Their loss of the height of Brimont, on the east, prevents the French making use of the Canal of the Aisne and Marne, or the adjoining railway. At the same time, the French retention of the line of heights of Craonne on the west commands any advance of the Germans upon Rheims by this route.
Circling away from Rheims to the west, I came up south of the Aisne and the Craonne heights, by Poncherry and Montigny. Here I met a train of wounded and some stragglers in the village, who told me of the sustained assault that is being made upon the French positions; the Germans making charge after charge, even with the bayonet, but being repulsed with great loss.
It is obviously vital for the Germans, with the growing pressure on their flank, to break through on the south, and, by threatening Paris and separating the armies, to force a withdrawal of troops from their communications.
I was near enough to the Aisne to be able to see the character of the country on the far side, which has cost both Britain and France so dear to assault. A gradual slope of about half a mile up from the river, steepening into scarps and wooded heights, and dotted with white quarries. These latter were held by the Germans deeply entrenched, and their guns commanded the passage of the river.
Driven at last over the edge of the hill, they returned again and again in massed charges, and were swept away by our men, more lightly entrenched, high up, just under the brow.
To the west of this, as far as Soissons, the two weeks fighting has mostly consisted of long-range artillery duels, across the river and, later, over the heights. The Germans, better hidden, and with longer range, shelled our slighter trenches with fearful accuracy.
About Soissons the British resisted successfully a concentrated assault of more than a week's duration, certainly not less in savage determination than that upon the French around Craonne. Our cavalry especially distinguished itself.
Several men wounded, or resting from the front, in these villages, told me the same story: "It began about six—heavy, accurate shell fire; there was a lunch interval; it stopped about dusk every day. Then in the night, often came the charges. One night I couldn't count them! It was awful. Kill, kill, kill, and still they came on, shoving each other over on to us!"
No man but had his story of comrades on either side shot or smashed day after day, of the shriek of shells, of the perpetual groaning of the wounded as they lay in the wet trenches. "Seven days and nights of it! and some nights only an hour's sleep." And all the same description—"It was just absolute hell." No one found another word to describe it.
And the sight of the men bore it out. Muddied to the eyes, soaked, often blood-caked. Many were suffering from the curious aphasia produced by the continuous concussion of shells bursting. Some were dazed and speechless, some deafened. And yet, splendid to relate, I saw on no Briton's face, wounded or resting, the fixed, inhuman stare of war. Even the wounded were in good spirits, unconquerable,—the sporting "looker-on" attitude of the British soldier.