Part 6 (1/2)
At last they crossed the bridge. Sappers had been at work on it for some time, and the preparations to blow it up after they had pa.s.sed were almost complete. The first sight of interest was the railway station, which was filled with what appeared to the Subaltern to be double-decked trains. Evidently a French army had detrained here.
The Column swung suddenly round a corner and they were almost staggered with the sight of the cathedral towering above them. To an eye used exclusively to the sight of the dour British edifice, there is something very fascinating about a foreign cathedral such as this. There is something more daring about the style of architecture, something more flamboyant, and yet more solid. The cathedral seemed vaguely indicative of the past grandeur of the Catholic Church. Bathed in the early morning sunlight it appeared to exult over the mean smallness of the houses that cl.u.s.tered at its feet.
Beyond the cathedral there is nothing at all extraordinary about Meaux.
Many months afterwards one of his nurses told him in hospital that she had spent a long time in that very street. She had been with her father, the erstwhile Colonel of a line regiment, and a specialist in strategy, who for the pure love of the thing had laboriously gained permission to stay at Meaux and visit the famous battlefields of the Marne. She said they had been in the very room where General Joffre met Field-Marshal French, and had bought the very teapot in which their tea was brewed.
She rather wondered how many more of these ”very” teapots had been sold at fancy prices!
If Von Kluck made a forward thrust at Paris before his sidelong movement to the south-east, it was undoubtedly made at Meaux, which was the scene of some terrific combats.
Emerging from the town, the Column branched off in a south-easterly direction, and ascended the sides of a very steep plateau. Having reached the flat ground at the top, a midday halt was made in the pleasant grounds of yet another chateau.
This fresh move was discussed a great deal as the men lay at full length in the shade of the trees. Evidently there was to be no siege of Paris.
They were marching directly away from Paris. What did it mean? They would get to Ma.r.s.eilles in a fortnight at this rate, and then the only thing to do would be to wire for the Fleet, and be taken safely home to their mammas!
The march went on through the stifling heat of the afternoon, and the Subaltern knew that he, and most of the men as well, were feeling about as bad as it is possible to feel without fainting. They marched through a very dense wood, and then out once more into the open. Even the longest day has its ending, and at last they found themselves halted in the usual lines of companies in the usual stubble field. A Taube flew overhead and all sorts of fire were concentrated on it.
It was already sunset. After the edge, as it were, had been taken off his exhaustion, the Subaltern extracted the before-mentioned piece of soap, and having, as usual, sc.r.a.ped it ready for action, washed his feet in a little stream. He did it under the impression that marching for that day was over. It is very comfortable to wash your hot, tired feet in a cool stream provided there is no necessity to put your boots on again. If something happens that forces you to do this, you are in for a hard and painful job. You would not believe it possible for feet to swell like yours have swelled. They do not seem like your own feet at all. They have expanded past recognition, and their tenderness surpa.s.ses thought.
The Subaltern was sitting by the stream edge gazing at the flush of golden light in the west, when he was awakened by the Major.
”Well, young feller, I've been looking everywhere for you. You've got to take your Platoon out to this village, Villiers, and occupy it till further orders--a sort of outpost position--you will be too far from the main body to establish touch; you have really just to block the roads, and if you are rushed, retire here the best way you can.”
Having made sure of the position on the map, and asked for a couple of cyclists to accompany him, the Subaltern began to put on his boots. But they would not go on. It was like trying to get a baby's boots on to a giant's feet, and the more he tugged the more it hurt. The precious moments of daylight would soon be gone, and in the dark it would be ten times more difficult to find the village and block the roads. There was nothing for it but to cut the boots, so, unwrapping a fresh Gillette blade, he made a large V-shaped gash in the top part of each. It was annoying to have to spoil good boots, and in addition his feet would get wet far sooner than hitherto.
All superfluous articles of weight had long since been thrown away, and consequently he had nothing except matches with which to read his map in the dark and windy night. The difficulty was increased by the fact that the way lay across small tracks which were almost impossible to distinguish, but eventually, more by luck than judgment, he brought his men into a village. Was it Villiers? It took him some time to find out.
There were plenty of people in the village street, but the Subaltern could not get coherent speech out of any one of them. Fear makes an uneducated Englishman suspicious, quickwitted and surly. It drives the French peasant absolutely mad. That village street seemed to have less sense, less fort.i.tude, less coolness than a duck-run invaded by a terrier. The Subaltern caught a man by the arm and pushed him into a doorway.
”Qu'est-ce que c'est, le nom de cette village?” he said, with as much insistence and coolness as he could muster. The poor fellow broke into a tirade in which his desire to cut German throats, his peculiarly unfortunate circ.u.mstances, and his wish to get away literally tripped over each other.
”Qu'est-ce que c'est, le nom de cette village?” Followed a flood of words apparently about the village. A third time. ”Qu'est-ce que c'est, le nom de cette village?” At last: ”Ah, M'sieur, Villiers,” with an air of surprise, as if he thought the Subaltern had known all the time, and had asked merely to start a polite conversation.
He let the man go, and turned his attention to the village street, which presented a terrible spectacle of panic. It was obviously unwise to allow this mob to leave the village, as they seemed to wish, and disperse, shouting and shrieking, over the countryside. Very possibly there were spies amongst them, who would bring the enemy about his ears in half an hour. More likely still, the whole excited crowd would wander straight into the arms of the Germans, and be treated with the well-known restraint of Huns towards the unprotected. So he hurriedly placed guards at the chief outlets of the village, with orders, in addition to the usual duties towards the enemy, to prevent the French from leaving it.
He then returned and tried to pacify the inhabitants. But his kind, soothing words in execrable French did not succeed in dispelling the panic and fear. He had to draw his sword (for the purpose of intimidation only) and literally to thrust them into houses. And he had to get three men with fixed bayonets to help him. He did his best to make it generally understood that any one who came out of his house and made a noise would be summarily disposed of. Any sounds of confusion would inevitably have drawn the fatal attentions of the enemy.
He then made a hurried survey of the roads leading out of the village, placed sentry groups at various places of advantage, and established the picket in the centre of the village in a large barn. This done, he sent the cyclist orderly to try and get into touch with the village on the right, which, he had been told, was to be occupied by a platoon from another regiment. The cyclist returned to report that the village was deserted by the French, and that there was no sign of the Blanks.h.i.+res.
Evidently the O.C. Platoon had not been so fortunate in finding his way in the dark.
Dawn broke, and the expected order to retire did not come. The men slept on, intent on s.n.a.t.c.hing as many moments of precious sleep as possible.
Still no orders came. At about eight o'clock the Subaltern finally awoke, and went the rounds of his groups. There was nothing to report, all had been quiet.
When he got back he found that the men had collected quite a good number of eggs from abandoned farmyards, had lighted a fire, and were busy making a sort of stew out of bully beef and swedes, and (he strongly suspected) a stolen chicken. As no orders came still, when he had finished his breakfast, he lay down in the shade of an apple tree and continued his sleep. He woke up later, at about midday, and ate the remainder of his rations, and then fell asleep once more.
He was awakened by the Major. It was about four o'clock, and the remainder of the Brigade was already on the move. The posts guarding the roads were hastily drawn in, and his Platoon took its place in the Company as the Battalion marched by.