Told in gallant deeds

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

The Battle of Meaux turned the tide of the first German campaign. By a strange irony of fate, Von Kluck seems to have first got wind of the new French army on September 1. It was on September 2, 1870, that the Battle of Sedan was fought, the French suffering a crushing defeat at the hands of the Germans. The Germans confidently expected to enter Paris again on September 2, 1914, and celebrate there the anniversary of their great triumph. Not only was this confident expectation disappointed, but it was on that very day that they were forced to begin their retreat.

Before I begin to tell you of some of the deeds of valour and heroism performed during these two battles, I should like to tell you one or two interesting things about the town of Meaux.

Bossuet, who spoke so beautifully that, like St. Chrysostom, he was called “the golden mouthed,” was Archbishop of Meaux; he was also a brave and fearless man, and one of those who leave the world in which they live—in his case, a brilliant, frivolous, selfish world—better than they find it.

The present Bishop of Meaux is a worthy successor to Bossuet. When the Germans entered the town, the bishop was the only man of authority who remained at his post. The Mayor had advised the inhabitants to leave as soon as the Germans drew near. He and the other officials all went. The bishop refused to join them, saying, “My duty is here. I do not think the enemy will harm me, but if they do, God’s will be done. I cannot leave my cathedral. I cannot leave those of my flock who remain.”

When the Germans arrived, the bishop parleyed with their commanding officer and exacted a promise that his men should behave well. And they did. So we may well exclaim, “Bravo, brave bishop!”

In a little town close to Meaux called Château-Thierry, where much fighting took place, was the cheerful home of another Frenchman whose name some of you certainly know. I mean La Fontaine, who wrote the delightful animal fables. The hotels of Château-Thierry are very happily and appropriately named: they are called The Elephant, The Giraffe, and The Swan. The poor Giraffe was battered all to bits during the great battle, I am sorry to say, by the shells of the French, who with their help successfully dislodged the Germans. But the owner of the Giraffe is such an unselfish patriot that when showing his wounded house to an English gentleman after the battle, he exclaimed, “See how splendidly true our gunners’ aim was!” pointing out with pride that every single window had been neatly smashed.

I think most of you will envy the two Eton boys who were on a bicycle tour in France when the war broke out, and who, when the tide began to turn, suddenly found themselves in the fighting zone! By luck more than anything else they stumbled on to the French General Staff, and there came across an English officer. Both implored him to help them to get into the French Army, and, amazing to tell, they were both made honorary sub-lieutenants. Soon they were put on the Commission which had the business of examining the villages improperly devastated by the enemy, for sad to say, as soon as the Germans began to get the worst of it, they wreaked their vengeance on the innocent inhabitants of the villages and small towns through which they were retreating.

Mean people always suspect others of being as mean as themselves. The Germans believe that the taking of an unfair advantage is quite the right thing to do in war. But in the end these practices recoil on their doers and keep them in a miserable state of constant fear and suspicion.

A worthy French priest and two innocent little boys very nearly fell a victim to the enemy’s terrors. The Germans were having a rest in a village, when their commander noticed that the church clock was stopped. He sent for the priest, and demanded that the clock should be set going again. The curé, accompanied by two of his choir boys, went to wind it up; and as was natural, when once it was wound up it began to strike. The German commander, in a great fright, decided that this was a dodge invented by the curé to warn the French that a number of weary Germans were in his village. At once he had him arrested, and the two little boys as well. Without more ado all three were sentenced to be shot the next morning.

All three were brave, but we can imagine what a sad night they must have spent, and how especially sad the old priest must have been that, owing to the fact that he had allowed the two lads to accompany him, they were to have their young lives cut short in such a dreadful way. Early in the morning, an hour before they were to have been executed, the news reached the Germans that the French were on them. They rushed out of the village, forgetting all about their captives. Meanwhile, the priest was so convinced that his last hour had come that he himself opened the door of his temporary prison and went to the village green in order to await the firing party, and to make a last appeal to them to spare the two lads. You can imagine his joy when he saw the familiar blue and red uniforms of his fellow-countrymen.