The charge at Audregnies briefly stemmed the German advance and closed the door on the Battle of Mons. As men rejoined their troops, so the Regiment was divided by Mullens into two squadrons, to act in conjunction with the 1st Cavalry Brigade on the right flank of General Smith-Dorrien’s Army.
During the night of August 24th, the Dragoons withdrew with survivors of the 5th Division in the direction of St Waast and Bavai, before continuing along the old Roman road, past the Forest of Mormal, in the direction of Le Cateau. By the morning of the 25th, while the infantry retreated, the Regiment zig-zagged across the BEF’s line of retirement, to Le Cateau on the 26th, to Rancourt and St Quentin on the 27th and on to Noyon and Compiègne on August 30th.
Ben
August 25th – September 6th 1914
There was complete confusion in the retreat from Mons, for no sooner had the BEF been forced to pull back than the roads became clogged with entire families on the move, abandoning their homes in a futile flight from the advancing Germans. Horses, trucks, handcarts, and carriages poured onto every highway, accompanied by the old and the young, all carrying anything they could manage, and all moving at walking pace. It was a terrible sight, a morass of jumbled, doubtless treasured belongings piled high onto people, who, almost without exception, looked utterly forlorn. What happened when they were overtaken by the Germans, heaven only knows, for these people who had cheered and shouted ‘Vivent les Anglais!’ on our march up to the front, were now left to fend for themselves. We felt sorry for them, we had let them down, but there was nothing we could do. It was simply a question of self-preservation.
Our job was to protect our own men by acting as a fast-moving cover across the line of retreat, holding out to the last possible moment to let the infantry get away. The Squadron became involved in a series of brief actions, firing on distant German infantry, or, just as likely, shooting in a given direction:
‘Dismount! Three rounds rapid! Cease fire, remount!’
On other occasions, we would line up behind a hedgerow and wait for ten, twenty perhaps thirty minutes, before pushing on. I’m not sure if our officers had a clue where we were, I don’t even know if they had any maps, but we implicitly trusted that our officers’ judgements were sound. I well remember spending most of one day in a wood, only to ride over a crossroads we had passed some five hours earlier. We had ridden in one enormous circle.
After Audregnies, we retreated south through village after village, mostly small grubby affairs, surrounded by coal mines and slag heaps, a feature of the region. It was hot, dry and dusty, and very quickly the horses began to look exhausted and dishevelled. Where we could, we rode along the road’s soft, unmetalled edges, for the paving stones were very hard on their legs, but our horses soon began to drop their heads and wouldn’t shake themselves like they normally did. Many were so tired, they fell asleep standing up, their legs buckling. As they stumbled forward, striving to stay upright, they lost their balance completely, falling forward and taking the skin off their knees.
To ease the horses’ burden, excess kit was dumped. Shirts, spare socks and other laundry were all thrown away along with our greatcoats. It helped, but the horses really needed a good rest and this was an impossibility. The best we could do for them was to halt, dismount and lead on, a short-lived order to walk that usually lasted for no more than a mile or so. As a result, the horses’ shoe nails wore down at a terrific rate, each lasting little more than a week or ten days, before the chink, chink sound of a loose shoe meant falling back to find the farrier. It was sad to see our horses, so coveted and closeted at Tidworth, go unkempt. Saddles, once removed after every ride, now remained on for several days and nights with only the girths being slackened. The horses became very sore, their backs raw from over-riding, although they tended to suffer less than the French horses, which were simply ridden into the ground. The French cavalry never walked anywhere, and when they finally halted to give their horses a breather, it was not unknown for part of the horse’s back to come away with the saddle. One horse went mad, banging its head against a wall, before it was finally put out of its misery. It was appalling to see. For our part, we did the best we could, bandaging our horses’ grazed knees with rags or bits of puttee, but the majority could consider themselves lucky if they got a rub down with a bit of straw, or a pat on the back to bring back the circulation.
By far the greatest strain for cavalrymen, worse than any physical discomfort or even hunger, was the gut-wrenching fatigue. Pain could be endured, food scrounged, but the desire for rest was never-ending. The motion of riding was enough to send a man to sleep. I fell off my horse more than once, and watched others do the same, slowly slumping forward, grabbing for their horse’s neck, in a dazed, barely conscious way. At any halt, men fell asleep instantaneously, and required a good shake, or the ‘gentle’ prod of a sergeant’s boot, to wake again. They struggled to their feet, hollow-eyed and giddy with fatigue, hauling themselves back on their horses. History judged the Retreat heroic, but from where I was sitting, it was a shambles.
I never thought we would lose, but I did wonder just how we were ever going to get out of the mess we were in. The reservists in particular found the going unbearable. Many had been called up after five years on the reserve and had not marched in all that time. Their feet simply weren’t up to the stone-set roads, in stiff, unbroken boots. Blood oozed through shoe soles, or from bits of rag tied round blistered feet. Boots, jackets, caps, everything was dumped, except rifles and ammunition. The roadsides became strewn with bits and bobs of every description as stragglers sought desperately to stay in touch with their regiments. In grim determination, they hobbled along in ones or twos, often hanging on to our stirrup leathers to keep going. Some began to hallucinate. It was heart-rending. To help, an officer would carry another rank’s kit, a stronger man, two rifles or another’s pack, while we commonly transported an infantryman's rifle a couple of miles up the road, leaning it against a tree for him to collect.
The retreat continued to Le Cateau, through the Mormal Forest to St Quentin, Guiscard, Noyon, and then onwards still. At the time, of course, these places meant nothing to me; one or two men did keep diaries, but it is only since the war that I learnt where we were. To me, there were only villages on fire, or not on fire, towns that were filled with panicky civilians, or abandoned to the Germans. The forests, too, were remembered only for the relief they gave from the sapping sun, cocooning us briefly from the war.
During this time, concealment from the enemy was as important as engagement. The wire that in peacetime made our caps fiat and rigid was dispensed with, making the caps’ edges soft. Without the wire the caps lost their mass uniformity which could otherwise draw the attention of spotterplanes. It was not long either before our cap badges which reflected the sun were removed too, replaced much later by a blue cloth alternative.
For the first few days, the Regiment remained scattered, and only gradually got back together. What was left of the Regiment continued to respond to emergencies, frequently breaking up advance guards of German cavalry, too close on our heels for comfort. As a consequence, we were in a constant state of readiness, although we rarely went into action. As far as my Squadron was concerned, I do not recall any casualties during the Retreat. As a result, morale remained high, while rumours and counter-rumours ran through the ranks about where we were headed and when we might make a stand.
Food came from Army Service Corps ration dumps, which were just boxes of biscuits, tins of bully beef, and com for the horses, stacked at the side of the road. Very occasionally, a chalk notice marked the food up for a particular Regiment, but more often than not we just helped ourselves, stuffing what we could into every pocket, and filling up a couple of nosebags of corn. If we were fortunate, and the drivers of the Squadron and Regimental General Service wagons were with us, then they picked up what they could.
Hunger and thirst sapped everyone’s energy and, as there was no water at the dumps, the Regiment was le
ft to fend for itself. Clean water was of great importance to a Regiment on the move, and whenever possible, water bottles were kept topped up. On one occasion, the Squadron turned into a stream and the horses, tired and thirsty, went to drink but we were told to ‘Ride on’, so on we went. I’ve no idea where we were, but things were quiet. The water was less than a foot deep, clear and inviting, and it seemed such a waste. Why we couldn’t have halted for a few minutes, even for the horses’ sake, I will never know. Several troopers did try to get water into their enamelled bottles, quickly removing the cork and slinging them over into the stream. But most bottles were already too light, and despite tipping and dipping them in the water, most failed to collect much before reaching the other side.
The compensations of summer were the grapevines, plundered for our horses’ buckets, and the apples and pears scrumped from the trees which lined the roads or filled private gardens and orchards. We were warned early on that anyone caught stealing from private property could be shot and all Regiments had taken their own ‘Red Caps’, or Military Police, to France, a Provo Sergeant and a couple of Provo Corporals who enforced military law. Whether fruit was technically considered ‘loot’, I never knew, but there was no sense in leaving anything to feed the Germans.
More questionable was our scrounging round empty houses, many abandoned at such speed that a ‘Marie Celeste’ scene of normality remained, with cutlery on the table and, on one memorable occasion, food still in the oven. On many farms we found a mess, with abandoned animals roaming around, some in a bad state. On one farm, we came across sheds containing several dozen cows all blowing their heads off, desperate to be milked. In their anxiety to clear out, the owners had loaded up their carts and left the animals locked up and unmilked. We were told to go and unchain them and let them out into a field, otherwise they would starve. They were in obvious pain as they came into the yard, their swinging bags so full that milk was actually squirting out.
To scratch a living off the land, we butchered smaller animals, often chasing prey around a farmyard, to general humour. ‘Look at that blinkin’ goose,’ I said, at one farm where we had briefly halted. ‘Drive him round the back of the bam, quick.’ Nipping round the corner, I drew my sword and as the bird came shooting round, gave it such an enthusiastic swipe that I chopped its head off in one movement, blood spraying everywhere. I found some string, tied its wings and feet together and hooked it over my sword. Later that day, General de Lisle himself passed the Regiment and with a wry smile said to me, ‘I see you have got your supper with you, lad’.
Scrumping apples, eating turnips, stealing chickens; baking odd potatoes in the embers of a fire; chewing a smoked hock of bacon whilst on the move, eating a crust of bread found by the roadside: every opportunity was taken to get food.
Relieving myself inside the edge of a small copse one day, I looked round just in time to see a rabbit shoot down a hole. Most animals which live underground dig a bolt hole as well as an entrance, and a rabbit, particularly a rabbit, won’t wait around; if someone is at the front door, it’s out the back and gone. Fortunately, the man detailed with me had stood near the bolt hole. ‘There’s a rabbit in there, shove the butt of your rifle at the front of the bolt hole,’ I said. I passed him a stick, which he thrust down the hole while I at the other end stuck my arm down and grabbed the rabbit’s hind legs. Dragging it out, I broke its neck, took my Jack-knife and gutted it. I tied it to my saddle, then rode on to catch the Squadron up, farther down the road.
If the Regiment was on the move, permission from a sergeant or corporal had to be sought to fall out in answer to any call of nature. We were riding from dawn to dusk, and the risk of being caught by the Germans quite literally with our trousers down was enough to warrant another man being detailed to act as look-out. While he held the horse, you tried to make yourself a little less conspicuous behind a tree or a hedge. Where there was none, it was down with your breeches and that was that.
To help share the workload, the Regiment ran a system of rotating duties with A, B or C Squadron being assigned as ‘Duty Squadron’ for up to four days at a time, each Troop taking a full 24 hours as ‘Duty Troop’. This Duty Troop would be first to react in an emergency, the Duty Squadron supporting the Troop should a bigger threat materialise. On the move, day or night, the ‘Duty Troop’ rode at the front of the Regiment where most problems were likely to occur, providing the advance guard of scouts up to a mile ahead of the Regiment. At night, if the Regiment was resting, the Troop would be expected to provide outposts. Fighting died down at night. The Germans could ill afford to out-run their supplies and halted while they were brought up, but still there was no chance to relax. The stress was immense. On those occasions when the Regiment camped, there were hours of work for those on outpost duty. Standing on guard, two on, four off, no one could be sure they would not fall asleep as they took watch from the edge of a wood, or at a crossroads, leaning against a wall, or the side of a ditch. Being caught asleep on duty was a shooting crime, so the battle to stay awake was all-consuming, numbing one’s faculties.
One night, while I was on duty, an officer tried to take my rifle from me, a trick to test whether a trooper was asleep or not; I passed not because I was awake, for I was dam near asleep, but because I had learnt from other old sweats to tie the rifle strap to my wrist. As I felt the first tug, I shuddered awake as the officer – my assailant – stood right beside me. I was relieved by our sergeant that time, but there were others during the war who were court martialled under similar circumstances, caught asleep without their rifles attached to their wrists.
It was very easy, when on Duty Troop, to become temporarily separated from the Regiment. Dawn came early and brought new alarms to which we had to respond, breaking camp at 3, 4 or 5am, to return to the roads. The 4th Troop was on outpost when such a thick fog set in that by daybreak, when we moved off, it was impossible to see even across the road, so Swallow ordered the Troop to ride one behind the other, keeping close to the roadside hedges. Suddenly, ‘Qui va là?’ (‘who goes there?’), erupted out of the fog, then bang, bang, bang. Three shots fizzed down the centre of the road, then there were more anxious shouts. Barely fifty yards ahead was a twitchy French outpost and, taking no chances, they had opened fire. Swallow immediately shouted out, and as we rode forward there appeared a detachment of French Dragoons, complete with plume helmets and brass breastplates. They too were of the 4th, and as lost as we were, so linking up, we rode with these men for the rest of the day until we rejoined our Regiment.
Editor
As an indication of the pressure the Dragoons were under, it is interesting to note the following daily reports, taken from the regimental diary for the first week in September 1914:
1.9.14 Received orders to be ready to march at 4.30am.
2.9.14 Orders received at 2am to turn out as quickly as possible.
3.9.14 Marched at 4.20am
5.9.14 Ditto
6.9.14 Marched 5am
This is not exceptional. Similar requirements were made of many cavalry regiments during the Retreat. It is worth noting, however, that after August 24th until the Germans’ abrupt about-turn on the Marne on September 6th, the 4th Dragoons suffered only two casualties, both wounded. This gives some indication of the style of hit-and-run skirmishing undertaken by the Regiment during that time.
Ben
In the event of the Regiment being called into action, the theory was that the most recent ‘Duty Troop’ would be the last to go. We were having a short midday break when news came through that three German cavalrymen, probably scouts, had been seen outside a village we had only just passed through. As 4th Troop was on duty we were ordered to round them up. We split up into two groups to push round both sides of the village. However, our group, finding no sign of the enemies’ presence, headed back by way of a track that ran up the side of a small wood ... a blue flash followed by a tremendous, almost simultaneous bang, bang, bang, bang and the road a hundred yards ahead spa
ttered into a cloud of dust. Not only had the three Germans broken through, but apparently half a battery of light artillery had followed suit. We’d ridden right across their line of vision and they’d opened up with shrapnel. We were ordered to gallop past the point where the shells had exploded and got out of sight on the far side of the wood, and no further rounds were sent over. The German gunners had narrowly over-set their fuses so that the shells burst in the air directly above us, shooting forward a curtain of metal. Had those shells burst behind us, they would have wiped out the entire Troop.
On another occasion, the Squadron was riding in open country. It was a beautiful day and we were in open order, each man riding ten yards from the next man. We’d been ordered through scrubland with drawn swords to ensure that the area was clear of Germans, but as none were there, the Squadron halted, closed in, and formed up in troop order while we awaited instructions. As was normal in these circumstances, two men were sent out on point to guard against any possible attacks, and, as I was one of the two, I took up a position on the left of the Squadron while another man was sent out right. A position at the edge of the neighbouring field was pointed out to me, so returning my sword I reached for my rifle and jogged lazily out towards a haystack I’d seen.
On reaching the haystack I sat back, relaxing, when fzzz, a bullet whipped past. The Mauser rifle used by the Germans was as good as ours over short distances, so this sniper was either a poor shot or, just as likely, a good half a mile away. I was a stationary target and didn’t care to find out for sure, so I gave my horse a quick kick and got close in behind the haystack. It was to be the only occasion in the war when I could say that I had felt personally targeted, at least as far as Jerry’s participation was concerned.
Teenage Tommy Page 9
