Contemptible | Page 6

followed by Sir Archibald Murray and a few
members of the General Staff, passed by in motors.
Amongst the hundred-and-one pictures that the Subaltern will always
carry in his mind of the opening stages of the campaign, this one stands
out most vividly. The sun was shining, but it was still cool. On the right
of the road was a thick forest of young firs; on the left, a row of
essentially suburban villas were being built, curiously out of place in
that agricultural district. The men were sitting on the banks of the road,
or clustered round the "Cookers," drawing their breakfast rations of
bread and cold bacon. Then the Major came back. There was an
expression on his face that showed he was well aware of the dramatic
part he was about to play. Imagine him standing by the wayside,
surrounded by his Officers, two Sergeant-Majors, and some half-dozen
senior Sergeants, all with pencils ready poised to write his orders in
their Field Service Note-books. There was a pause of several seconds.
The Major seemed to be at a loss quite how to begin. "There's a lot that
I needn't mention, but this is what concerns this Company," he said
with a jerk. "When we reach" (here he mentioned a name which the
Subaltern has long since forgotten) "we have to deploy to the left, and
search the village of Harmigné to drive the enemy from it, and take up
a position...."
It was a blow. Officers were frowning over their note-books as if afraid
they had not heard correctly. The enemy here, in the western corner of
Belgium? The Major's orders petered out. They saluted, and returned to
their platoons, feeling puzzled and a little shaken.
The Subaltern had come to this campaign with such fresh hopes of
victory. This was not to have been a repetition of '70! France would not
have gone to war unless she had been strong and ready. Inspired with
the spirit of the First Republic, the French Armies, they had told

themselves, would surge forward in a wave of victory and beat
successfully against the crumbling sands of the Kaiser's military
monarchy--Victory, drenching Germany with the blood of her sons, and
adding a lustre to the Sun of Peace that should never be dimmed by the
black clouds of Militarism! And all this was not to be? He had never
even heard that Liège had fallen, let alone Brussels, and here were the
Germans apparently right round the Allied flank. It was astounding,
irritating. In a vague way he felt deceived and staggered. It was a
disillusionment! If the Germans were across the Sambre, the French
could scarcely launch their victorious attack on the Rhine.
The excitement dispelled his fatigue, but the men were openly
incredulous. "The ruddy 'Oolans 'ere a'ready! They're only tellin' us that,
to make us march!"
The first fight! How would it turn out? How would the men shape?
Could the ammunition supply be depended upon? But above all, what
would he be like? Would he feel afraid? If so, would he be able to hide
it? Would his men follow him well? Perhaps he might be wounded
(parts of him shrank from the thought), or killed. No, somehow he felt
it was impossible that he would be killed. These and a thousand more
such questions flashed through his brain as the march continued
northwards.
The hourly halts were decreased from ten to about three minutes. The
excitement of the future dissolved the accumulating fatigue of the three
days. The very weight of his sword and haversack was forgotten.
It was Sunday morning. The bells of the village churches were ringing,
and the women and children, decked in their Sunday best, were going
calmly to church, just as if the greatest battle that, up to then, history
had ever seen were not about to be fought around their very
homesteads.
A waterworks was passed, and at last the crossroads were reached.
There was a wait while the Battalion in front of them deployed.
Officers were loading their revolvers, the men charging their magazines.
One Company left as advanced guard, and very soon the Battalion was

on its way to its appointed sector of the battlefield.
They threw aside a hastily improvised barricade of ploughshares, and
hurried on to the little village which was to be their especial care in the
impending battle, known rather inadequately as "Mons."

CHAPTER IV
MONS
Then came the village of Harmigné--just a few cottages on either side
of the road, and soon the companies debouched from the village to take
up the positions allotted to them.
In war it is well known that he who sees most is likely to take least
away. It was not the soldier's duty to gaze about him