The third brigade swung across the enemy’s flank and poured such a withering fire into the _Bosches_ that they were sore pressed, with all their horde, to hold their own. Men and guns were fighting back to back, grimly, determinedly, unflinchingly and with invincible valour. The enemy artillery now had command of the main road to Ypres, and of many of the lesser roads, and was keeping up a hellish fire on all to prevent reinforcements or supplies from reaching the Canadians. All that night our plucky men fought them off, driving them back through the woods. They retook four captured guns. All the next day, thousands without food or water fought side by side with unconquerable spirit. In impossible positions, raked by enemy shell fire, without chance to eat or sleep, they held on and tore at the Germans like angry wolves, fighting with such unheard of ferocity that their opponents were absolutely staggered. If a seemingly hopeless message came from headquarters to a battalion: "Can you hold on a few hours longer?", back would come the answer piping hot: "We can!" Again and again the doubting question came to the trenches: "Can you still hold on?", and again and again returned the same enheartening reply: "We can and _will_ hold on!" Then an unheard of thing occurred—neglect of an order. The message from headquarters, couched in generous words, read: "You have done all that human power can do. Your position is untenable. You must retreat!" A flush of disdainful anger swept over the officer’s face as he read this message, and he replied in three words: "Retreat be damned!" The Canadians had not learned the meaning of the word "retreat." It had been left out of their martial vocabulary—some one was responsible for this omission. The Germans tried to teach them its meaning with gas, with bayonet and with shell; but thick-headed Tommy and his officers always misunderstood it for "hold" or "advance." It took four days of starvation and four sleepless, awful nights to make the most intelligent amongst them understand the word, and even then it was a scant concession to the _Bosche_. Little bands of men, the remnants of dauntless battalions, holding isolated, advanced points, were commanded to fall back in order to straighten out the line. But the brave fellows who had so gallantly defended their posts, were loath to give them up. Unnerved, weak and exhausted, they still wanted to remain, and when their officers insisted on their leaving, some actually sat down in the trench and wept bitter tears of humiliation and chagrin. During these four fateful days British and French reinforcements had been rushed up to fill the gap, and further German progress was impossible. Harassed from the flank, beaten back from the front, decimated and discouraged, the Germans had suffered a disastrous and momentous defeat—for to them Calais, their greatest hope, was irretrievably lost.