Chapter 22
The Marines and the sailors had not saved Antwerp – but they had bought time. Time for the Belgian army to get away. Time for the Expeditionary Force to reach further north. Time for the 7th Division to get into position, to start moving south to secure the left of the line and to reach out to the River Yser and to Ypres. There they would join hands on their right with the BEF as it took up its new line and link up on their left with the French and the Belgians who would extend it to the sea.
The 7th Division had started out from Lyndhurst Camp for Belgium on 4 October but it had taken them three full days to get there. In the frequently expressed opinion of gunners like Charlie Burrows, the infantry had it easy when the Army was on the move. All they had to do was pick up their kit, fall in and march off. For the gunners it meant a hundred back-breaking tasks, preparing the guns, the limbers, the ammunition, the transport wagons, the horses, manhandling them into the trains, heaving them off again at the docks and starting all over again to load them on board the ship. All this had been accomplished in the course of one long sleepless night. There had been a certain amount of swearing but the gunners were too full of excitement, too pleased to be on their way at last, to grumble very seriously. Charlie was not normally of a literary turn of mind but he had made up his mind to keep a diary to record his part in the adventure ahead and two days earlier he had purchased a suitable notebook in the post office at Lyndhurst. During the voyage, which was disconcertingly longer than anyone had expected, he had ample time to write the first entries on its smooth unsullied pages.
Gnr. C. B. Burrows, 104 Battery, 22nd Brigade, R.F.A., 7th Division, B.E.F.
Sunday, October 4th, 1914. Reveille 6.30 a.m. Stables, water and feed our horses, and are told to stand by, no one to leave camp. Infantry start marching at 8 a.m. They march all day long, battalion after battalion with drums and fifes and the Scots with their bagpipes. We are all tensed and anxious to move, ready with guns and horses to march to Southampton. As we leave Lyndhurst there are thousands of people cheering us as we move off about 1.45 a.m. Monday 5th October. On reaching Southampton about 4 a.m. we are again met by thousands of people, the whole of Southampton is awake to receive us all the way to the docks. We think this is going to be a lovely war. After embarking on a Canadian Pacific liner we found that the ship is already crowded with the Scots Guards and Gordon Highlanders and we can only take half the Battery on board, 3 guns and 6 ammo wagons and 30 horses. We sail in complete darkness and are cheered by thousands of sailors on destroyers in Southampton Water. After trying to get some sleep on deck we find we are in Dover Harbour alongside of a destroyer, the Cossack. The sailors join us in a bit of fun. We hear we have put into Dover Harbour which is full of a convoy (about 15 ships) as a grain ship had been blown up by a mine previously, just in front of us.
Tuesday October 6th. Still in Dover Harbour and waiting!
Despite their impatience to be on their way and the mild tedium of the inexplicable delay, the day passed pleasantly enough for the 7th Division riding at anchor off Dover. There was plenty to see. There were so many ships that it looked, in the words of one Tommy, ‘like a ruddy review of the Fleet’, so many cutters plying importantly to and from the shore, carrying so many senior officers that they seemed likely to sink beneath the weight of gold-braid. There were so many jokes to be shouted from the Tommies lining the rails of troopships to the Tars on the warships, and so many rumours to be exchanged and passed round, that the troops were kept entertained for a long time. There was the view to be surveyed and enjoyed, with the grey walls of the Castle high above the town, and the cliffs and the promenades lined with sightseers, beetle-like in the distance, and the town itself. To the soldiers marooned offshore, the unattainable attractions of Dover, not least its well-known pubs, so near and yet so far, seemed more and more desirable as the hours passed. By and by a single plaintive voice began a chorus familiar to the Army and hundreds of like-minded Tommies took it up. It travelled from ship to ship in waves of thirsty longing.
There’s a man selling beer over there,
There’s a man selling beer over there,
There’s a man selling beer,
A man selling beer,
A man selling beer over there.
After a few repetitions some warblers drifted on to other verses that described in predictable detail the wares on offer by a girl selling love, but they failed to catch on. As the entertainment palled the men sought sheltered corners and settled down to the earnest business of card-playing or, keeping a wary look-out for sharp-eyed officers, huddled in discreet groups for a session of forbidden gambling. Today, with the Army in such close proximity to the Navy, the game of Crown and Anchor seemed particularly apposite. Most of them dozed off, woke up to find themselves still at anchor and went back to swapping rumours.
None of the thousand and one rumours that buzzed through the ranks came anywhere near pinpointing the real reason for the delay. The fact was that although the Army had embarked the 7th Division it was not quite sure where they should be sent. Almost the only man of the Division who was aware of this was their commander, Major-General Capper. Originally, it had been arranged for the Royal Navy to escort the 7th Division to Boulogne to join up with the Expeditionary Force as it dribbled up from the Aisne. In the light of the situation at Antwerp the plans had been hastily recast – but at such short notice it had not been so easy for the Navy to call up the extra ships required for a convoy of sufficient size to protect the troopships on the longer and more hazardous sea crossing to Zeebrugge in Belgium. Now they were rapidly converging on Dover and the word was that the convoy would soon set sail. They were, in theory, bound for Antwerp and General Capper’s new instructions had been clear enough.
War Office,
Whitehall,
4th October, 1914
Instructions to General Capper
Commanding 7th Division.
1. You will proceed with your Division and disembark at Zeebrugge with a view to assisting and supporting the Belgian Army defending Antwerp, which place is being besieged by the Germans.
2. A French division, together with a French Fusilier Marine brigade, the latter 6,000 strong, and some cavalry will be associated with you in these operations as soon as they arrive.
3. The German forces besieging Antwerp are reported to be 4 or 4½ divisions not of first-line troops.
4. The Belgian Field Army who have been up to the present successfully holding them in check consists of about 60,000 men.
5. A vigorous offensive of the combined above force against the Germans should force them to retire and possibly place the heavy artillery with which they have been bombarding the forts of Antwerp in jeopardy.
6. As soon as these guns have been taken or silenced the future of Antwerp is safe and the object of the expedition of your force will have been obtained.
But early in the evening of 6 October, as the transports were standing by to cast off, the situation at Antwerp was changing for the worse. The Belgian army was withdrawing and the collapse of the city was merely a matter of time. Travelling in a fast destroyer, General Capper had arrived ahead of his division to assess the situation on the spot. In principle his orders still stood – but he had since received an amendment from Lord Kitchener himself. He was to run no undue risk. Above all, on no account was he to run the risk of being trapped in Antwerp. No one knew better than General Capper that his 7th Division was the last remaining reserve of Regular troops and by the morning of the 7th, when the first ships that carried them to Belgium were approaching Zeebrugge, despite the pleas of the Belgians that his men should entrain immediately for Antwerp, he had made his decision. The ‘immediate’ transporting of 12,000 men and all their transport and supplies could hardly be accomplished in less than a day. The bulk of the French troops who were expected to support him had not yet arrived. Antwerp was a lost cause. There was nothing to be gained by throwing his troops away in a vain attempt to save it. It would be better by far to link up with the French, to cover the retreat of the Belgian army and to live to fight another day.
When the 7th Division at last disembarked on Belgian soil on the morning of 7 October, they marched for Bruges. The anxious Belgians, seeing them as saviours, cheered them every inch of the way and Bruges went wild.
Gnr. C. B. Burrows, 104 Battery, 22nd Brigade, R.F.A., 7th Division, B.E.F.
Wednesday October 7th. We arrived at Zeebrugge, Belgium, at 5 a.m. By 9 a.m. when we disembarked the harbour was full of our ships. We marched with our guns and horses through Zeebrugge, which had a horrible smell from the canals (and there are many of them) and lots of bridges. The people gave us a great welcome with flowers, fruit, bread, chocolate and anything they could give us. Marched on to Bruges and had the same reception, everyone pleased to see us. They showered us with gifts and were shouting out ‘God Save the English’. We had a fine time. We thought this was a pretty good war up to now. The girls pinched our cap badges etc. for souvenirs. Marching on to a village named Oost, we billeted there and had some sport in the billet trying to speak the language.
Some of the troops attempted to overcome the language problem by speaking their native tongue suitably accented and enhanced by a certain foreign style in which the Regulars were accustomed to barter in certain eastern bazaars. It was the Padre who overheard one such conversation between a pair of baffled shopkeepers and two soldiers intent on buying postcards to send home. ‘How moochee moonee?’ demanded one Tommy in creditable imitation of an accent last heard east of Suez. The old couple replied with puzzled smiles. Brandishing his postcards under their noses he repeated his question, louder and more slowly. ‘How moo-chee moo-nee?’ Again they shrugged and smiled. The Tommies eventually gave up and departed postcardless. ‘Stupid old buggers,’ remarked the linguist, as the shop door slammed behind them. ‘Don’t understand their own bloody language!’ The Padre tactfully pretended not to hear.
The Northumberland Hussars, who had come to Belgium in the vanguard of the 7th Division to act as its cavalry, were having similar fun in Bruges. Private Daglish of the Morpeth Troop adopted the simple method of responding to all salutations and acclamations in true Northumberland style, ‘Vary canny, hoos yorsel?’, which was as good an answer as any, while the chief entertainment of the junior officers was endeavouring to flummox the interpreters. They managed it eventually in a restaurant by demanding kippers all round. Harengs fumés hardly fitted the bill. In Europe, and well the Hussars knew it, there was no such animal. They settled for grilled sardines and the pique of the interpreters did nothing to spoil their enjoyment of a merry evening. The general verdict, like that of the gunners, was that it was ‘a good war so far’.
News from Antwerp did very little to add to General Capper’s enjoyment of his evening, but he was much relieved by receiving fresh orders from his new chief, Sir Henry Rawlinson. They instructed him to march the 7th Division to concentrate at Bruges. He was happy to be able to report that the Division was already there, and even happier to realise that he had made the right decision. New orders would shortly set the 7th Division on the move again. They would send them further west to Ghent and on to Ypres.
If Antwerp fell (and it was not so much ‘if’ as ‘when’), the Germans too would be on the march and the two army corps which had been besieging the city would be released. There was little doubt then that they would pour through Belgium, to seize Ostend, Dunkirk, Calais itself. It was imperative to secure the line and on the evening of 7 October, as the walls of Antwerp cracked and crumbled beneath the German guns, the line was tenuous to say the least.
The French had trickled north to hold the line on the long German flank as far as Lens. From Lens, the British when they got there would extend it north to Menin and on their left the Belgian army, with a contingent of the French, would carry it on to the sea. When all were in position they would mount a joint offensive to turn the Germans’ flank and drive them back. The trouble was that they were still a long way from the positions that French and Joffre had traced on the map when they agreed the plan.
The first men of the original BEF to leave the Aisne – the Second Corps – were just approaching Abbeville, and Abbeville was a hundred miles from Bruges. The Third Corps was only leaving Soissons. The First Corps was still standing on the Aisne. Until they got there, the future British sector was held by the cavalry. There were few enough of them, and along the fifty miles that lay between Ghent and the nearest British horseman there was no one at all, save for a small French garrison at Dunkirk and a few Territorials round Lille. The gateway to the sea was open and it must be slammed shut before the enemy moved.
The enemy, of course, was already on the move. The Germans needed a decisive victory, and they needed it in the west in order to be able to concentrate on the war on the Russian Front. Now that the situation on the French Front had turned to virtual stalemate, it was as obvious to the Germans as it was to the Allies that victory would only be won in the north. It was equally obvious that the Allies were planning a northern offensive to secure the safety of the seaports that Germany was equally anxious to grab. Already Germany was gathering her strength and preparing to get in first. Troops railed up from the Champagne Front were sideslipping northwards, keeping step with the French and the British, and fighting to push them westwards towards the sea. For the moment the Germans could do no more. They were biding their time. They were waiting for the troops, now tied up at Antwerp, to be released. There were 90,000 of them. And that was not all. A whole new army was on its way from Germany.
The realisation that the Belgian army had escaped from Antwerp came as an irritating jolt and even before the unfortunate city fathers had signed the official surrender the Germans sent off all but a few of their victorious troops on the heels of the retiring men.
With the 7th Division covering its retreat, the Belgian army had a head start, but they were retreating none the less. The British soldiers knew it, even if the civilians did not, and the cheering, the shouting, the rejoicing that greeted them at every village rang a little hollow in their ears. It was difficult not to feel guilty. They knew full well that it was the Germans who would be the next arrivals and that only the Northumberland Hussars were at their backs to stop them.
But, at best, the Northumberland Hussars, assisted by the gunners of the rearguard, searching and patrolling on the flanks and at the rear, could only delay the progress of the Germans. They were not intended to engage in a battle and their orders from General Capper had urged them to be cautious.
If there is any molestation from the enemy he
will be attacked silently with the bayonet.
This edict caused some wry amusement. It was clear that General Capper was innocent of the experience of a night ride with the cavalry on the noisy roads of Belgium paved with granite setts. The din raised by the hooves of even a single troop of horses was enough to broadcast their presence across several miles. In the light of this circumstance, the fact that they happened to possess no bayonets was unimportant. What mattered more was the confusion on the roads, the press of refugees as the news spread that Antwerp had fallen, the mixing up of troops as Belgians, French and British fell back from Ghent together clad in unfamiliar uniforms that made it hard to tell friend from foe. After several brushes with German patrols everyone was tense. Some, like Private Chrystal, were trigger-happy. He made no bones about his astonishment when Lieutenant Joyes ordered his men to the side of the road to make way for a troop of French Cuirassiers, gorgeous in plumed and shining helmets. ‘Gox!’ exclaimed Chrystal, when the matter was explained to him. ‘Wey, I thought them buggers wor garman hoolans! I wor firin’ at the likes o’ them aal day yesterday!’ It was fortunate that the thick accent of rural Northumbria concealed this revelation from all but his immediate companions. The French horsemen responded to the wave of laughter with friendly grins and comradely salutes as they rode on.
Nevertheless, Lieutenant Joyes, uncomfortably aware that Chrystal was one of his best shots, did not feel entirely happy until his allies were well out of sight down a side road.
On 14 October the advance guard of the 7th Division came to Ypres. Few of the soldiers had ever heard of it, fewer still could pronounce its curious name, but in the universal relief that they had arrived approximately at their destination, nobody much cared.
Ypres lay on the inland edge of the flat and marshy coastal plain of Flanders. Once it had been a town of princely magnificence. Its richly ornamented stone buildings, its cathedral, its churches, its towers, its spires, had been built in mediaeval times on the fat pickings of the wool trade for, like Ghent and Bruges, Ypres was one of the rich cloth towns of Flanders. Now it was a backwater. Swans sailed serenely on its moat. The great defensive ramparts designed by Vauban to keep out jealous foes had been breached and in parts demolished to allow the passage of the railway that had brought Ypres into the twentieth century and now brought a modest trickle of discerning travellers to the town to admire its architectural treasures and add their mite to the local economy. The highlight of an otherwise somnolent week was market-day when the farmers and smallholders came in from the surrounding countryside to buy and to sell, to barter and to gossip among the covered carts that served as market stalls. They lined up in the market square in the shadow of the Gothic Cloth Hall which, in times gone by, more prosperous merchants had erected to serve a richer trade. Nothing much happened in Ypres for years. And then the Germans came.
They had come on 7 October, a full week before the British. They had left again almost immediately and the town was still awash with relief. It had not been a pleasant experience. Camille Delaere, Curé of St James’s Church, had good reason to remember it.
Father Camille Delaere, Curé of the Church of St Jacques. Extract from his diary
For some days people had seen Uhlans passing in small groups through neighbouring places. Towards eleven o’clock on the morning of 7 October, we heard several cannon shots nearby and then, about two o’clock, a dozen explosions at the entrance to the town. The whistle of shells, the explosions, the humming of bullets, the appalling sight of my poor people flying in terror. Fathers and mothers all weighed down with children and bundles, with pale faces and frightened eyes, running like madmen towards the Grande Place to hide from the enemy approaching so rapidly and to escape the bullets. The feeling of danger; the fight – or rather the flight – for existence.
Shrapnel balls made holes in the stained glass of my church and a great many were picked up nearby. One shell had exploded against the bell-tower; another went through an upstairs window of a house in my parish in the rue Grimminck, blowing holes in the staircase and the wall opposite.
After an anxious wait the German soldiers made their entrance into the town: cyclists, horsemen, infantry. People said there were 20,000 of them.* Some of them only passed through, but a lot stayed to rest until the next day. Twenty or so cavalrymen with thirty horses took over my church hall. The next day I saw that they had written in French on the blackboard: The Germans fear God, but apart from Him they fear nothing in the world. Germany for ever!
There was ample evidence that the Germans had found nothing to fear or to respect in Ypres, and the Curé recorded an indignant catalogue of misdeeds that had shocked the population:
They showed their prowess in the town: the pillage of shops, jewellery shops above all for watches (at Madame Heursel’s in the rue au Beurre, they stole 35,000 francs’ worth), men’s clothing, especially underwear, and of course food. They emptied the till at the post office – it was not much, 127 francs – and at the Hôtel de Ville they took the whole community fund – 65,000 francs. Early next day they left, making towards the French frontier, leaving only a few behind to patrol the outskirts of the town.
From the west, the towers and spires of Ypres were visible from a long way off across the flat Flanders fields. But north and north-east of the town the land began to rise in a succession of low ridges that ran round it in a rough semi-circle like the rim around a saucer. Ypres sat like a cup in the low ground below. On the highest of the gentle undulations and some six miles to the north-east was the village of Passchendaele. From the Passchendaele ridge there were fine views to the east where the land swept down again to join the plain that rolled off to the very heart of Belgium and swept down into France. The frontier post was at Menin, a mile or so away, and from there the road led on to Tourcoing, Roubaix, Lille, the great industrial agglomeration of northern France.
The roads that carried the troops from Ghent converged on the plain and they were bound to cross it. Roving troupes of German cavalry patrolled it. They were bound to clash.
The Germans were the first to come to Passchendaele. From her bedroom window above her father’s grocery store at the corner of the Molenstraat Maria Van Assche, sixteen years old, was one of the first to see them.
Maria Van Assche (Mrs W. Blackburn)
It was about seven o’clock in the morning. I heard the clatter of horses and I looked out and I saw seven Uhlans, Germans, in a lovely dress. They had helmets on and they had spears in their hands and on the other side they had their hands on their guns. They went up the road and just before the end of Molenstraat there is an alleyway and some Belgian soldiers was hidden in there as a trap. And they started shooting, the Germans, and I actually saw that. One German was shot and fell down, and another one was wounded. One German got off his horse, picked up the German that was wounded and they all rode as fast as they could back to the square. They got off their horses and told a man looking out of a door, ‘Two wounded. See them to the hospital.’ And they went off.
There was only seven of them that morning. But three days after we had about fourteen coming in. We were told not to look through the window. My father said, ‘If you look through the window and move the curtains they will shoot you. They always have this gun ready, levelled at you, like that – and they will shoot you.’
Then one day we had about three hundred Germans coming, right through the village. They went into all the houses, they went in one estaminet – they call the cafés estaminets in Belgium – and they asked the woman where her husband was. And they called him by his name! She wondered why. She said, ‘How do you know my husband’s name?’ and the German said, ‘You know me.’ And she looked close and she did know him. He was a horse-dealer. Some of these Germans who came as Uhlans they were horse-dealers and they were spying before the war. Passchendaele was known for horse-dealing and they used to come and buy horses and now some of these people were officers in the Uhlan army. One fellow even knew my father! It didn’t keep them from misbehaving.
They took every single man they could see, young men, old men, they put them all on the side. They’d come from Iseghem, not very far away, and they had two monks in a car behind them, two monks tied up as hostages in the back of this car. Then they made all the Belgians march in front of them and at the side of them so that nobody could shoot at them without shooting these civilians, and they went on again as far as Roosebeke and then they all turned back again. Roosebeke is the next village. They turned back again and let the men go. It was a terrible, frightening thing for them. We were all frightened. We always was hoping the English was coming, we were told the English was coming, but they didn’t come.
The villagers of Passchendaele were not alone in anxiously awaiting the arrival of ‘the English’. A French garrison of 4,000 Territorials had been holding on to Lille by the skin of their teeth, and were doing their best to carry on holding it until the BEF arrived in force. But the German reinforcements got there first, beat the Territorials back and occupied the city, this time for good. On a few street corners in the centre of the town copies of the notice so exuberantly drawn up by Commander Sampson more than a month before were still to be seen sticking to the walls. After some days of wind and rain they were a little the worse for wear but they were still legible. I have this day occupied Lille with an armed English and French force. The Germans scornfully tore them down. Where, they might have asked, was this Sampson and his force now!
They were at St-Omer. So was Sir John French and his Staff, for St-Omer was now British Headquarters. Ted Organ was there too, with the Oxfordshire Hussars. The Commander-in-Chief was there because the BEF had all but completed its move to the north. The Hussars were there because they had all but mutinied. By rights they should have been back in England, for now that the Royal Naval Division had gone back home there had been no obvious need for their services. After a week of tame activity at Dunkirk, spent mainly in training and shooting practice on the sands, they had been ordered to Boulogne to embark for home. They had found the pursuit of German cavalry much too enjoyable to take kindly to the idea. It went without saying that there was no arguing with orders, but on the road to Boulogne the officers debated and discussed what could be done and twenty miles south of Dunkirk they came to a unanimous decision. It was undoubtedly unmilitary, but they felt that it was decidedly yeomanlike. On their own initiative they broke off the march, commandeered billets in the village of Oye, and while the troops enjoyed their unexpected rest, despatched the adjutant with Lieutenant Fane (to back him up) to St-Omer to plead with the Commander-in-Chief himself to let them stay. They travelled in Lieutenant Fane’s fast car, and it was not many hours before they returned with jubilant news.
Sir John French had liked their cheek. He also liked this evidence of keenness and he had been easily persuaded. He could not, he explained, absorb them as a fighting force, since they were not officially part of the BEF, but he was quick to see a use for them. They might come to St-Omer as Headquarters troops and thus release a fighting unit for the line. The Oxfordshire Hussars were delighted. By daybreak they were on the road to St-Omer.
Lce/Cpl. Edward Organ, No. 1745, A Sqdn., 1st Troop, Queen’s Own Oxfordshire Hussars, B.E.F.
My troop was chosen to be General French’s bodyguard and I was on guard outside in this street at two o’clock in the morning. We had our horses in the stable yard behind the Town Hall in St Omer. The General’s horses were there too and all along the small streets were parked private cars, mostly belonging to British officers. A lot of officers had brought their own cars to France and their own chauffeurs. Consequently these chauffeurs were enrolled, but they didn’t have any uniforms apart from their chauffeurs’ uniforms of peaked hats and double-breasted coats. Anyway, I was in this little dark side street and there was a row of cars outside where I was standing with my rifle and bayonet, and I saw somebody come out in a dark double-breasted suit and peaked cap. He was peering round the cars, as if he was looking for a certain one, and he got up close to me and I said to him, ‘Hello there, mate.’ Well, he said ‘Hello’! I said, ‘Who do you drive for, Chummy?’ Chatting to pass the time. He turned round and then I saw the braid on his cap! He said, not at all snooty, but he said, ‘I’m the Commanding Officer of the Royal Naval Air Service at Dunkirk.’ It was this Commander Sampson! Of course we’d heard all about him so I said, ‘I beg your pardon, Sir!’ And I gave him a very flash Present Arms – you know, like the Guards do! Well, twelve hours later, in the daytime, I’d just come on guard again and this officer and our own Colonel came along on the other side of the little street and I gave them another very flash Present Arms. As they went past I saw this officer whisper to the Colonel and they both burst out laughing. I felt a real idiot! I knew perfectly well he must be telling the Colonel about my taking him for a chauffeur and asking who he drove for!
At St-Omer, apart from ceremonials and guards, the duties of the Oxfordshire Hussars were not unduly onerous. There was time to spare for badly needed training, for the officers were anxious to earn their right to be there at all by bringing the troops to a peak of excellence that would justify the confidence of the Commander-in-Chief and convince him, when the time came, that their men were not just willing but well and truly able to hold their own in battle. They were perfectly sure that the time would come, and that it would come soon. Close as they were to GHQ, with their ears cocked to discreet hints dropped by Staff Officers of their acquaintance with whom they happened to drink a glass of port or smoke an after-dinner cigar, they knew that a joint offensive was brewing and that, as soon as the Front was secured, it would start. They dearly wanted to be in on it. Meanwhile, as the BEF fought into position, contested by the Germans all the way, they took advantage of their leisure and their motor cars and took it in turn to go joy-riding to the Front. The nearer they could get to the fighting the better they liked it, and they vied with each other, when out of the Colonel’s earshot, to regale the mess at dinner with tales of hair-raising adventure.
They were only very slightly exaggerated, for as the British moved into line, trickling north to face the Germans and, where they could, pushing east to try to turn the enemy flank, there were scraps enough to gratify the heart of the most avid seeker after thrills. They were fighting round the slag heaps at Béthune, Givenchy, La Bassée. They were fighting near Hazebrouck and north of it at Meteren and Bailleul. Beyond that, the cavalry had secured Messines and the long low ridge running north to Ypres. It was almost over. There was now a thin and tenuous line, so sparsely manned along the British Front that they depended on connecting files of cavalry to cover gaps of many miles. But it was a line nevertheless and it stretched uninterrupted from distant Belfort in Alsace to Flanders. But not quite to the North Sea.
On 14 October, at the end of the gruelling trek from Antwerp, the Belgian army stopped on the River Yser and the 7th Division entered the town of Ypres. The Race to the Sea was ended. The line was now complete.