It was still possible that the Germans might be smashed on their left wing, hurled back to the west between Paris and the sea, and cut off from their line of communications.  It was undoubtedly this impending peril which scared the enemy’s Headquarters Staff and upset all its calculations.  They had not anticipated the rapidity of the supporting movement of the allied armies, and at the very gates of Paris they saw themselves balked of their prize, the greatest prize of the war, by the necessity of changing front.

To do them justice, they realized instantly the new order of things, and with quick and marvelous decision did not hesitate to alter the direction of their main force.  Instead of proceeding to the west of Paris they swung round steadily to the southeast in order to keep their armies away from the enveloping movement of the French and English and drive their famous wedge-like formation southward for the purpose of dividing the allied forces of the west from the French Army of the East.  The miraculous had happened, and Paris, for a little time at least, is unmolested.

That brings me back to the fighting at Creil and Compiegne, which preceded from last Tuesday until two days later.

The guns were at work at midnight on Tuesday when I passed the English Headquarters.  This battle had only one purpose so far as the Germans were concerned.  It was to keep our British soldiers busy, as well as to hold the front of the French allies on our right, while their debordant movements took place behind this fighting screen.

Once again, as throughout the war, they showed their immense superiority in mitrailleuses, which gives them marvelous mobility and a very deadly advantage.  They masked these quick-firers with great skill until they had drawn on the English and French infantry and then spilled lead into their ranks.  Once again, also the French were too impetuous, as they have always been, and as they still are, in spite of Gen. Joffre’s severe rebuke.

Careless of quick-firers, which experience should have taught them were masked behind the enemy’s advance posts, they charged with the bayonet, and suffered needlessly heavy losses.  One can only admire the gallantry of men who dare to charge on foot against the enemy’s mounted men and who actually put a squadron of them to flight, but one must say again:  “C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre.”

There have been many incidents of heroism in these last days of fighting.  It is, for instance, immensely characteristic of the French spirit that an infantry battalion, having put to flight a detachment of German outposts in the forest of Compiegne, calmly sat down to have a picnic in the woods until, as they sat over their hot soup, laughing at their exploit, they were attacked by a new force and cut to pieces.

But let me describe the new significance of the main German advance.  Their right army has struck down to the southeast of Paris, through Chateau Thiery to La Ferte-sur-Jouarre and beyond.  Their centre army is coming hard down from Troyes, in the Department of the Aube, and the army of the left has forced the French to evacuate Rheims and fall back in a southwesterly direction.