that could have held its own against a British Brigade. That, however,
is by the way.

They pressed steadily forward, and, having breasted the slope, the
valley of the Marne burst suddenly upon their view. It was at least
three miles in breadth, and the opposite heights were screened by
woods. A small town marked the bridge. The country was "open"--painfully
open; there was not an atom of real cover between them and the heights
opposite.

But no shells came whistling towards them. No doubt the enemy was
holding his fire until they were within closer range. (Not a pleasant
thought, this, by any means.) But no, they went on scrambling down the
deep slope, and still no sound of firing disturbed the morning silence.
As each moment fled by the Subaltern thought to himself, "Not yet! Well,
the next minute will bring things about our heads!" But the next minute
kept on passing as uneventfully as its predecessors.

At last they reached the bridge and found it absolutely undamaged. Even
then the Subaltern could not repress the thought that all this was only
a trick, and that they were being lured on to destruction. But his
sanguinary forebodings were not justified, and the opposite heights were
scaled without opposition.

He afterwards learnt, that, however much the Germans might have wanted
to hold this magnificent line, the strategical situation had become so
pressing that on this sector nothing could save them from disaster
except a complete and hurried retreat. They were all but outflanked on
their right, which was already very seriously bent back; while in the
centre General Foch had driven in a wedge which bade fair to crumple up