the tervaete charge
by artillery captain m—— c——
(in memory of major count henri d'oultremont.)
refusing stubbornly to budge from the yser, the belgian army was struggling desperately with the enemy, making a frantic effort to hold on to the last shred of its beloved country. the valiant little army had been asked to hold out for forty-eight hours in the gigantic and unequal combat in which it was engaged. it had done this, but relief had not come, and the fierce battle had now lasted five days. the defenders of their country had now decided to die at this spot rather than yield.
the stubborn fight had so undermined the strength of the heroic army that it was now like a wrestler, out of breath and at the last gasp, only sustained by the extreme tension of his nerves and the force of a fixed idea. the army was short of ammunition and of reserves. it consisted now of a meagre line of almost exhausted men, tired in every limb, but making a last desperate effort. it seemed probable that, under a formidable push of the germans, some point would give way and cause disaster along the whole of the rest of the line.
[pg 284]
the germans continued unceasingly to harass our wearied troops with their machine-guns and with fresh assaults until, finally, at tervaete they managed to break through our line. when once the breach was made, the stream rushed in like a wild torrent, gaining the left bank of the river and driving back our battalions in disorder. with a frightful whirl, everything gave way before the massed effort of the enemy. a furious, mute, desperate counter-attack was crushed and wasted in this gulf of death. it was simply stifled and mown down by the deadly work of two hundred machine-guns.
there was then a moment of terrible anguish experienced along the whole line. our troops had fallen back, without yielding, and were thronging together, forming two wings on the yser, at the extremities of the huge bend where the germans had broken through the defence.
this fresh front was like a fragile rampart of earth piled up in haste before a powerful torrent, a rampart which would surely fall away under the rush of the waters, as fast as it was built up. there was no longer any organised unity of action. each one was fighting on his own account. it was an amalgamation of horrible looking men, all covered with mud and with blood, their faces blackened by the smoke of explosions. they no longer looked like human beings. as they fought there, with haggard eyes and weary arms, it was more like a vision of hell, lighted up for a moment by the wan flashes from the guns. we wondered what would happen? was this to be the end of everything? in front of us, the attack was still coming along in constant and ever-increasing waves, with an ominous roaring, beating down our[pg 285] crumbling human wall with furious shocks. could our army possibly resist these endless assaults?
just at this moment, the order arrived for this spectre of a troop to take the offensive and, by means of a general counter-attack, to fling the enemy back, at any cost, on the other side of the river. the instructions given were in the following simple words: "your charge must be a wild rush."
the order passed through the dislocated ranks like an electrical current. a thrill of glory was felt by every man in the line. the blackened faces looked up once more and turned pale under the masks of blood and dirt, and all eyes flashed once more with a superhuman light. a splendid thing was then seen, a thing that seems incredible in its grandeur. all these wavering fragments of an army suddenly formed up again in a solid block. in the fresh ranks, each man took his place just where he happened to be. wounded men got up from the ground and wedged their way into the mass to increase the weight. from the nearest sectors, troops rushed forward and mixed with the others. and then the whole newly formed line moved forwards, with great difficulty at first, making a formidable effort under the hurricane of fire. then a wild rush took place and, with a bound, they were there in the prussian lines; foot-soldiers, cavalrymen, pioneers, gunners, soldiers, and officers, valid or crippled, all had flung themselves pêle-mêle on their enormous adversary, going straight ahead in the breaches that opened before them and their bayonets. here and there, in the chaos of mingled troops, a clearer line marked the points where the neighbouring troops had rushed in to reinforce[pg 286] them. in some places, thanks to the impulsion of fresh energy, salient points could be seen pushing forward and leading on the rest. and, in the midst of the fray, above the roaring din of the battle, one cry could be heard, one conquering cry, uttered as though by one voice coming from three thousand men, a cry that grew louder and louder, swelling as it were under the influence of its own frenzy, a cry that could be heard over all the plain, like the rumbling of a wild storm: "long live the king! long live belgium!"
the first enemy line was driven back under the sudden rush. behind it, the second line gave way, and then each wave driven back drove back the following one, and there was general disorder among the german troops. it was a carnage for which there are no words. there was no longer any question of numbers or of tactics. only one thing was evident now, a mysterious and all-powerful thing, the force of a will stronger than death itself, dominating all material things.
the germans, disconcerted by the suddenness of all this, were seized with panic. with an irresistible effort, our panting, breathless soldiers, veritable phantoms of death, crushed all resistance. in their rush forward, without a second's hesitation and in their continued rush, they had driven back the enemy masses as far as the yser; they pushed them to the brink and then into the river itself. half dead themselves with their superhuman effort, they reoccupied the dyke and—the last shred of belgian territory was saved.
