Their heavy guns were far behind,
unable to keep pace with the storm troops, and the enemy was relying
entirely on machine-guns and a few field-guns, but most of our guns
were also out of action, captured or falling back to new lines, and
upon the speed with which the enemy could mass his men for a new
assault depended the safety of Amiens and the road to Abbeville and
the coast. If he could hurl fresh divisions of men against our line on
that last night of March, or bring up strong forces of cavalry, or
armored cars, our line would break and Amiens would be lost, and all
our work would be in jeopardy. That was certain. It was visible. It
could not be concealed by any camouflage of hope or courage.
It was after a day on the Somme battlefields, passing through our
retiring troops, that I sat down, with other war correspondents and
several officers, to a dinner in the old Hotel du Rhin in Amiens. It
was a dismal meal, in a room where there had been much laughter and,
throughout the battles of the Somme, in 1916, a coming and going of
generals and staffs and officers of all grades, cheery and high-
spirited at these little tables where there were good wine and not bad
food, and putting away from their minds for the time being the thought
of tragic losses or forlorn battles in which they might fall.
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