Early on Monday morning, 7th September 1914, the guns of friend and foe began to thunder in the river valleys of the Ourcq, Marne, and Petit and Grand Morin. As the sun rose higher and higher in the sky the cannonade grew fiercer and fiercer. Over the peaceful hills, the shining water, the stubbles, the pastures and wheat fields, delicate white balloons of bursting shrapnel were constantly seen. At a hundred different places along the far-flung battle line Allied infantry were worming their way towards the enemy, anon rising from their cover at the sound of a shrill whistle, rushing ahead, and dropping again into concealment amidst the rattle of rifles and machine guns. A desperate conflict was in progress from the Ourcq to Verdun, a distance of wellnigh one hundred and fifty miles. Let us confine our attention for the present to the Allied left, where alone an advance was made on that day. The 6th French Army was working its way towards the Ourcq, driving in the enemy outposts on the western bank. The Germans had occupied most of the villages on the plateau, and the French were thrusting them out with the bayonet, amid the smoke of burning haystacks and farm buildings. It was a day of hand-to-hand combats. When night fell, the whole plateau was strewn with dead and dying, and the ghastly scene was illuminated by the glare of flaming villages. Long before daylight on this day the British were astir, and by five in the morning the little town of Coulommiers,[102] on the Grand Morin, had been captured. Our infantry drove back the four German divisions opposed to them, and pushed them across the river beneath an accurate and galling artillery fire. All the bridges were down, and the Germans strove feverishly to fling pontoons across the stream. Time after time floating bridges were erected, only to be blown to splinters by our guns. It is said that one British battery came into action within easy range of a bridge fast approaching completion. As the gun-layer was sighting his piece, he asked his officer, "Which pontoon, sir?" "Number one," replied the officer, and in a few moments it was smashed to pieces. "Number two," said the officer, and that pontoon shared the same fate. Then, in turn, numbers three and four were blown to smithereens. Another bridge was built; but at the moment when it was thronged with crossing infantry British shells burst upon it, and the stream was choked with dead and drowning men and heaps of wreckage.