Away up to the north there is a blinding electric glare coming fast down the road. Nearer, and it is the headlight on the first of a long train of R.F.C. light motor-lorries, slipping silently down on rubber tires. The dust rises in clouds above and about them. Half-way through the village a motor-cyclist rides, meeting them. The dust takes his shadow, and as he approaches the headlight the silhouette rises higher and higher until it mounts to the sky and disappears. Just as when children play a shadow pantomime and vanish by jumping over the lamp. The lorries pass, and the dust slowly settles once more. The little lights twinkle clearly again, and the moon now floods the countryside in a sheen of silver. But the A.S.C. captain talks earnestly with his sergeant-major and M. le maire. "We must move, but how can we possibly carry all those wounded and stragglers?" M. le maire is of opinion that as _les Boches_ are being driven back into Germany, the wounded might well remain until ambulances can be got. The O.C. looks at his sergeant-major. They have both guessed the meaning of that retirement, and they guess also something that they dare not tell the mayor. A few minutes suffice to rouse all the men and to get the wounded made as comfortable as possible in the lorries. Lights are switched on the cars, and within half an hour the column is clear of the village on its way south. An hour later the advance patrols of a German cavalry division ride in from the north; and old Pierre finds that the hay he had collected for _les anglais_ does not go very far with his new visitors. Poor old Pierre, and Madame the mayoress, and the pretty little rose-garden! Such is a little pen-picture, not one whit exaggerated, of an evening of the Retreat. And perhaps those few lines will serve to convey some trifling idea of the wonder of the achievement. Everywhere regiments and units forgotten, or lost, or acting on their own initiative. And yet, somehow or other, making a composite whole to turn and repel the attacking hordes. Staff work practically ceased to exist, and yet the threads of communication held fast, though only by a little. Now you have had a glimpse of the men who, the very next day, fought _and won_ perhaps the most glorious fight a British Army has ever shared in. So may a thousand actions, once afoot, End in one purpose, and be all well borne Without defeat. CHAPTER XI WEDNESDAY, THE 26TH OF AUGUST _We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition._ WESTMORELAND. _Of fighting men they have full three-score thousand._ EXETER. _There's five to one; besides, they all are fresh._ SALISBURY. _God's arm strike with us! 'tis a fearful odds._