The car did not get them to Beauvais until seven o’clock, and from there on to Paris the congestion of the roads was far worse, so it was after ten when they entered the capital.
Their eight hours of crawling and constant enforced halts had proved very tiring, so they felt that they were entitled to a good supper, and directed the car to the Ritz. The restaurant was crammed with officers and women in evening dress; and although there was a suggestion of strain in the atmosphere, its occupants did not seem unduly depressed.
As Sir Pellinore and the Duke had not eaten since lunching in the destroyer on the way over, they had hearty appetites, and the good food, washed down with a plentiful supply of champagne, soon banished their fatigue. When coffee was being served to them a tall, thin man came up to their table. He was immaculately dressed, had a dark, pointed beard, wore the rosette of the Légion d’Honneur in his buttonhole, and was about the same age as Sir Pellinore; who introduced him as the Marquis de St. Eloi, and asked him to join them in a brandy.
The Marquis accepted with a graceful bow, gave the Duke, whom he evidently knew by name, a quick look of interest, and sat down.
For a few minutes they talked of the general situation. It showed no improvement. Compiégne, Soissons, Rheims and Châlons had fallen; the Germans were now over the Aisne in great strength, and their flying columns of Uhlans were said to have reached the Marne.
Sir Pellinore glanced round at the expensively dressed crowd and remarked: “I wonder more people aren’t quittin’ Paris. They’ll get locked up here if they’re not careful.”
With a shrug of his elegant shoulders, the Marquis replied: “Many people are: but not the haute monde. They are confident that there will be no siege. Paris will be declared an open city.”
“Are you certain of that?” asked the Duke quickly.
“Yes. Our War Minister, M. Messimy, wished to hold it. When the retreat began, he ordered G.Q.G. to return an army of at least three Corps from the front for the defence of the capital. General Joffre was very loath to part with any of the formations he was hoping to employ in a new offensive, so he delegated the task to General Maunoury, who was forming a new Army in the neighbourhood of Amiens. But Messimy has since been sacked as a scapegoat for the failure of our offensive in Lorraine. So Joffre had been freed from that obligation. He wishes both to keep his forces in the open field and to spare Paris the horror of a bombardment, so he will let the Germans march through it.”
Sir Pellinore grunted and the Duke’s mouth suddenly took a hard, angry line; but both forbore to comment. Ten minutes later, when the Marquis had left them, De Richleau asked:
“Do you think that fellow really knows Joffre’s intentions?”
“I’ve not a doubt of it,” Sir Pellinore replied glumly. “He’s a banker, with whom I do quite a bit of business. Member of the Comité des Forges, too. Republic or not, France has never ceased to be run by the Cent Families. That gang have a finger in every pie. France couldn’t carry on for a month without their millions. He knows what he is talking about all right. Shouldn’t be surprised if Joffre hasn’t had his orders from them. They won’t want their houses in the Bois destroyed. They’d rather pay up an indemnity, as they did in 1870; though it will prove a whacking big one this time.”
By half past eleven they were on their way again. Bar-le-Duc lay a hundred and forty miles due east of Paris, and they had hoped to get there in the small hours; but it now looked as if they would be lucky if they reached it before dawn.
The coming of night had not halted the streams of refugees: they were more numerous than they had been to the north of Paris, and there was much more military transport on the road. Hour after hour they crawled on, through Coulommiers, Sézanne and Fère-Champenoise. From the latter place the road lay parallel to the advance of the Germans and, at most, only twenty miles from their cavalry screen. They knew that if an enemy spearhead had made a thrust in that direction during the day, there was an unpleasant possibility of their running into a troop of Uhlans; but to have gone by way of Troyes and Chaumont would have meant another big detour, so, in view of the urgency of their mission, they had decided to chance getting through on the shorter route.
The anxiety they felt at the proximity of the enemy kept them very much on the alert. De Richleau took over from the driver and they agreed that, at the first sign of trouble, they would abandon the car and take to the fields. That did not prove necessary, but when they reached Vitry they were warned by Military Police that German patrols had been located north of the town. In common prudence they turned down a by-road leading south. It soon became a winding lane and forked three times in less than two miles; then they found themselves heading west. Passing troops were fewer in these by-ways, and none of whom they asked the way had ever before been in the district; so after several more false casts they were angrily compelled to admit that they were hopelessly lost.
It was now about five-thirty, that chill pre-dawn hour when vitality is at its lowest. All three of them were dog-tired, so they decided to snatch a short sleep in the car and go on again when full daylight came. At half past seven they roused up, drove for a few miles through a maze of lanes towards a church steeple, and found the church to be that of the township of Joinville. From it, Bar-le-Duc lay thirty miles to the north, so they did not reach their destination till a little before ten. Then, to their fury, they learned that General Joffre had shifted his headquarters two days before to St. Dizier.
After breakfast and a wash at an inn crowded with soldiers, they started for St. Dizier, a town some twenty miles away, to which they must have passed quite close in the early hours of the morning. But when they reached it, they were told that General Joffre had been there only a day and shifted his quarters again the previous night.
To add to their frustration, no one could tell them where he had gone; but, rightly assuming that he was moving backwards in conformity with the enemy advance, they continued on the road south-eastwards. During the middle of the day and the early hours of the afternoon, they tried several townships in vain, but at four-thirty they at last ran him to earth at Bar-sur-Aube.
He had taken over the Mairie of the little town as another temporary H.Q. and everything was still at sixes and sevens. It was ludicrously small for a Grand Quartier Gènèral and its facilities were totally inadequate to the requirements of a C. in C. controlling eight Armies. But so, apparently, was his staff; it consisted of only half a dozen officers, a few orderlies, the chauffeurs of four large dusty cars and some motor-cycle dispatch riders.
Sir Pellinore and the Duke were asked to wait in a wash-room and, after kicking their heels there for over an hour, were eventually taken to see Joffre’s Director of Operations, a Colonel de Grandmaison, who occupied a small room in which even a telephone had not yet been installed.
In execrable French, Sir Pellinore stated quite unscrupulously that he represented both the Secretary of State for War and the First Lord of the Admiralty. Then, having produced his diplomatic laissez-passer, he asked bluntly: “Comment va la bataille?”
“The battle,” said Colonel de Grandmaison, “develops itself. The Commander-in-Chief has every confidence.”
“Confidence in what?” inquired the Baronet, his slightly protuberant blue eyes taking on their belligerent look.
“In ultimate victory,” came the bland reply. “The enemy has made a great penetration into France. We learn that he is now across the Marne in strength at both Epernay and Château Thierry; but his front is now one vast bulge, and both his flanks are exposed. In due course we shall close upon him. Voila!”
“Good!” said Sir Pellinore, a trifle more cordially. “When?”
The Colonel shrugged. “Au moment juste! The moment psychological, for which our great C. in C. has been waiting.”
“I trust that he will not wait too long,” put in the Duke. “The situation appears to be extremely precarious. With the Germans across the Marne, you have not much time to waste if you mean to try
to save Paris.”
“It may prove advisable to declare Paris an open city; but the capital is in no immediate danger of either attack or investment. For the past twenty-four hours news has been coming in that von Kluck’s army, contrary to our expectations, is not advancing on Paris, or to the west of the city. Instead, it has taken a south-easterly direction. By doing so it has exposed its right flank to General Maunoury, whose Army is situated just north of Paris.”
“The Devil!” exclaimed De Richleau. “Can the Germans possibly have made such a blunder! If they have, now is the time. By attacking their flank, General Maunoury should be able to turn it and throw the whole of their right wing into confusion. If, at the same time, you halt your retreat and fling in everything you’ve got here in the south, there is a real chance of smashing the enemy. And I think it better than you have had any opportunity to realize.”
The Duke then went on to describe his activities in Germany and report the ordering by von Moltke of six Corps to the East Prussian front. For ten minutes he spoke of the original Schlieffen Plan, pointing out how, instead of strictly adhering to it, von Moltke had allocated only six-sevenths instead of seven-eighths of the German forces to the West, and that, owing to over-confidence in victory, the withdrawal of the six Corps had further reduced the six-sevenths to five-sixths.
Colonel de Grandmaison listened with intent interest. After congratulating the Duke on his escape and the news he brought, he said
:
“This ties up with our intelligence reports. For some days past troop trains have been leaving Belgium for the East. It is reported, too, that there are no German troops west of the line Senlis-Paris, so Maunoury’s attack should have a good chance of clearing the country south of the Marne, and containing the enemy to the north of it.”
“South of the Marne,” De Richleau said in a puzzled voice. “But little is to be gained by lopping off the heads of the enemy columns. Surely north of the Marne is the right place to strike? It is von Kluck’s centre and rear at which the blow should be aimed, with the object of throwing his whole army into confusion and cutting his communications.”
“Ah! But we must act with some caution,” the Colonel replied. “Maunoury’s Army is of no great strength, and it would be wrong to ask too much of it. General Joffre has sanctioned this attack only because his old colleague, General, Galliéni who is now Military Governor of Paris, pressed him so strongly to agree to it. He would have much preferred to wait a little until he feels it time to launch all his Armies in a general counter-offensive.”
Sir Pellinore had been following the conversation with some difficulty, but he had gathered the gist of it, and suddenly cut in:
“What’s this? D’you mean to say that you’re goin’ to let this chance slip? Here you’ve got the Huns walking sideways-on to you and all you mean to do is to let Maunoury have a smack at their advance guards. You’re crazy! Plumb crazy! You ought to be issuing orders now for every man on your entire front to turn and fight.”
De Grandmaison stiffened. “That,” he said coldly, “is a matter for the Commander-in-Chief. The Armies that have been fighting for the past fortnight are now near exhaustion. His view is that we should give them time to recover, and wait until they have been strongly reinforced before returning to the attack.”
“Reinforced from where?” asked Sir Pellinore.
“From Verdun. We intend to give up the fortress, so as to make available for field operations the great body of men who form its garrison.”
“Give up Verdun!” De Richleau rose slowly to his feet. He went white to the lips: his grey eyes were blazing. Suddenly he leaned forward and crashed his fist down on the table.
“Surrender Verdun! Shade of St. Louis! I wonder that the ghosts of the Marshals of France do not rise up and strike you dead! Do the glories of Rocroy, Austerlitz and Jena mean nothing to you? How dare you even contemplate such a step and still call yourself a Frenchman!”
The other two had also risen. Sir Pellinore took the outraged Duke’s arm, and said in English: “Steady the Buffs! Don’t want this feller forcin’ some stupid duel on you.”
“I’ll meet him and shoot him any time he wishes,” snarled De Richleau.
De Grandmaison was trembling with anger, and burst out: “You are protected by your uniform. But I shall report your disgraceful behaviour to Sir John French. Now, leave my office before I forget myself.”
As they left the building. Sir Pellinore said philosophically, “Well, that’s scotched any hope we had of gettin’ a decent dinner off these fellers. That chap was ‘papa’ Joffre’s blue-eyed boy, you know. Not surprisin’ is it, that with stiff-wallahs like him about, they’re in such a howlin’ mess?”
“He ought to be shot!” muttered the Duke savagely. “He ought to be shot! Just think of it! To give up Verdun and let the Germans through the only part of the line that’s holding!”
“Yes, quite shockin’,” agreed the Baronet with unusual mildness. “To think, too, that the Germans have counted their chickens before they are hatched, and that we can’t take advantage of it. Evidently old von Kluck thinks the Allies are as good as in the bag already, or he’d never risk marchin’ his crop-heads across the front of our army. Still, it’s the last round that counts. Sooner or later we’ll knock the stuffin’ out of the Huns. British Empire is unbeatable.”
It was now six o’clock, so they decided not to return to Paris until the morning, and set about finding accommodation for the night. That proved easier than they expected, as General Joffre appeared to have only his operations staff with him, and apparently did not bother to keep in close touch with the heads of all the organization departments necessary to the maintenance and manipulation of a vast army. At a pleasant inn they got rooms for themselves and their driver, shaved, had a brush up, and came down to dinner.
But it was a far from happy meal, as it lay heavily on both their minds that their mission had proved an utter failure. Colonel de Grandmaison had obviously registered the transfer of the six German Corps, but only as an interesting piece of information; and one that made no significant difference to the immediate situation, as he had no intention of advising his C. in C. to engage in a new battle.
Sir Pellinore suggested that next day they should look in at H.Q., B.E.F. on their way back to Paris, and, having agreed to start at nine o’clock in the morning, they retired unhappily to bed.
They were, however, unable to start at nine, as their driver reported that four hundred miles over the bad French roads had broken one of the back springs of the Crossley; but he added that he had been “parleyvooing with a French garage hand who seemed a sensible cove” and he thought that the car could be ready for the road again by about one o’clock. In consequence, they had an early lunch in Bar-sur-Aube, and started soon after one for Melun, where the British G.H.Q. was situated.
The roads were as congested as on the day before and the car was considerably delayed in getting through both Troyes and Sens, so it was not until after five that they reached Melun. General French’s Headquarters were in a pleasant château just outside the town, and for the travellers it was a tonic to see the good order and discipline that reigned there.
De Richleau was not the type of soldier who believed that weary troops should be made to polish buttons when they might be called on to fight or march again at dawn next morning, but he did believe that proper pride in routine turn out increased a man’s respect for himself and his service, and that there was no excuse for anyone at a rear headquarters to appear ill-shaven or slovenly. Here, both officers and men were as spick and span as they would have been at Aldershot. On the drive in front of the house the chauffeurs were whistling as they busily polished the metal work of the staff cars, and some stocky bow-legged orderlies were walking half a dozen beautifully groomed horses up and down.
Sir Pellinore’s inquiry elicited the fact that Sir John French had not yet returned from a day’s tour of his front line units, and that his Chief of Staf
f, Sir Archibald Murray, had just left to visit Sir Douglas Haig at 1st Corps Headquarters. But Sir Archibald’s deputy was in, and the Duke was delighted when he found this to be the brilliant strategist he had met at the Carlton Club, General Sir Henry Wilson.
Sir Henry cocked an eyebrow when he saw De Richleau dressed as a Brigadier-General, and the Duke, much embarrassed for once, said quickly that at least he was entitled to the decorations he was wearing. Sir Pellinore added that they had been “doin’ a bit of Comic Opera stuff in an attempt to ginger-up the French”; which the tall Irishman thought a huge joke and, roaring with laughter, took them into the Mess. As he was providing them both with whisky and soda, Sir Pellinore asked:
“Well! How’s the contemptible little Army gettin’ along?”
“Oh, not too badly,” replied the General. “Naturally the men hate retreating, but they’ve given a pretty good account of themselves. They did all they were asked, and more, in spite of the fact that they were up against six times their numbers. In the first week we took a nasty hammering, but the 4th Div. has joined us since, and several drafts, so on balance I’m inclined to think we’re in even better shape than when we started.”
“I wish to God that could be said of the French,” remarked the Duke.
“So do I,” agreed Sir Henry. “Their best troops showed tremendous élan, but the bulk of their Army hasn’t stood up to the Huns as well as we expected.”
“The Admiralty always told you they wouldn’t,” said Sir Pellinore, unkindly. “Still, it’s not the men—it’s ‘papa’ Joffre and his Young Turks that are to blame for the mess we’re in. We’ve just come from G.Q.G. and it has to be seen to be believed. One horse and a boy. Joffre’s the horse, and they’re both chewin’ the cud in a pissoir.”
Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 Page 60
