There was no idea of forming ranks, even had it been possible. Slowly, steadily up the streets the great German mammoth crept, and, like tigers at their prey, the men of the Guards sprang at head and flanks, worrying with grim-set teeth to the heart of the beast.
Now the British machine-guns opened fire straight upon the head of the column, swept it away, swept the succeeding ranks, until the mass was brought to a standstill.
More Guardsmen threw themselves straight at the ranks, firing as they could, crashing in with bayonet and clubbed rifle.
Now the column shivers; but the Germans are brave men. They rally, for their comrades are pouring into the town to help them. Up side streets and lanes, by all the approaches they come, and everywhere the men of the Guards spring at them.
But surely numbers must tell. What can four battered regiments, fighting by handfuls, do in face of such thousands of a fresh army corps!
From Maroilles right down the line the British are fighting for their lives, for von Kluck has staked heavily on this throw, and it would seem that the dice are loaded. He pushes his guns up still closer until some are firing into the town almost at point-blank range. Again, what does it matter if his own men are swept away? There are thousands more to fill their places.
The houses have begun to blaze fiercely in the torrents of rain, and there is plenty of light at last. And now the Guards rally for a supreme effort. The last, the forlorn hope—but it is the Guards, and at least they will go down fighting to the last man.
One mighty heave—in at them—again—they are breaking—heave!
They have done it. Broken them. Driven them out. And behind them the enemy leave close upon 1,000 dead.
Away up by Maroilles Sir Douglas Haig has fought his men like one possessed, and there, too, he has broken the German attack, just as two French Reserve Divisions came up to his aid.