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 the whole line.

There was nothing in any way remarkable about the little town on the other side of the river.  It had the air of a neglected gutter-child, dirty and disconsolate.  There were the usual signs of German occupation—­broken windows, ravaged shops, and, of course, the inevitable bottles.

Here it was that the Subaltern noticed for the first time that the Huns had a distinctive smell of their own.  It was a curious smell, completely baffling description.  If it is true that certain odours suggest certain colours, one would have described this as a brown smell, preferably a reddish-brown smell.  Certain it was that the enemy left it behind him wherever he had been, as sure a clue to his passing as broken wine-bottles!

The Subaltern always associates the climbing of the opposite slope with pangs of a thirst so intense that he almost forgot to wonder why the Germans had evacuated so excellent a position without firing a single shot.  But Headquarters were evidently not going to allow them to push forward into some previously arranged trap.  Having by three o’clock in the afternoon firmly established themselves on the wooded crests of the slope, they were “pulled up” while a further reconnaissance was being made.  Meanwhile, a sort of outpost position was taken up.

The Subaltern’s Platoon was to guard the back edge of a wood, and as he established his supports in a farm, most of his men were able to fill their water-bottles, have a wash and brush up, and generally prepare themselves for whatever the next move might be.  The farmer and his wife, who had remained in their home, did everything that was required of them; but he could not help noticing that the old couple did not seem as pleased at their Allies’ success as one would have naturally expected.  The reason was soon forthcoming.  Following his usual plan of getting as much information as possible out of the French, he heard the old man, who seemed unaccountably shy and diffident, mutter casually—­

“J’ai pense que vous etiez tous partis hier soir.”

“Comment?” said he, “tous partis?  Mais, Monsieur, nous sommes les premiers Anglais qui sont arrives ici.”

“Mais, Monsieur!  Anglais?  Ce n’est pas possible!”