"The Germans were now half a mile away, and we were lying well down in the almost empty harbour. It became necessary to get our auxiliary engine going, and make out at least as far as the harbour mouth. At a quarter-past ten the first Germans appeared—a patrol of Uhlans—trotting across the bridge that leads into the town from the Blankenberghe road.
"At this critical moment the fact emerged that the man who had shipped as a first-class engineer to work our engine for us was not an engineer at all, but an organ-grinder! The organ-grinder's efforts to start the engine were deplorable, and we were so placed we could not get a breath of wind for the sails. The decks of the little yacht were covered with refugees—Belgian fathers, women, and children. They watched with a stricken calm a second and a third Uhlan patrol cross the bridge. Two escaped soldiers in plain clothes who had come on board dropped their uniforms into the water . . .
"Every moment we were expecting the appearance of the Germans on the pier. Soon after midday we sailed at a majestic one mile per hour out of the harbour with the British flag flying. Past the pierhead we found some wind, actually got the engine started, and ploughed away at a cheerful ten knots. A mile out we anchored, to await developments. Through our glasses we saw four Uhlans standing like statues staring out to sea. From over the horizon came racing a torpedo boat, got the news, and promptly poked her nose into the harbour to see for herself. After five minutes she backed out, and went away swiftly. Thereafter Miss Borthwick and several correspondents, including myself, decided on a scouting expedition of our own in the launch. We plunged ahead through the green and lifting waves, raising a fine spray, till we were within a few hundred yards of the digue.[48] There we saw four Germans running across a little triangle of sandy beach and up on to the pier. We hung on for a moment, anxious as to what would happen next.
"The Germans ran along the pier, the end of which was only two hundred yards from us. When we saw them taking cover among the little buildings at the end of the pier we considered it time to bolt. Promptly the Germans fired a wide shot, and signalled to us to come in, but we made for the open sea. Then they opened fire seriously. We lay as flat as we could—which was not very flat, for we were tightly packed in the tiny boat—and scooted. Two of the Germans were kneeling down with their rifles resting on the rail at the end of the pier, and two standing up.
"It was an extremely uncomfortable four minutes before we were out of range. They fired rapidly, but did not even hit the boat, though they were very close above and beside us. We regained the Grace Darling, raised anchor, and at once made for sea."
Here is a description of one of the French regiments which fought so bravely under Maud'huy against the Bavarians round about Arras:—
"They have come a long way down the straight roads between the hills, and there is dust in their eyes and throats, and they have arrived at that moment in the march when the pack weighs heaviest, when the shoulder-straps begin to rub, when the rifle seems to wear a hole in the shoulder, and when the shoe begins to pinch. The best-hearted man in the regiment knows that it is the time for a little joke. He begins to speak about his captain, who is walking a yard away from him. 'Our captain grows a little fat, I think, my little ones.' 'Yes,' says a comrade, taking up the joke; 'it is possible that he has been eating too much.' 'And he has a great thirst, I am told,' says a third man. 'It is marvellous what a thirst our captain has! Three bottles of red wine are hardly enough to wet his throat.' 'He gets too old for war;' and so the joke goes on, every word of which is heard by the captain, who finally bursts into laughter, and says, 'You are impudent rascals, all of you.' The bad moment has passed. The weight of the pack is forgotten, and presently the baritone of the regiment sings the first line of a marching song. The chorus goes lilting down the long white road between the poplar sentinels."
Few stories have appeared with reference to the fighting round La Bassée. A dispatch rider says: "There was one brigade there that had a past. It had fought at Mons[49] and Le Cateau,[50] and then plugged away cheerfully through the Retreat and the Advance. What was left of it had fought stiffly on the Aisne. Some hard marching, a train journey, more hard marching, and it was thrown into action at La Bassée. There it fought itself to a standstill. It was attacked and attacked until, shattered, it was driven back one wild night. It was rallied, and, turning on the enemy, held them. More hard fighting, a couple of days' rest, and it staggered into action at Ypres, and somehow—no one knows how—it held its bit of line. A brigade called by the same name, consisting of the same regiments, commanded by the same general, but containing scarce a man of those who had come out in August, marched very proudly away from Ypres, and went—not to rest, but to hold another bit of the line.