Fighting, as Sir John tells us, continued on Saturday night, the 22nd, and early on Sunday morning along the whole of the British lines, which were unsupported by the French troops. Mons fell into the hands of the enemy, who were piercing our extreme left, but a cavalry attack on their flank under the direction of General de Lisle checked the further advance of the Germans, and by a tactical feat of great skill, but not without severe losses, Sir John French effected a successful retirement by Sunday night, August 23.
Of the achievements of the three regiments of General de Lisle’s command, most is known of the doings of the 9th Lancers, but both the 4th Royal Irish Dragoon Guards and the 18th (Queen Mary’s Own) Hussars covered themselves with glory.
The brigade commenced operations in Belgian territory towards Namur, in its own allotted zone. A carefully organised and extensive system of reconnoitring detachments was instituted. Officers’ patrols were pushed forward, supported by contact troops. The patrols were also assisted by motor scouts. There was also a concentrated group of squadrons, with two batteries of Royal Horse Artillery, which moved out to meet the enemy at break of day.
Information came to hand of the artillery positions of the Germans, and of preparations being made by them for a general advance. The cavalry field guns were early engaged in operations against the enemy’s cavalry, followed later by a mêlée, in which the German dragoons got much the worst of it. Fighting took place practically every day, as the British troops were compelled to fall back. The German cavalry were sought for and engaged, in the hope that the enemy’s artillery might be captured. There was a fixed desire on the part of our men to get hold of the guns which have played such havoc with shrapnel. A wounded cavalryman says that they have “knocked the stuffing out of the German cavalry.”
“At first,” he says “they came for us, and we put case shot into them at 500 yards, and then dismounted squadrons, and stopped their advance with the rifle, throwing them into confusion. We then mounted and rode straight at them. They opened out and let us ride through them, and it was then we emptied their saddles. They don’t appear to like personal encounter. Some were dragged from their seats and pegged with the lance. They don’t come for us now, and directly we see them we make for them. We have galloped for a mile to get at them. Once they drew us on to the fire of their infantry. We were only 200 yards away when they fired on us, but we were going too fast for them to hit us.
“Our echelons came up into line at the time, and we spread out as we met them hand to hand. Many surrendered without fighting, and those that made off came under the fire of our guns. The German cavalry have excellent mounts, and the horses are well trained. Somehow the men haven’t got the same grit as our chaps. When they hear our yell and see our swords they turn pale, and want to be off. If it wasn’t for their officers I believe they’d never face us.”
The Rev. Owen Spencer Watkins, who was one of the chaplains attached to a Field Ambulance of the British Expeditionary Forces, contributed to the Methodist Recorder a story of the retreat with the army from Mons to Paris in care of the wounded. We have ventured to quote from Mr. Watkins’s article a few passages:—He left Dublin on August 16 and embarked on the transport City of Benares, which carried, besides himself, three Anglican and one Roman Catholic chaplain. During a voyage of forty-eight hours, they were “convoyed” from Ireland to Land’s End by British men-of-war, and through the English Channel by French warships. At Land’s End the British ship that had been watching over them passed within hailing distance, and the “blue-jackets” crowded to the ship’s side shouting their good wishes, to which the men on the outgoing boat responded with ringing cheers.
After a train journey from Havre of twenty hours, they reached Valenciennes on Sunday morning, August 23. “With as little delay as possible,” said Mr. Watkins, “we detrained, for we were told the great fight at Mons had already started, and we were urgently needed in the fighting line. Then followed a twenty miles’ march, almost without a halt, through villages where the population received us with enthusiasm—showered flowers upon us as we passed, pressed gifts of fruit, wine, cider, tea, and coffee upon the troops, whilst our men, to show their gratitude, shouted ‘Vive la France,’ chanted the Marseillaise, and cheered until they were hoarse. Then the dark and sleeping villages were suddenly awakened by the tramp of men. The troops were now marching doggedly and silently, the monotonous tramp, tramp almost sent me to sleep in the saddle, and would have done so but for the aching of bones and muscles which for long had been unaccustomed to so many hours on horseback.
“Towards the morning of August 24 we halted in the little town of Bavai, and bivouacked in the main square. Here we found a Red Cross Hospital in charge of a priest and a few sisters, and in it were already some of our men; one, a man of the Dorset Regiment, was apparently dying of pneumonia; another, a Royal Engineer, smashed in a motor accident, had just died, and, at the request of the Sisters, Mr. Winnifrith, the Church of England Chaplain, held a little service, where he lay in the mortuary. Then, fully dressed, we threw ourselves down on vacant beds in one of the wards and snatched a couple of hours’ sleep.
“We wakened just after dawn on August 25 to the sound of heavy firing, and without waiting even for breakfast we at once moved off. Early in our march we learned from a Staff Officer, who passed us at the gallop, that the British had fallen back, and were now holding the line of the Mons Canal, and that the odds against them were simply overwhelming. He urged us to push on, as there was a shortage of ambulances, and the casualty list was already very heavy. Shortly after we crossed the Belgian frontier, and there were met by the transport of our Division (the 5th) returning into France. As we urged forward our weary men and horses, our progress was constantly impeded by pathetic crowds of terror-stricken refugees—women, children, old men—coming along the road in droves, carrying their few valuables on their backs, weeping piteously, some dropping exhausted by the roadside, and all telling heart-rending stories of homes in flames, and some of outrages which made the blood run cold, and caused men to set their lips tight and talk in undertones of the revenge they hoped to take. I cannot describe it; it will not bear thinking about; but it has left a mark on our hearts and memories which nothing can efface.”
The desperate character of the fighting at Mons is admitted by every survivor of that fierce struggle. Those who had also served in the Boer War say there never was any fighting in South Africa to compare with it. A sergeant gunner of the Royal Field Artillery, wounded in the jaw at Tournai, stated that he was on a flank with his gun and fired about sixty rounds in forty minutes. “We wanted support,” he said, “and could not get it. It was about 500 English trying to save a flank attack, against, honestly I should say, 10,000. As fast as you shot them down, more came. But for their aeroplanes they would be useless. I was firing for one hour at from 1,500 yards down to 700 yards.”