"The Germans don't get those guns while any of us are left," said Grenfell. "I'm off to see how we can get them away."
Now Grenfell was already badly wounded, but he stuck on his horse somehow and walked that gallant beast out into the storm to see where he was to run the guns to. (Why does not His Majesty create a decoration for horses? But I'll wager Grenfell hung his V.C. round his charger's neck a month later.)
Well, he walked him out and he walked him back, just to show his men what poor shots the Germans were.
"Now then," said Grenfell, "who's for the guns?"
And, since (as I have said) the Lancers always stand by old pals, every man of them was.
They tied their horses up, and Lancers and Gunners set to work. One by one of those guns they got at the wheels and trails and worked and worked. Down went more gallant Lancers and more gallant Gunners, but there were still a few left, and, by Heaven, those few stuck to it.
"Come on, lads, just one more!" sang out Grenfell, with his coat off.
And they worked and heaved, and did it. Every one of those guns they saved.
But then, be it repeated, the Lancers and Gunners always were good pals.
By midday General Smith-Dorrien's task had become one of the gravest difficulty. And this was but the opening phase of a movement which, I venture to think, will be accounted by the historian as one of the most astonishing pieces of work in military history. I refer not to the Retreat as a whole, but to the work of the Second Corps and its leader from 3 A.M. of the 24th to about midnight of the 26th—27th. An eternity of years was encircled by those few hours.