“Now you can see that the French have got busy and are sending every kind of missile right into the midst of the masses of Germans. Every time a shell breaks it leaves a horrible gap, but only for a second, because the living close it up like magic. Oh! what madness for them to charge in such mass formations in these days of machine guns and shrapnel and big shells. But that’s the way they’ve been taught, to go forward shoulder to shoulder; and Germans couldn’t fight like our men do, each on his own initiative. Oh! just see them coming on still, will you? I believe there must be a million of ’em pouring over that ridge. But the French don’t seem to be giving way a yard, do they?” And then, overcome by his emotions, Giraffe fell silent, though never for a second did he take his eyes off the thrilling drama that was being enacted not more than two miles away.
CHAPTER XI
THE BATTLE
When the vast German army smashed a way through Belgium and commenced that historic rush toward apparently doomed Paris, few there were who were bold enough to believe the French capital could be saved. History would repeat itself, Paris fall to the invading hosts, and, having subdued poor France, the Kaiser’s victorious legions could next turn on Russia and repeat the lesson in preparedness.
Once across the French border, and following out long-since-made plans of campaign, the Germans separated into four tremendous streams of men and guns, all sweeping along prearranged lines and heading for Paris.
One of these was held up before Verdun, which fortress was fated to stand in the way of German success to the end of time, even as Gibraltar towers at the entrance of the Mediterranean. Three other living streams forged ahead, pushing aside all opposition on the part of the French forces, as well as the comparatively small British army that fought them gallantly, though unsuccessfully, at Mons and other places.
As these immense masses of armed troops approached the region of the French capital, the desperation of the defenders increased. But, fortunately for them, there was a man who kept his head through the near-panic and never lost faith. This man was Joffre, the same commander-in-chief who, in after days, continuously baffled the efforts of the most astute German generals to again take the initiative in their hands, after they lost it at the great five-day battle of the Marne.
It was to fall to the lot of General Von Kluck, more than any of his fellows, to break through the line of French defense and start the siege of Paris. Those wonderful mortars that had smashed the steel-domed forts of Liege and Namur in Belgium would most likely have made short work of the outlying defences of the French capital, once they came within long range.
But something happened.
It may never be fully known to the outside world just how the wonderfully well-arranged plans of the Germans met with a hitch, or why the army of Von Kluck, after getting so close to Paris, suddenly veered aside toward the west and commenced to pass by on another tack. Depend upon it, he had good reasons for so doing.
This, then, was the situation on that September afternoon when Thad and his three chums stood on the low hill and watched the invading army coiling over the ridge like a never-ending nest of writhing serpents. The Germans had no other choice save to attack. Unless they could break through the cordon that Joffre had managed to stretch before the city they must continue their great cart-wheel sweep around toward the Marne, and with the French pushing them on, keep going back toward the border again, perhaps in what would be next door to a rout.