The flood through which the Würtembergers had waded was but the advance guard of a mighty deluge that was now about to overwhelm the whole district. Every sluice in this region of stream and canal was opened, and the brown flood spread over the land like the "bore" in a narrow estuary. Men and horses were swept from their feet and swallowed up in the seething waters; others sank to rise no more in the deep mud; field guns disappeared in the ooze, and all the while the pitiless guns of the Allies poured shot and shell on the drowning invaders. Thousands fell, but some escaped, while others struggled to dry ground, only to be taken prisoners. The attack had hopelessly failed, and the Emperor, who had been watching the struggle through his field glasses, shut them up and turned away. Once more he had been foiled at the very moment when victory seemed to be beckoning him.
On 7th November a frenzied attack was begun on Dixmude, which, as you know, was held by Ronarc'h's Bretons. From the 16th of October to the 10th of November they were fiercely but unsuccessfully assailed by three corps of the Duke of Würtemberg's army. "You have to sacrifice yourselves," said Ronarc'h to his men, "to save our left wing. Try to hold out four days." They held out for a fortnight.
On the night of the 23rd and in the early morning of the 24th no fewer than fourteen separate attacks were made upon them, but every one failed. For most of the time the marines fought in trenches up to their waists in water, and, as General Joffre told them, they were in their own element. One night the Germans, driving some captured marines before them, crept silently towards the French lines. One of the prisoners shouted a warning, but immediately paid for his loyalty with his life. The wearied defenders, hearing the shout, sprang to arms and beat off the attack.
On 10th November the Germans succeeded in capturing the broken walls and torn streets of what had once been the prosperous village of Dixmude. This success, however, had come too late. Around Ypres, as we shall learn in later pages, the flower of the German armies had everywhere been driven back from the Allied lines. All the doors to the coast were now locked, bolted, and barred. Nevertheless, fierce but futile struggles continued on the Yser until early in December, when their fury abated.
The Flooded Area in Flanders. Photo, Daily Mirror.
CHAPTER XIII.
EIGHT DAYS OF STRUGGLE AND ANXIETY.
In Chapter IV. I gave you a brief account of the little city of Ypres, now about to become the storm-centre of a cyclone of blood and death such as the world has never seen before. I have told you of its commercial greatness, and of the glorious old buildings with which the rich burghers of former days adorned their city. Not only were they clever manufacturers and keen traders, but gallant soldiers as well. One of the proudest stories in their history tells how the red-coated burghers of Ypres in July 1302 joined themselves to the men of Bruges and Courtrai,[62] and marched against Count Robert of Artois, who was then overrunning Flanders with 8,000 knights of gentle blood, 10,000 archers, and 30,000 foot-soldiers. Courtrai was threatened, and the burghers of Ypres, with their fellows from other Flemish towns, arrayed themselves in front of the city and behind a tangle of dykes and canals. The chivalry of France made a furious charge, and horses and riders plunged into the trap which had been laid for them. The slaughter was terrible. Seven hundred pairs of gilded spurs hung in the abbey church of Courtrai as the spoils of battle, and the men of Ypres shared with their comrades of West Flanders the renown of victory.