‘General Lanzerac is acting under orders from Marshal Joffre, sir,’ Warrington said. ‘He assumed you had received similar orders. The fact is, Marshal Joffre has ordered a general retreat, in the eastern sector as well. It has now definitely been determined that the main German strength is advancing through Belgium, that is, against the French Fifth Army and the BEF.’
Better late than never, Murdoch thought.
‘By God,’ French said. ‘By God. Marshal Joffre’s orders have certainly not reached me as yet. Well, then, gentlemen, we, seem to have no choice. We will have to pull back. Immediately.’ He got up, and the other officers rose with him.
‘You mean retreat?’ Colonel Walters asked. ‘After winning such a clear-cut victory?’
‘We can’t take on the whole German army on our own, colonel. No, the BEF must withdraw. But we will do it as effectively as we can. Colonel Walters, I must ask your regiment to provide the rearguard, as you are mounted. Brigadier Gough, you will support the dragoons with the lancers if need be, but we are attempting to disengage with as little loss as possible.’
Gough nodded.
‘Where are we going, sir?’ Murdoch asked.
French gazed at him for a few moments, then he said, ‘We will fall back on Le Cateau. The rest of the army should have come up by now. We’ll at least have our full force in being.’ He gazed at the dead Germans heaped on the meadow. ‘Damned frogs,’ he remarked. ‘We could have held them here forever. Gentlemen, we have work to do.’
15 – Le Cateau, 1914
The troopers were aghast. ‘Retreat, sir?’ RSM Yeald demanded. ‘But we’ve just won a victory.’
‘Tactically, sergeant-major,’ Murdoch told him. ‘Strategically, we seem to have taken a drubbing. But we’re to guard the rear. Maybe we’ll have a chance to give them another punch on the nose.’
The army began to pull out that night, moving as quietly as possible and leaving their camp fires burning so as to deceive the Germans into supposing they were still holding the line of the canal. It was all very reminiscent of withdrawing from in front of Magersfontein in 1900, only then the Westerns had been amongst the first regiments to leave. Now they were the last. They saluted the Buffs as the infantry marched out, equally confused and disappointed that they should be walking away from the scene of their triumph.
Brigadier-General Gough came down to say goodbye. ‘You’ll be withdrawn just as soon as the army is clear,’ he promised them. ‘If the Germans come again before then...’
‘We’ll kill as many as we can,’ Walters promised.
Gough shook his hand. ‘Good man, Martin. But I have a feeling that after today’s drubbing they may wish to rethink. Good luck, and I hope to see you by tomorrow afternoon.’
He walked his horse over the brow of the hill to where the lancers were waiting, and the brigade filed off. Darkness settled in, and the dragoons were left alone, save for the sappers who were mining the bridges.
The troopers lay amidst the now shot-torn trees, gazing up the slope at the glow which came from beyond the next hill, where the Germans were encamped.
‘Wouldn’t it be a scream if they too had pulled out and just left their camp fires burning,’ remarked Prendergast.
He was always an optimist, Murdoch thought, as he went back up to the top of the shallow hill behind which were their horses. He had a good view of the country in front of them, but found himself instead gazing at the five white crosses which had been erected that very afternoon.
Llewellyn was also there. ‘It really upsets me,’ the padre remarked, ‘to leave them here to be overrun by the enemy. Do you think they’ll desecrate the graves, Murdoch?’
‘They’re supposed to be Christians,’ Murdoch said. ‘Anyway, Dai, we’ll be back. No doubt about that.’
By midnight the sappers were finished their job and the lieutenant commanding sent them off, but he himself remained behind. ‘I’m to fire the fuses,’ he explained.
The night was absolutely quiet, save for an occasional shot from the German sentries. Whether there were actually French or British soldiers out there it was impossible to know, but Murdoch thought it was most unlikely. Dawn would be the decisive moment, but at three o’clock, while the night was still utterly dark, a horseman appeared from the south.
‘Compliments of Brigadier-General Gough,’ he said, ‘and orders to withdraw rapidly.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Peter Ramage commented. ‘I was beginning to feel quite lonely.’
‘Quietly now,’ Murdoch told the men as they filed past him to regain their horses. ‘Not a sound.’
They mounted, and walked away from the canal behind their officers. Colonel Walters led, while Murdoch remained with RSM Yeald, Corporal Reynolds and six men to make sure there were no stragglers.
‘Shall I fire the fuses now, sir?’ asked the sapper lieutenant.
‘Now or never,’ Murdoch told him, and the boy scurried about. Apparently he had linked all the fuses to one central line, and he set it off before scrambling into the saddle.
‘How long?’ Murdoch asked him.
‘About fifteen minutes.’
‘Then we’d better not hang about.’
Half a mile back from the canal the rearguard waited for him, B Troop of Ramage’s squadron, commanded by Ramage himself. These were the men who had been behind him when Murdoch charged the Mullah’s army. They were the most reliable men he knew. But it was still a doleful march. Their way lay through Mons itself, and late as it was, those inhabitants who had not already fled turned out to watch them go, as all the previous evening they had watched the rest of the British army retreating. They were even more confused by the troopers, and they were resentful, too. ‘Cowards,’ someone shouted. ‘You came here to fight, not to run away.’
From behind them came the dull bangs of the exploding charges. ‘All right,’ Murdoch said. ‘The enemy will know we’ve pulled out now. Squadron will canter.’
They hurried over the road, many men half-asleep in their saddles as they had had very little sleep in the last forty-eight hours, watching the darkness fade to grey.
Just after dawn they were alerted by a warning from RSM Yeald, who was bringing up the rear. ‘Uhlans!’
They drew rein and looked back, to see the horsemen on the next rise behind them silhouetted against the sunrise.
‘They must have crossed the moment they heard those explosions,’ Murdoch said. ‘But they can’t have got their wheeled transport across yet. I think we should discourage those fellows from approaching too close, Mr Ramage. A single volley should do it.’
‘I’d rather give them a charge,’ Ramage growled, but ordered his men to dismount and take aim. No sooner had they done so, however, than the Uhlans withdrew out of sight; they had had sufficient experience of British marksmanship at Mons.
Murdoch immediately despatched a rider to brigade with the news that the Germans were across the canal, and prepared to fight a rearguard action at any moment—but the enemy horse kept their distance and the infantry were obviously making slower going. However, it was obvious that von Kluck’s entire force would soon be on their heels, and tired as the men were, Murdoch would not let them halt, even for a midday meal.
That evening they rode into the town of Le Cateau itself, having already passed the forward defences of the BEF, where men were hastily digging in and preparing for another battle. By now all the late units had come up—and they were back on French soil, with Paris itself less than a hundred miles behind them.
Brigadier Gough was waiting for them, to congratulate them on carrying out their task and to assign them to their cantonment area, which was behind the town itself and well sheltered by one of the many low hills which dotted the countryside. ‘You’re off for twenty-four hours, God willing,’ he told them. ‘Indulge in some concentrated rest and recuperation.’
Most of the dragoons were too tired even to pitch their tents, and Martin Walters decided not to force the issue that night. The
y all slept like the dead, and awoke at dawn to the sound of guns; the Germans had arrived.
*
The firing grew in intensity while the dragoons, well out of range, pitched their tents and made their camp as orderly as they could. Once everything was completed, Murdoch mounted Buccaneer and with Ramage rode up the slope to see what was going on. From the line of fire they could see that the Germans were apparently probing at the British lines, but not at this moment without too much determination, although they were keeping up a steady artillery bombardment. The British guns were replying with some vigour; white shell bursts could be seen scattered across the entire rolling green hills north of Le Cateau, but the town itself was suffering too, with several buildings burning, and a doleful stream of late refugees taking the road south. To Paris, Murdoch thought, and wondered what conditions were like in the city, now the war had suddenly arrived on its doorstep.
Later that morning the field marshal, accompanied by General Smith-Dorrien, to whose corps the brigade had been attached, and Brigadier-General Gough, visited them. He congratulated them again on manning the rearguard from Mons, but also, in the privacy of the headquarters tent, imparted some grave information.
‘There is no doubt,’ French said, ‘that we’—he paused to indicate that he really blamed his allies—‘grossly misjudged the German plan of campaign, and that by far the heaviest attack has been launched through Belgium, and now is brewing in front of ourselves and the French 5th Army. Marshal Joffre is transferring men as rapidly as he can from the east to our support, and I believe he is also trying to raise some new forces from the Paris garrison itself; obviously they will fight like the devil for the city. Equally obviously, I have no doubt he is seeking any possible means of launching a counter-attack. But whether such an opportunity will present itself I wouldn’t care to say. What is certain is that we must hold here as long as we can, and at the moment we seem to be doing quite well.’
‘When can we return to the line, sir?’ Peter Ramage asked.
The field marshal smiled. ‘You are a glutton for punishment, captain. Your men need rest. We’ll send for you when we need you. Besides’—now the smile was touched with grimness—‘if we do have to pull out, we’ll need another rearguard.’
Murdoch was actually quite relieved that they were not immediately required; he knew how exhausted both troopers and horses were. Far more exhausted, indeed, than on the march from Le Cateau north, because now they had the additional fatigue of belonging to a defeated army. That lay like a dead weight on their shoulders—especially as they knew that they had not been defeated.
Nevertheless, having rested, they had fallen to work to pitch their tents and dig their latrines with some broad humour. ‘Never even had a crap in the last lot,’ grumbled Corporal Matheson. ‘Left it all bright and clean for the Jerries.’
‘I suspect we’ll be around here a while longer,’ Murdoch told him. He was more concerned about the horses, who had suffered terribly in their two forced marches in four days. A good number needed re-shoeing, and the farriers were hard at work.
All day the firing to their north grew in intensity as the German attacks grew heavier, but so far without making any great impression. It was a very odd feeling, to be enjoying a warm August afternoon, with the men lounging about in their shirt sleeves, and some of the younger troopers even engaging in a game of soccer, while a major battle was raging only a few miles away. And it was a major battle.
‘Do you realise, sir,’ Ramage told Murdoch, ‘that now that the whole of the BEF is up, Sir John French commands a hundred thousand British soldiers?’
‘I did realise that, Peter. Why?’
‘Well, sir, he is engaged with probably twice that number of Germans. That must make this the biggest battle the British army has engaged in since Waterloo. Or indeed, in all history.’
‘By Jove,’ Murdoch said. ‘But you’re right. Wellington only had about seventy thousand at Waterloo.’
‘And of those less than half were British,’ Ramage pointed out.
Something to write home about Murdoch decided, and that afternoon got down to a letter to Lee, although with the situation so likely to change for the worse at any moment, he didn’t really know what to say. He had put away his pen and was having a cup of tea when there was a toot-toot of a car horn, and he looked up to see a Paris taxi-cab, of all things, bouncing across the field and stopping to allow Harry Caspar to get down.
‘Harry!’ He clasped his brother-in-law’s hand. ‘How the devil did you get here? I mean, why? I was on my way to see you and have that dinner at Maxim’s.’
‘Glad you can joke about it,’ Harry said. ‘Can you lend me ten quid? I didn’t realise how expensive this ride would be.’
Murdoch only had five, so they gave that to the taxi-driver, together with a spare set of brass buttons Reynolds had managed to find, and the man departed, shaking his head and muttering about les Americaines.
‘Now tell me,’ Harry said. ‘Is the situation as grim as it looks on the map, and from what everyone is saying?’ He glanced at the hill to the north. ‘And from what it sounds like over there?’
‘It’s grim,’ Murdoch agreed. ‘We can kill the bastards by the score, by the thousand, apparently, but they just keep on coming.’
‘But you’re making a stand of it here?’
‘That’s right.’
‘This I have to see.’
‘I’m not sure that you should,’ Murdoch said. ‘It’s a little rough up there. And what Lee would say...’
‘Lee isn’t going to know until it’s over,’ Harry pointed out. ‘Come now, who’s going to write you up so you get another medal?’
‘We’re all finished with medals for the time being,’ Murdoch told him. ‘We’re the reserve.’
*
But he took Harry up to one of the forward positions, to look at the infantry crouching behind hedgerows and on reverse slopes, and to watch too, the German assaults on one or two advanced posts; they could even hear the shouts of the men engaged.
‘Hell’s bells,’ Harry commented. ‘Reminds me of Manchuria. The Russians slaughtered the Japanese just like that, but guess what? The Japanese won in the end.’
‘Whose side are you on?’ Murdoch asked.
The German attacks grew in intensity the next day; there could be no doubt they intended to take Le Cateau, because the town had grown up around one of the most vital cross-roads in northern France, the southern arm of which led directly into Paris. Now, even in reserve, life became very grim, as stray shells came over the hilltops to burst amidst the cantonments, scattering shrapnel in every direction, wounding men and lacerating horses, some of them so badly they had to be immediately destroyed, while keeping the rest under control was a task occupying half a squadron.
‘Gee whiz,’ Harry commented. ‘I don’t remember anything like this in Manchuria.’
The screaming of the dying horses was really pitiful.
‘But then,’ he added, ‘the Japanese didn’t go in for horses, much. Your people going to be able to take this?’
‘Just as long as they have to,’ Murdoch said. But there was no answer to being outflanked. General Smith-Dorrien returned to visit them that afternoon, accompanied as usual by Gough. ‘The French are being pushed back,’ he said. ‘Oh, they’re fighting magnificently; they know there’s only Paris behind them. But there’s not a lot they can do. They’re taking the brunt of the attack, you see, simply because they aren’t as trained to rifle fire as our chaps, and so the Germans regard them as a softer touch. Either way, we can’t hold out here much longer. It is Sir John’s intention to pull back this evening. This corps will cover the initial stages of the retreat, but when my infantry fall back tomorrow morning, I’m afraid the cavalry brigade will have to cover, as usual. Your prime duty will be to provide support for the regiment of horse artillery which is also going to remain as long as possible to hold the crossroads and try to keep the Germans from moving up too qui
ckly. I know you will handle this responsibility as well as you covered the retreat from Mons. Good luck, and good hunting.’
Brigadier Gough gave a grim smile. ‘It’s nice to be wanted. You’ll prepare to take your positions tonight.’
‘At last,’ Ramage said.
He represented the general viewpoint. The regiment was well rested, and the men were getting fed up at being strafed without even seeing their enemy. That night they moved forward, on foot, although the horses were led behind; the reason they were being given the rearguard was because they could retire more quickly than foot soldiers.
For over a mile they passed other British units pulling out, marching by on the trampled roads, and exchanging quips and banter. Many of the infantry were bandaged, but still carrying arms and anxious to resume the fight at the earliest possible moment. ‘Just hold the bastards until we get dug in,’ they called to the dragoons. ‘We’ll be ready for you. And them.’
One of Gough’s staff officers was waiting for them about a mile south of the town, with orders to deploy to their right. Here they found several batteries of horse artillery already in position in a ploughed field, but what the rest of the army was doing it was impossible to say. The firing had died down with the darkness, and although Le Cateau burned fiercely and threw up an immense glow, beyond the range of the flames it was intensely dark, broken only by the occasional star shell sent up by the Germans.
‘I gather we have to stay here for a while,’ remarked Colonel Anstruther, who was commanding the batteries. ‘I would let your men have a nap if they can, Walters.’
This was difficult, as throughout the night infantry filed by, stumbling over sleeping bodies, cursing and swearing.
With the first light General Smith-Dorrien appeared. ‘We need twelve hours,’ he said. ‘You’ll also bring those guns with you when you come, Anstruther.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the gunner replied.
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