Field Marshall Sir John French wished he hadn’t eaten lunch so fast because now he was paying the price of indigestion brought on by anger and frustration. His first meeting with the French commander had been a disaster, and now he was being told the French would not hold the line.
“I sincerely believe, sir, that General Lanrezac will not stand,” said Captain Spears, hoping his shaking hands weren’t obvious. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have considered giving his commander-in-chief strategic advice, but in those few months the rules and the world had changed forever. “The French will withdraw, sir, and expose our flank to the whole German Army.”
Sir John fixed him with steely eyes while he thought through what the junior officer was saying, then waved him towards the large table where the other staff officers were enjoying an evening meal and talking excitedly about the coming battle.
Spears pushed the food around his plate, but his appetite was beyond saving. He was nervous, and not just because of what Sir John might do about his impertinence, but because he was afraid of the consequences of his information being dismissed.
The British Expeditionary Force was swarming up the lanes and roads of Belgium in a desperate race to plug the eighteen-mile gap in the French line before the Germans could pour through it and roll up the whole French Fifth Army, but if the French withdrew, the BEF would be left to face the German force alone. That would put eighty thousand British troops in the path of half a million Germans. In a profession where there are few certainties, he knew that if the French ran, the BEF would be slaughtered. And that was a military certainty.
He listened intently as the army commanders discussed their plans to attack the Germans on the following day, and the gnawing in his stomach gradually got worse. It was a mistake; every fibre of his being was screaming at him that to attack tomorrow was a monumental mistake. He opened his mouth to ask the question that burned in his mind, but good sense and better training shut him up before he took a step too far.
General Allenby saw the young man’s discomfort, got up from the table, and nodded towards the door. Spears stood and followed quickly, very relieved to be getting out of there.
The door closed, and he stared at it and wondered if he should have said more, but thought enough was enough and turned and strode out along the pillared corridor, making a conscious effort to keep his exit as quiet as possible.
Allenby closed the door and smiled to himself before returning to the leather armchair and the other staff officers. It was clear to him that Sir John was convinced by the young captain’s conviction, and that left him with a problem. The army was moving up as fast as it could, and a sudden change of direction was not going to be easy.
They were still planning how to reverse the thousands of men and equipment crowding the roads when a courier arrived from General Lanrezac. Sir John read it, shook his head, and read it again. “Lanrezac wants me to keep the enemy off his back for twenty-four hours.”
“And how does he expect us to do that?” Major General Haig was struggling to hold his notorious temper in check, and failing. “Perhaps he would have us surround them.”
Despite the desperate situation, Sir John smiled. “I think we will refrain from surrounding them until they have surrendered.”
General Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien’s II Corps was already at Mons and digging in along the Condé-Mons canal so was going to take the brunt of the German attack. He knew as well as any of them that if the Germans overran the French Fifth, its loss would mean the end of the war, almost before it had begun, but the enemy outnumbered them by more than five to one, so standing in their way would be utter madness, so the French would retreat. And he could understand why, but it did nothing for his fury at the idea. “I hope, sir, that you do not intend to acquiesce to this suicidal request?”
Sir John got up from the table, crossed the room, and looked out through the long windows at the immaculate lawns and gardens while his officers waited anything but patiently. At last he turned from the view, and they knew he was going to order them to dig in. “I intend to give the French time to withdraw.”
No one spoke, there was no need; they had all thought it through and had come to the same conclusion. If the BEF did not stand in the way, the French Army would be surrounded and annihilated, but knowing the consequences did not make the decision sit any easier.
After a few moments Smith-Dorrien got to his feet. “If you will excuse me, sir, I will issue the order to my officers in person.”
Sir John nodded, and the other staff officers took the cue that the dinner was over.
Smith-Dorrien made no attempt to quieten his steps as he walked briskly down the marble corridor and out into the sweltering day. His driver had opened the car doors in an attempt to get a little breeze inside, and he closed them quickly as the general approached and climbed in without a word. He knew from the urgency that there was only one place he would be going.
Smith-Dorrien leaned back against the hot leather and tried to think, but the enormity of what he was about to ask of his men got in the way of coherent thought. But he knew that even thinking it was hopeless would show in his manner, and that was not acceptable. Slowly he pulled himself together.