Under Foch's Command: A Tale of the Americans in France

by F. S. Brereton

Indeed his was a find—a valuable find as it proved. For it so happened that though the band had managed to escape to a part of the country which was sparsely populated, their escape was noised abroad, and search-parties were sent in all directions.

"Only they don't seem to have thought of these woods," said Larry, as he and Bill watched from the fringe of the cover in which they had taken shelter. "I guess they think we've made along the railway. Waal now, the longer we stick here without moving into the open the better, for then we'll throw them off the scent. Nobby's calf will be useful. Mebbe we'll take to the cow yet, but it'll want some killing, seeing that we've only sticks and knives with us."

Yet another early-morning jaunt on the part of Nobby, with Bill in company, secured a couple of old rifles and revolvers, beside more bread; and thus armed, and with plenty of food, the band settled themselves in the wood for two weeks till the search-parties had returned and the matter had blown over. Then they issued forth, and little by little, sometimes gaining a dozen miles in one night, sometimes lying up in a friendly wood for a week or more, now and then half starved—for provisions were short throughout the whole of Germany—and again well fed—for they did not hesitate to take fowls and calves when they came across them—the band gained France, and finally filtered through the German lines to the spot we have indicated.

The journey had taken weeks—those eventful weeks during which the Kaiser, careless of the losses he incurred, had thrown his hordes against the Allies, had thrown to win, and so far at least had failed to achieve his object. But now the moment for the last throw had arrived. Germans, massed in that salient which stretched to the Marne, were about to make a desperate push—a last push for Paris. Guns were ready; every device of war was there to slaughter the Allies; the All-Highest, himself less arrogant than of yore, less certain of success, was himself present; the hour had come for Germany to strike a final blow for victory.

And strike she did, driving a reckless path over the Marne River in the neighbourhood of Château Thierry and to the east of that pleasant provincial town, while her forces swept to the west, pushing the Allied line backward. It was a critical time for British and French and American troops, and the Entente generally; for the rush carried the Germans to within some thirty miles of Paris, and further success would have thrown a road to that city wide open, with, no doubt, disastrous results to the defenders of human liberty. But the Allies, though taken in some measure by surprise, were by no means found wanting. Unity of command on the part of Germany and Austria and their Allies had, during almost four long years of warfare, given enormous advantage to the troops controlled nominally by the Kaiser: one brain and one man, in fact, commanded the situation, striking blows here, following them up swiftly, supporting a threatened spot, and massing effects where the Allied line appeared weakest. But the Allies themselves had not failed to see the vital importance of this unity of command. It had taken time; it had required many conferences; there had been much discussion before a decision was reached; but Mr. Lloyd George, the Premier of England, Monsieur Clemenceau, France's able leader, and Mr. Wilson, the President of the United States, and all the prominent leaders had come forward and insisted upon this one condition.

Thus, just prior to this final German rush, the whole of the Allied armies in France and Italy had been placed under the command of General Foch, the hero of the Marne fighting in 1914. This unity of command placed in his hands a power not hitherto wielded by any single one of the Allied forces. It allowed him to mass his reserves, to control the movements of all the troops, and permitted of his disposing of his forces so that within a few days the enemy rush was successfully held up, and almost at once a counter-attack, similar almost to that of the Sixth French Army in 1914, which was cast upon the right flank of Von Kluck's army, but a little north of the part where that army operated, was hurled against the flank of this dangerous German irruption.

A few lines and we may dismiss further mention of the fighting. French and British, aye, and Americans in much force, took part in that brilliant counter-offensive. They smashed in the German flank, they drove deep into the Tardenois, they sent the enemy fleeing back from the Marne and its wrecked villages and towns, till his back was against the Aisne, and until the Vesle alone divided the combatants. That single dramatic movement smashed the hopes of the German people, and wrecked for ever the already severely damaged prestige of the once arrogant Crown Prince of Prussia.

We will carry the tale a short stage further. The fighting in this neighbourhood was scarce ended, and the fifth year of the war but just commenced, when on the 8th August, the Fourth British Army, with a French army acting in combination with it, suddenly advanced upon the Germans between Albert and Montdidier, and assisted by numerous small tanks, called "whippets"—more speedy and more efficacious than the big tanks first used in 1916—drove a huge hole or salient into the German position, capturing hundreds of guns and a vast number of prisoners. Since then fighting has extended north and south, and all along the line the invader—the ravager of France and Belgium—has been driven back reeling before our blows. The tide has turned without a doubt. The Allies march irresistibly on to final victory.

Thus was the fifth year of this awful contest inaugurated. It brought success to the Allies, it found their numbers increasing daily by the influx of American troops, and, significant too, it discovered those American troops to be stanch and sturdy fighters, fresh to the country, keen to destroy the power of the Kaiser.