"Very sorry, sir," said the subaltern, "but it's a telegraph message from that battery. The O.C. has probably got something special to send to G.H.Q." And the car was escorted back again.
The O.C. had "something special to send" in the shape of a couple of German officers, very carefully disguised as British. A drum-head court-martial was held at Corps H.Q., and as the Germans in question were hopelessly compromised by the very full notes which they had managed to collect from various units about the Force, the case was clear.
"Guilty. To be shot at dawn."
They were plucky fellows, but—well, a spy is a spy, and that's all about it.
Less than a week before the country folk had watched with delight and relief the passing of mighty transport columns of British, had welcomed and cheered the men forward, proud and confident in the anticipation of early victory.
Now imagine their feelings, their alarm, at the sight of British regiments, war-worn, weary and battered, trailing back as fast as they could move.
Of what use was it to tell them that this was only a strategical retirement? Panic spreads quickly, and once the hint of calamity is given it is impossible to check the alarm.
But even then it was some little time before the stolid peasants of Northern France could grasp the meaning of what they saw, and I remember well how the inhabitants of a certain little village crowded out to watch the extraordinary (to them) behaviour of a regiment which was in the extreme rear of the retiring First Corps.
The village overlooked a valley, and there was a splendid view of the British lines retiring in open order up the hill towards the little hamlet. They came up panting heavily and, just under the brow of the hill, set to work to dig up some rough shelter. The folk stood watching, laughing and talking, until an exasperated lance-corporal threw his tool in front of an oldish man.
"'Ere, it's about b—— well time you did a bit"; and the corporal sat down to wipe off some of the dirt from his face.