sistible enemy which is known in history as the
Retreat from Mons.

Of that fearful time, I have lost track of dates. I do not want to
remember them. All I recollect is that, under a blazing August sun--our
mouths caked, our tongues parched--day after day we dragged ourselves
along, always fighting rear-guard actions, our feet bleeding, our backs
breaking, our hearts sore. Our unmounted officers limped amongst us, blood
oozing through their spats. With a semblance of cheeriness they told us
that we must retreat because the Russians were on their way to Berlin and
we must keep the Germans moving in the opposite direction. When we got a
few minutes' respite there would be an issue of "gunfire"--the
traditional British army term for tea served out to men in action. It was
of a nondescript flavour, commingling the negative qualities of
"bully-beef stew" and the very positive taste of kerosene oil, the cooks'
hurricane lamps being stored in the camp-kettles during each of our
retirements. Invariably--and I mean in twenty instances--the shells would
begin to drop amongst us before we could finish our portions, eating,
though we did, with ravenous haste; and when it was not artillery fire
that stopped our feeding it would be a charge of Uhlans, compelling us to
drop half-emptied mess-tins and seize rifles.

We had no artillery to speak of, and very few airplanes. If we had had
more of the latter, there might have been another story. The Germans
seemed to know every move we made, but we were blind. We dropped into a
field and killed a bullock, skinned it and were cooking it. There came the
roar of a powerful engine; a German plane circled over us and went sailing
back, signalling our position. A few minutes later shrapnel fell among us
and we went on, some of the men in ambulances. Those that were killed we
hurriedly buried, but there was not time even to put improvised wooden
crosses at their heads.

One of our slightly wounded, in the broad accents of lowland Scotch,
cursed the Germans--not for wounding him, but for knocking over his
canteen of tea. A hail of flying shrapnel struck down a cook; the men of
his section cursed in chorus for the misfortune which meant that hunger
would be added to their other miseries.

Not once alone did we spring up from eating to fight the Uhlans with rifle
fire and bayonet. It happened a dozen times. Whenever the Uhlans came, we
fought them off, but always we had to retreat in the end, for