Mr. Standfast - John Buchan (autobiographies to read TXT) 📗

“If they can’t retake that ground, we’re fairly carted,” I said.

“We are. Therefore they must retake it.”

“I must get on to Mitchinson.” But as I spoke I realized the futility of a telephone message to a man who was pretty hard up against it himself. Only an urgent appeal could effect anything⁠ ⁠… I must go myself⁠ ⁠… No, that was impossible. I must send Lefroy⁠ ⁠… But he couldn’t be spared. And all my staff officers were up to their necks in the battle. Besides, none of them knew the position as I knew it⁠ ⁠… And how to get there? It was a long way round by the bridge at Loisy.

Suddenly I was aware of Wake’s voice. “You had better send me,” he was saying. “There’s only one way⁠—to swim the river a little lower down.”

“That’s too damnably dangerous. I won’t send any man to certain death.”

“But I volunteer,” he said. “That, I believe, is always allowed in war.”

“But you’ll be killed before you can cross.”

“Send a man with me to watch. If I get over, you may be sure I’ll get to General Mitchinson. If not, send somebody else by Loisy. There’s desperate need for hurry, and you see yourself it’s the only way.”

The time was past for argument. I scribbled a line to Mitchinson as his credentials. No more was needed, for Wake knew the position as well as I did. I sent an orderly to accompany him to his starting-place on the bank.

“Goodbye,” he said, as we shook hands. “You’ll see, I’ll come back all right.” His face, I remember, looked singularly happy. Five minutes later the Boche guns opened for the final attack.

I believe I kept a cool head; at least so Lefroy and the others reported. They said I went about all afternoon grinning as if I liked it, and that I never raised my voice once. (It’s rather a fault of mine that I bellow in a scrap.) But I know I was feeling anything but calm, for the problem was ghastly. It all depended on Wake and Mitchinson. The flanking fire was so bad that I had to give up the left of the forward zone, which caught it fairly, and retire the men there to the battle-zone. The latter was better protected, for between it and the river was a small wood and the bank rose into a bluff which sloped inwards towards us. This withdrawal meant a switch, and a switch isn’t a pretty thing when it has to be improvised in the middle of a battle.

The Boche had counted on that flanking fire. His plan was to break our two wings⁠—the old Boche plan which crops up in every fight. He left our centre at first pretty well alone, and thrust along the river bank and to the wood of La Bruyere, where we linked up with the division on our right. Lefroy was in the first area, and Masterton in the second, and for three hours it was as desperate a business as I have ever faced⁠ ⁠… The improvised switch went, and more and more of the forward zone disappeared. It was a hot, clear spring afternoon, and in the open fighting the enemy came on like troops at manoeuvres. On the left they got into the battle-zone, and I can see yet Lefroy’s great figure leading a counterattack in person, his face all puddled with blood from a scalp wound⁠ ⁠…

I would have given my soul to be in two places at once, but I had to risk our left and keep close to Masterton, who needed me most. The wood of La Bruyere was the maddest sight. Again and again the Boche was almost through it. You never knew where he was, and most of the fighting there was duels between machine-gun parties. Some of the enemy got round behind us, and only a fine performance of a company of Cheshires saved a complete breakthrough.

As for Lefroy, I don’t know how he stuck it out, and he doesn’t know himself, for he was galled all the time by that accursed flanking fire. I got a note about half past four saying that Wake had crossed the river, but it was some weary hours after that before the fire slackened. I tore back and forward between my wings, and every time I went north I expected to find that Lefroy had broken. But by some miracle he held. The Boches were in his battle-zone time and again, but he always flung them out. I have a recollection of Blenkiron, stark mad, encouraging his Americans with strange tongues. Once as I passed him I saw that he had his left arm tied up. His blackened face grinned at me. “This bit of landscape’s mighty unsafe for democracy,” he croaked. “For the love of Mike get your guns on to those devils across the river. They’re plaguing my boys too bad.”

It was about seven o’clock, I think, when the flanking fire slacked off, but it was not because of our divisional guns. There was a short and very furious burst of artillery fire on the north bank, and I knew it was British. Then things began to happen. One of our planes⁠—they had been marvels all day, swinging down like hawks for machine-gun bouts with the Boche infantry⁠—reported that Mitchinson was attacking hard and getting on well. That eased my mind, and I started off for Masterton, who was in greater straits than ever, for the enemy seemed to be weakening on the river bank and putting his main strength in against our right⁠ ⁠… But my G.S.O.2 stopped me on the road. “Wake,” he said. “He wants to see you.”

“Not now,” I cried.

“He can’t live many minutes.”

I turned and followed him to the ruinous cowshed which was my divisional headquarters. Wake, as I heard later, had swum the river opposite to Mitchinson’s right, and reached the other shore safely, though the current was whipped with bullets. But he had scarcely