No, if the Germans have got to have Binche they must bring up a great many more men than that to take it. There has been much talk of a repetition of that famous charge of the Greys, with the Black Watch hanging on to the stirrup-leathers. If indeed it was repeated that August then this must have been the moment. I am sorry to say that I have never been able to obtain any real confirmation of the story, so I shall not set it down. But it might well have happened, and one likes to think that it did. Anyway, during that hour or so, there was many a gallant, desperate charge in that corner. A charge against overwhelming odds, when the utmost to be expected was the breaking and rout of the first two or three lines of the advance. It needs no vivid flight of imagination to picture it. On the far outskirts of the town a railway line runs. Under the lee of a sheltering embankment and bridge the officers collect and re-form some of the squadrons, now grown pitiably less in numbers. Words of command are almost inaudible, but the men understand. Hard by, on their left, you have the flanking companies of the line regiments. One or two brief messages pass to and fro between cavalry and infantry. "The Greys and Lancers are going to charge the left of infantry advancing beyond the wood. Give them all the support you can!" The British fire slackens from loophole and broken window. The Scottish regiment and the Coldstream Guards insist on taking a share. They cut out through the leaden hail and make some yards' advance, dropping again under what cover they can. A last look round, a final pull at girth-straps, and the word is passed. The enemy infantry is 300 yards away. "Tr-rot!" They are clear of the embankment. All well in hand. The enemy guns have not yet got them. The Scots and Coldstream Guards make another rush and again drop. "Can-ter!" And men and horses settle down into the steady swing. The infantry who have got the orders to support start blazing away again as fast as they can get the magazine clips home. Now the German gunners see what is happening and one gun after another drops its range and fuse. The German infantry is 250 yards away. "Cha-arge!" No need to sound it. The officers are in front, and where the officers go their men will follow. Anywhere! The Scots and Coldstreamers are after them as hard as they can leg it. The enemy on the flank try to swing round to meet the charge, but there is no time. The German guns mercilessly drop the range still more--what matter if they sweep away their own men as well. One hundred yards! Fifty yards! A long, sickening crash--and the Greys and Lancers are in them. Hacking, slashing, hewing! The Scots are hard on their heels just to their left. A mighty heave as the bayonets get home. The first rank is through. There are no more ranks, only a vast confusion.