One day near Bethune they played one of them—­a favourite one.  A friend of mine led six of his dragoons towards a village where Uhlans had been seen.  They became visible at a turn of the road, and after firing a few shots with their carbines turned tail and fled.  The French dragoons gave chase, across some fields and round the edge of a quiet wood.  Suddenly at this point the Uhlans reined in their horses and out of the wood came the sudden shattering fire of a German quickfirer.  Fortunately it was badly aimed, and my friend with his six dragoons was able to gallop away from that infernal machine which had so cleverly ambushed them.

There was no rest for the cavalry in those first days of the war.  The infantry had its bivouac every day, there was rest sometimes in the trenches, but the cavalry had to push on always upon new adventures to check the enemy in his advance.

A young Russian officer in the French dragoons told me that he had been fighting since the beginning of the war with never more than three hours sleep a night and often no sleep at all.  On many nights those brief hours of rest were in beetroot fields in which the German shrapnel had been searching for victims, and he awakened now and then to listen to the well-known sound of that singing death before dozing off again.

It was “Boot and saddle” at four o’clock in the morning, before the dawn.  It was cold then—­a cold which made men tremble as with an ague.  A cup of black coffee was served, and a piece of bread.

The Russian officer of French dragoons, who has lived in British Colonies, saw a vision then—­a false mirage—­of a British breakfast.  It was the thought of grilled bloaters, followed by ham and eggs, which unmanned him for a moment.  Ten minutes later the cavalry was moving away.  A detachment was sent forward on a mission of peril, to guard a bridge.  There was a bridge near Bethune one night guarded by a little patrol.  It was only when the last man had been killed that the Germans made their way across.

Through the darkness these mounted men leaned forward over their saddles, peering for the enemy, listening for any jangle of stirrup or clink of bit.  On that night there came a whisper from the cavalry leader.

“They are coming! ...  Quiet there!”

A file of dark shadows moved forward.  The dragoons swung their carbines forward.  There was a volley of shots before a cry rang out.

“Cessez feu!  Cessez feu!”

The cry had been heard before from German officers speaking excellent French, but this time there was no treachery in it.  The shadows who moved forward through the night were Frenchmen changing from one trench to another.

16

The infantryman had a hard time, too.  It was true that theoretically he might sometimes snatch a few hours of sleep in a trench or out in an open field, but actually the coldness of the night was often an acute agony, which kept him awake.  The food question was a difficult one.  When there was heavy fighting to be done, and rapid marching, the provisions became as theoretical as the hours of sleep.