In the excitement and the eagerness of the first offensive, the
French seemed to have forgotten the lessons of prudence that the
long retreat should have ingrained into their memory, and they
sought to take every village that was occupied by the Germans with
a rush. The loss of life was greatest at a point four miles east
of Meaux. There, on a sharp, tree-covered ridge, the Germans had
intrenched, and gun platforms had been placed under the screen
of the trees. An almost incessant hail of shrapnel fell on these
lines, and the French infantry charges were repulsed again and
again, with but little loss on the German line. But, meantime,
village after village had been attacked by the French and carried
with the bayonet, and on Sunday, September 6th, 1914, that part
of the battles of the Marne which dealt with the driving back of
the Germans to the line of the Ourcq, was in some of its feature
like a hand-to-hand conflict of ages long gone by. Yet, overhead
aeroplanes circled, on every side shells were bursting, the heavy
smell of blood on a hot day mingled with the explosive fumes, but
the Zouaves and the Turcos fought without ceasing and with a force
and spirit that went far to win for the French the cheering news
that village after village had been freed of the invaders.
When the night of that Sunday fell, however, on the line of the
Ourcq, the balm of darkness seemed to be almost as much a forgotten
thing as the blessedness of silence.
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