Slowly, sullenly, von Kluck withdraws his legions. Slowly and fitfully the firing dies away, and by 2 A.M. all is still once more.

CHAPTER X
AN INTERLUDE

... As many ways meet in one town;
As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea;
As many lines close in the dial's centre;
So may a thousand actions, once afoot,
End in one purpose, and be all well borne
Without defeat.

There is something more than magic in the poetry of Shakespeare's Henry V. when it is read to illustrate the stirring events of these opening phases of the War. To set it side by side with the recital of the story is to listen to the voice of a singer supported by the gravely-sounding, deep-toned brass instruments of an orchestra.

There is more than beauty of accompaniment, there is the magic of prophecy. I can hardly find an incident of those August days which was not mirrored three centuries ago in the verse of this play. Thus, I have sought in no other for the musical preludes of my chapters; and I confess often to have rubbed my eyes in astonishment at the aptness of the poetry to the incidents of the moment.

Now those few bars of introduction suggest another motif; let me try to expand the theme a little.

In reading the cold, semi-official language which states that the British Force halted at such and such an hour along a line extending from So-and-So to Somewhere, one is apt to gain an impression which is far removed from reality.

You picture, perhaps, the various units retiring along routes carefully assigned by gilded Staff officers, and duly arriving at the scheduled times in various villages and hamlets. That there they are met by courteous billeting parties, who proceed to allot the men to more or less unwilling householders. That at the hour specified in the report you find the Dorsets in one place, the Irish Guards next to them, the batteries with their guns neatly parked, and so on all down the line. The various H.Q.'s of Brigades, Divisions or Corps all in readily accessible spots, and everybody connected up with everybody else by telegraph or telephone, so that any unit can be set in motion at any minute.

That is the ideal. Well, that delightful ideal first assumed definite shape after the Battle of the Marne and not before. Here is a little sketch of a tiny village on the line of retreat on the evening of Tuesday, August 25th: