I remember particularly the date September 1st, and going through the little town of Crépy-en-Valois, because we then realised for the first time that something was wrong about that "strategical retirement" business. Our maps included Belgium and all N.E. France, but Compiègne was the farthest point south; and when we had retired below that town we knew that retreat so far south was not a part of the original scheme.
Then most of us saw some French troops for the first time, and, ominous sign, they were always engaged in barricading and mining the roads, opening the barricades to let us pass through.
But Tuesday, September 1st, must ever be a red-letter day in the annals of the Royal Regiment, on account of the famous fight of L Battery, R.H.A., at Nery, hard by Compiègne. I always regard that episode as one of the most wonderful incidents in this war. Nor do I think so because it was my own regiment, though naturally one can appreciate it the more from being a Gunner. The story is, of course, well known, but no repetition can mar the effect, however bald the telling of it may be.
L Battery was working with the 1st Cavalry Brigade, which was made up of the 2nd Dragoons (Queen's Bays), the 11th Hussars, and the 5th Dragoons. For the benefit of the uninitiated it may be explained that a horse artillery battery of six guns forms an integral part of a cavalry brigade; wherever the cavalry go, there can go the "Horse Gunners," for the gun is of lighter calibre than that of the field batteries.
About 2 o'clock in the morning word reached Second Corps H.Q. that a strong force of Germans, 90 guns and cavalry, was moving towards the 1st Cavalry Brigade in bivouac at Nery. The Third Army Corps, which was still included in General Smith-Dorrien's command, was also not far away. Our cavalry were actually bivouacked within about 600 yards of the Germans, and I believe that our outposts were, for some reason or other, not sufficiently advanced.
In an earlier chapter, writing of Captain Francis Grenfell, I have remarked that there was one other to whose life might well be applied the phrase: "Sans peur et sans reproche." That other was Captain E. K. Bradbury, of L Battery. All that I have ventured to say of Grenfell I would say also of Bradbury. I doubt whether there ever lived a Gunner officer who was more beloved by his men, or one more worthy to be so beloved. And when that is said, what else remains?
Half-past four in the morning, and the mists have scarcely begun to rise above the beech trees. You picture the guns of L Battery parked in line just on the downward slope of a slight hill and in a little clearing of the woods. The horses of the gun-teams are tethered to the gun and limber-wheels; others are down at a little stream hard by, where some of the men are washing and scrubbing out their shirts. The Queen's Bays are in bivouac in a neighbouring field.
"Some of our scouts out there, aren't they?" remarked a shoeing-smith, pointing to some rising ground about 500 yards to the north; "or is it French cursers?" (cuirassiers).
"Looks more like Germans to me," said one of the gunners. "Let's have a squint through the telescope."
"What's up?" said the sergeant-major, passing at the moment.