The British stood their ground with the fearless valour of Englishmen. Though effective defence seemed from the very first futile, steady and unshaken volleys rang out from every knoll, hillock, and shelter-trench in that long line manned by the sturdy Yorkshire heroes. Machine-guns rattled and spat fire, and pom-poms worked with regularity, hurling their little shells in a ceaseless stream into the invaders, but all, alas! to no purpose. Where one German fell, at least three appeared to take his place. The enemy seemed to rise from the very ground. The more stubborn the defence, the more numerous the Germans seemed to become, gaps in their fighting line being reinforced in that ruthless manner which is such a well-known principle in German tactics--namely, that the commander must not be sparing in his men, but fling forward reinforcements at whatever cost. Thus up the storm-swept glacis reaching from the Rother struggled thousands of Germans in a tide that could not be stemmed, halting and firing as they advanced, until it became clear that an actual hand-to-hand combat was imminent. The British had done all that men could. There was no question of surrender. They were simply swept away as straws before a storm. Dead and dying were on every hand, ambulances were full, and groaning men were being carried by hundreds to the rear. General Woolmer saw that the day was lost, and at last, with choking emotion, he was compelled to give that order which no officer can ever give unless to save useless bloodshed--“Retire!--Retire upon Sheffield itself!” Bugles rang out, and the whistles of the officers pierced the air. Then in as orderly a manner as was possible in the circumstances, and amid the victorious shouts from thousands of German throats, the struggling units fell back upon the city. The outlook was surely black enough. Worse was, however, yet to follow. In the line of retreat all roads were blocked with endless masses of wagons and ambulances, and in order to fall back at all men had to take to the open fields and clamber over hedges, so that all semblance of order was very quickly lost. Thus the retreat became little short of a rout. Presently a shout rang out. “The cavalry! The cavalry!” And then was seen a swarm of big Uhlans riding down from the north at a hand-gallop, evidently prepared to cut off the routed army. By Tinsley Park a body of Volunteers were retreating in an orderly manner, when the alarm of the cavalry advance reached their ears. Their colonel, a red-faced, bearded old gentleman, wearing the green ribbon of the V.D., and who in private life was a brewery’s manager at Tadcaster, rose in his stirrups and, turning round towards the croup of his somewhat weedy steed, ejaculated the words in a hoarse and raucous bellow: “Soaky Poo!”