"It's Germans crawling through that field," said the subaltern. "I saw their electric-torch flashes."
The men stood to, peering into the darkness, and feeling certain that their last hour had come.
A farmer came slowly out of the field-gate and begged two of the men to come and help him round up his cows.
So the detachment turned in again, cursing heartily.
But soon the A.S.C. bus drivers were "doing their bit" under fire as gallantly as everybody else. How and when you shall hear in another chapter.
6.0 P.M.—The enemy have concentrated their fire upon the town of Mons and it has become untenable.
Only six hours, six little hours since the Belgian townsfolk had come peacefully home from Mass to their Sunday déjeuner, proud and hopeful in the presence of their British allies. And now their houses, their town, a heap of smoking ruins.
In those short hours how many women have seen their children crushed by falling walls or blown to atoms by bursting shells? How many children are left helpless and alone in the world, with no mother or father to take them by the hand and guide them from the hell of destruction?
Is there no thought for them, you who have been following the fortunes of the day for the British? Many have escaped, with such few household treasures as they can carry in perambulators and little handcarts. They, at least, have some hope of life. These may struggle on for a little while—to faint or die of hunger and exhaustion by the roadside. The strongest may get through.
For the rest, their lives are sacrificed to make a German holiday. They die, but in their death the battalions of these innocents have joined the mighty, mysterious army of souls who shall haunt the German people until Germany ceases to be.