let us learn what happened at Tournai. You will remember that while our men were holding the Condé-Mons-Binche line a French Territorial battalion was defending Tournai. It was by way of this town that von Kluck was trying to turn the British left. In order to help the French in Tournai, the British Commander-in-chief sent them twenty-two pieces of field artillery, two heavy guns, and a force which only numbered seven hundred all told.
Tournai[57] is one of the most ancient cities of Belgium. It is as old as Cæsar, and its history is very warlike. Few towns have borne the brunt of so many sieges, and have changed hands so often. The Duke of Marlborough captured it in 1709. It contains one of the noblest cathedrals in Europe; a fine Cloth Hall, which is now a museum and picture gallery; a belfry with a set of chimes; and other interesting buildings. In 1653, near one of the old churches, a tomb was discovered containing the sword and other relics of Childeric I.,[58] one of the early kings of the Franks, a group of tribes which settled in the Lower Rhine valley about 250 A.D., and afterwards gave its name to France. Amongst the relics in the tomb were three hundred small figures in gold, resembling bees. When Napoleon ordered the robe in which he was crowned, he had it embroidered with gold bees instead of the usual French lilies. Tournai is one of the cleanest and pleasantest of Belgian industrial towns. The quays on the Scheldt are planted with trees, and the old walls have been turned into promenades.
A civilian who witnessed the fighting at Tournai tells us that the French Territorials, who were only one thousand strong, had barely arrived, after an eleven miles' march, when they were fired on by German guns. The firing began at 8 a.m. on Monday, 24th August, and shortly afterwards the Germans entered the town. He saw them in the garden of the station square taking cover under the bushes and behind the statues, and firing along all the streets that radiate from it. Then he heard the quick, continuous reports of the machine guns, which, he says, sounded like the noise of a very loud motor-cycle engine. The French made their last stand before the bridges of the Scheldt. They were mainly men of forty, but they held their ground the whole morning against a deadly fire, and only gave way when they were surrounded by the Germans.
Our seven hundred British with their guns were posted to the south-west of the town. An artillery duel began at 11, and continued fiercely until 2.30. Shrapnel continually burst over the trenches and batteries; but there was no flinching, and the gunners took a fearful toll of the advancing foe. Reinforcements had been promised, but they failed to arrive. Swarms of German cavalry, not less than five thousand of them, now swooped upon the little band of British, who fought desperately, and used the bayonet with deadly effect. After an agonizing struggle of an hour and a half, during which the Germans rode right up to the muzzles of the guns, "all that was left of them," some three hundred men, fought their way from the field, and escaped by the Cambrai road. "The last I saw of one of our officers," said a survivor, "was that he had a revolver in his hand, and was firing away, screened by his gun. He alone must have accounted for a dozen Uhlans. They were falling on all sides of him." The British guns were captured.
Such was the fine feat of arms performed by a handful of Britons at Tournai. They were assailed by a force that outnumbered them ten to one; but they stood their ground, and made a defence worthy to rank with that of Rorke's Drift.[59] The British soldier is never so great as when facing "fearful odds."
The City of Tournai. Photo, Central News.
The scene of the heroic stand described on page [107].
I have already told you how the Belgian and French townsfolk and villagers looked upon the British as their deliverers, and how readily they gave them food and lodging. I am sure you can understand the anguish of these poor people when they saw the British retreating, and leaving them to the mercy of the dreaded Uhlans. In many places they made little bundles of their most precious belongings, and, locking up their houses, fled southwards. Here is an amusing story of a British officer's experience with a family that remained:—
"After the Battle of Mons we were billeted at a large farmhouse, the inhabitants of which did not seem very pleased to see us. We had not touched any eatables for several hours, and I made the housewife understand that we wanted some food. She looked at us in a way which was not altogether an expression of friendliness, and pointing to the table, round which a number of men were gathered, to whom she was serving their meals, she said, 'After my workpeople.'
"We waited patiently till the men had finished their meal, and then asked once more for food. But the woman merely remarked, 'After us,' and she and her husband prepared to eat their supper. It is rather trying to see somebody making an attack on a hearty meal while one has not tasted any food for a long time. So I demanded, in the name of the King, that we should be supplied with foodstuffs immediately, the more so that the woman seemed so unwilling to grant our wishes. The only answer she made was that if we were in want of food we should have to look for it ourselves, and try to prepare it.
"The situation was rather awkward, and I was wondering why these French peasants were so extremely unkind towards British soldiers.
"Suddenly it entered my mind that perhaps she thought we were Germans! At the same time I had something like a happy thought in order to prove that we were not. One of our men, a tall, heavy chap, who was still outside the house, was ordered to substitute a German helmet for his own cap, and to knock at the door. He did: the door was opened, we dashed forward, and made 'the German' a prisoner.
"The whole scene changed all of a sudden. The whole family embraced us, almost choked us. Food and wine and dainties were supplied at once, and we had a most glorious time."
The following story of the retreat is told by Private Stewart of the Royal Scots. "After Mons," he says, "the hardships of fighting on the retreat began. We had little time for sleep; both day and night we retreated, and as they marched the men slept. If a man in front of you happened to stop, you found yourself bumping into him. At one place where we halted for the day the lady of the farmhouse was washing, so some of us took off our shirts to have them washed. While they were hanging up to dry the order came that the troops had to move on, and the wet garments had to be put on just as they were. Mine was dry next morning."
A party of Royal Scots which was cut off from its main body joined up with the Grenadier Guards, and fought in the streets of Landrecies. The Germans called on them to surrender; but a Royal Scots officer replied, "British never surrender! Fix bayonets! Charge!" So well did they charge that the Germans went down before them in large numbers.
Here is a fine story of a young soldier of the King's Own Scottish Borderers. While trying to cross two planks over a canal that was being peppered with machine-gun fire, the youngster received a flesh wound, and was about to fall. Colonel Stephenson gripped him to save him from falling into the canal, and said, "You had better go back to the hospital, sonny." So he did; but scarcely had he reached the hospital when the Germans began shelling it, and he and the other patients had to beat a quick retreat. Some time later he was on sentry go by a wayside shrine, and was waiting for the reliefs to come round, when he saw Germans in the distance. He fired at them once or twice—"for luck," as he said—but almost immediately received another wound in the body. This time it was so serious that he had to be sent home.
Colonel Stephenson, who is mentioned in this story, was the hero of another life-saving episode. During the fighting at Le Cateau one of the captains of his regiment fell in front of the British trenches. Without a moment's hesitation the colonel rushed out to carry in the captain, and in doing so exposed himself to a fierce fire. As he entered the lines with his unconscious burden the men gave him a rousing cheer. Later in the day he was hit, and was assisted into an ambulance wagon; but shortly afterwards he came out of it, in order, as he said, to make room for men who were worse wounded than himself. Almost immediately afterwards the retreat was continued, and the colonel was picked up and made prisoner by the Germans.
There was scarcely an hour during the whole retreat which was not marked by some noble deed of self-sacrifice. A private of the 1st Cheshires tells us admiringly of the great pluck of a wounded lieutenant of the A Company. "I only know his nickname, which was 'Winkepop.' He had been shot through his right leg and left foot, and we cut off his boots and attempted roughly to bandage his wounds. As he rose to his feet, he saw one of our privates in distress about fifteen yards away, and seizing his gun, he rushed or hobbled forward to bring him in, which he managed to do on his back, under a murderous fire from the enemy. Having dropped his rifle and sword in this courageous act, he made his way back for them, and we missed him after that, and indeed he has not been seen since."
In an earlier chapter we read of the splendid spirit of comradeship shown by officers to men and men to officers in the British army. A good instance is afforded by the letter of a private of the Yorkshire Light Infantry, who thus writes to General Wynn telling him of the death of his son, Lieutenant Wynn: "I have been asked by friends of ours to let you know fuller particulars of your son's death. He was my platoon officer, and he met his death at Landrecies. Sir, these are a few of the instances which made your son liked by all his men. He was a gentleman and a soldier. The last day he was alive we had got a cup of tea in the trenches, and we asked him if he would have a drink. He said, 'No; drink it yourselves.' And then, with a smile, he added, 'We have to hold the trenches to-day.' Again, at Mons we had been fighting all day, and some one had brought us a sack of pears and two loaves of bread. Lieutenant Wynn accepted only one pear and a very little bread. We noticed this. I had a small bottle of pickles in my haversack, and asked him to have some. But it was the usual answer, 'You require them yourselves.' Our regiment was holding the first line of trenches, and Lieutenant Wynn was told to hold the right of the company. Word was passed down to see if Lieutenant Wynn was all right, and I was just putting up my head when they hit me, and I heard from a neighbour that Lieutenant Wynn was hit through the eye and died instantly. He died doing his duty, and like the officer and gentleman he was."
