If a seemingly hopeless message came from headquarters to a battalion: "Can you hold on a few hours longer?", back would come the answer piping hot: "We can!"
Again and again the doubting question came to the trenches: "Can you still hold on?", and again and again returned the same enheartening reply: "We can and will hold on!"
Then an unheard of thing occurred—neglect of an order. The message from headquarters, couched in generous words, read: "You have done all that human power can do. Your position is untenable. You must retreat!"
A flush of disdainful anger swept over the officer's face as he read this message, and he replied in three words: "Retreat be damned!"
The Canadians had not learned the meaning of the word "retreat." It had been left out of their martial vocabulary—some one was responsible for this omission. The Germans tried to teach them its meaning with gas, with bayonet and with shell; but thick-headed Tommy and his officers always misunderstood it for "hold" or "advance." It took four days of starvation and four sleepless, awful nights to make the most intelligent amongst them understand the word, and even then it was a scant concession to the Bosche.
Little bands of men, the remnants of dauntless battalions, holding isolated, advanced points, were commanded to fall back in order to straighten out the line. But the brave fellows who had so gallantly defended their posts, were loath to give them up. Unnerved, weak and exhausted, they still wanted to remain, and when their officers insisted on their leaving, some actually sat down in the trench and wept bitter tears of humiliation and chagrin.
During these four fateful days British and French reinforcements had been rushed up to fill the gap, and further German progress was impossible. Harassed from the flank, beaten back from the front, decimated and discouraged, the Germans had suffered a disastrous and momentous defeat—for to them Calais, their greatest hope, was irretrievably lost.
During the great battle the Field Ambulance in which Jack Wellcombe was stationed was working night and day at fever pitch. Time and again the German guns sought out their quarters and big shells levelled to earth the houses round about; but, as if the hand of Providence were watching them, the little field hospital escaped with its patients each time, just before the buildings were wrecked.
Five times during the three days this fortunate move was accomplished not a moment too soon, but still they stuck doggedly to the village, as close as possible to the guns. Sleep was out of the question. Even if the noise and imminent danger might have been ignored, the streams of wounded coming in had to receive attention, and during those frightful days no man flinched before his precarious and arduous duty.
In the seventeen consecutive days and nights of the artillery battle there was never a full minute's break in the bombardment from either side.