"In fact, there were ten thousand dead German soldiers left before that salient of the English army, and consequently--_no Sedan_. In Germany the General Staff decided that the English must have employed turpenite shells, as no wounds were discernible on the bodies of the dead soldiers. But the man who knew what nuts tasted like when they called themselves steak, knew also that St. George had brought his Agincourt Bowmen to help the English." Such accounts have been confirmed by others. Thus, Miss Phyllis Campbell, writing in _The Occult Review_ (October, 1915), says: "I tremble, now that it is safely past, to look back on the terrible week that brought the Allies to Vitry-le-Francois. We had not had our clothes off for the whole of that week, because no sooner had we reached home, too weary to undress, or to eat, and fallen on our beds, than the 'chug-chug' of the commandant's car would sound into the silence of the deserted street, and the horn would imperatively summon us back to duty--because, in addition to our duties as _ambulancier auxiliare_, we were interpreters to the post, now at this moment diminished to half a dozen. "Returning at 4:30 in the morning, we stood on the end of the platform, watching the train crawl through the blue-green mist of the forest into the clearing, and draw up with the first wounded from Vitry-le-Francois. It was packed with dead and dying and badly wounded. For a time we forgot our weariness in a race against time--removing the dead and dying, and attending to those in need. I was bandaging a man's shattered arm with the _majeur_ instructing me, while he stitched a horrible gap in his head, when Madame de A--, the heroic president of the post, came and replaced me. 'There is an English in the fifth wagon,' she said. 'He wants something--I think a holy picture!' "The idea of an English soldier wanting a holy picture struck me, even in that atmosphere of blood and misery, as something to smile at--but I hurried away. 'The English' was a Lancashire Fusilier. He was propped in a corner, his left arm tied-up in a peasant woman's handkerchief, and his head newly bandaged. He should have been in a state of collapse from loss of blood, for his tattered uniform was soaked and caked in blood, and his face paper-white under the dirt of conflict. He looked at me with bright, courageous eyes and asked for a picture or a medal (he didn't care which) of St. George. I asked him if he was a Catholic. 'No,' he was Wesleyan Methodist, and he wanted a picture or a medal of St. George, _because he had seen him on a white horse_, leading the British at Vitry-le-Francois, when the Allies turned.