“We were sent here to save France. This may be the decisive battle.” Fitz could not help raising his voice. “If Paris is lost, and France with it, how will we explain, back home, that we were resting at the time?”
Instead of replying, Hervey stared over Fitz’s shoulder. Fitz turned to see a heavy, slow-moving figure in French uniform: a black tunic that was unbuttoned over the large waist, ill-fitting red breeches, tight leggings, and the red-and-gold cap of a general pulled low over the forehead. Colorless eyes glanced at Fitz and Hervey from under salt-and-pepper eyebrows. Fitz recognized General Joffre.
When the general had lumbered past, followed by his entourage, Hervey said: “Are you responsible for this?”
Fitz was too proud to lie. “Possibly,” he said.
“You haven’t heard the last of it,” Hervey said, and he turned and hurried after Joffre.
Sir John received Joffre in a small room with only a few officers present, and Fitz was not among them. He waited in the officers’ mess, wondering what Joffre was saying and whether he could persuade Sir John to end the shameful British retreat and join in the assualt.
He learned the answer two hours later from Lieutenant Murray. “They say Joffre tried everything,” Murray reported. “He begged, he wept, and he insinuated that British honor was in danger of being forever besmirched. And he won his point. Tomorrow we turn north.”
Fitz grinned broadly. “Hallelujah,” he said.
A minute later Colonel Hervey approached. Fitz stood up politely.
“You’ve gone too far,” Hervey said. “General Lourceau told me what you did. He thought he was paying you a compliment.”
“I shan’t deny it,” Fitz said. “The outcome suggests that it was the right thing.”
“You listen to me, Fitzherbert,” Hervey said, lowering his voice. “You’re fucking finished. You’ve been disloyal to a superior officer. There’s a black mark against your name that will never be erased. You won’t get promotion, even if the war goes on for a year. Major you are and major you will always be.”
“Thank you for your frankness, Colonel,” said Fitz. “But I joined the army to win battles, not promotions.”
Sir John’s advance on Sunday was embarrassingly cautious, Fitz felt, but to his relief it was enough to force von Kluck to meet the threat by sending troops he could not easily spare. Now the German was fighting on two fronts, west and south, every commander’s nightmare.
Fitz woke up on Monday morning, after a night on a blanket on the chateau floor, feeling optimistic. He had breakfast in the officers’ mess, then waited impatiently for the spotter planes to return from their morning sortie. War was either a mad dash or futile inactivity. In the grounds of the chateau was a church said to date from the year 1000, and he went to look at it, but he had never really understood what people saw in old churches.
The reconnaissance debriefing took place in the magnificent salon overlooking the park and the river. The officers sat on camp chairs at a cheap board table with lavish eighteenth-century decor all around them. Sir John had a jutting chin and a mouth that seemed, underneath the white walrus mustache, to be permanently twisted into an expression of injured pride.
The aviators reported that there was open country ahead of the British force, because the German columns were marching away north.
Fitz was elated. The Allied counterattack had been unexpected, and the Germans had been caught napping, it seemed. Of course they would regroup soon, but for now they seemed to be in trouble.
He waited for Sir John to order a rapid advance but, disappointingly, the commander simply confirmed the limited objectives set earlier.
Fitz wrote his report in French, then got into his car. He drove the twenty-five miles to Paris as fast as he could against the flow of trucks, cars, and horse-drawn vehicles leaving the city, crammed with people and piled high with luggage, heading south to escape the Germans.
In Paris he was delayed by a formation of dark-skinned Algerian troops marching across the city from one railway station to another. Their officers rode mules and wore bright red cloaks. As they passed, women gave them flowers and fruit, and cafe proprietors brought them cold drinks.
When they had passed, Fitz drove on to Les Invalides and took his report into the school.
Once again, the British reconnaissance confirmed the French reports. Some German forces were retreating. “We must press the attack!” said the old general. “Where are the British?”
Fitz went to the map and pointed to the British position and the marching objectives given by Sir John for the end of the day.
“It’s not enough!” said Gallieni angrily. “You must be more aggressive! We need you to attack, so that von Kluck will be too busy with you to reinforce his flank. When will you cross the river Marne?”
Fitz could not say. He felt ashamed. He agreed with every caustic word Gallieni uttered, but he could not admit it, so he merely said: “I will emphasize this to Sir John most strongly, General.”
But Gallieni was already figuring out how to compensate for British lassitude. “We will send the 7th Division of the 4 Corps to reinforce Manoury’s army on the Ourcq River this afternoon,” he said decisively.
Immediately his staff began to write out orders.
Then Colonel Dupuys said: “General, we don’t have enough trains to get them all there by this evening.”
“Then use cars,” said Gallieni.
“Cars?” Dupuys looked baffled. “Where would we get that many cars?”
“Hire taxis!”
Everyone in the room stared at him. Had the general gone off his head?
“Telephone the chief of police,” said Gallieni. “Tell him to order his men to stop every taxi in the city, kick out the passengers, and direct the drivers here. We will fill them with soldiers and send them to the battlefield.”
Fitz grinned when he realized Gallieni was serious. This was the kind of attitude he liked. Let’s do whatever it takes, just so long as we win.
Dupuys shrugged and picked up a telephone. “Please get the chief of police on the phone immediately,” he said.
Fitz thought: I have to see this.
He went outside and lit a cigar. He did not have long to wait. After a few minutes a red Renault taxi came across the Alexander III Bridge, drove around the large ornamental lawn, and parked in front of the main building. It was followed by two more, then a dozen, then a hundred.
In a couple of hours several hundred identical red taxis were parked at Les Invalides. Fitz had never seen anything like it.
The cabbies leaned against their cars, smoking pipes and talking animatedly, waiting for instructions. Every driver had a different theory as to why they were there.
Eventually Dupuys came out of the school and across the street with a loud-hailer in one hand and a sheaf of army requisition slips in the other. He climbed on the bonnet of a taxi, and the drivers fell quiet.
“The military commander of Paris requires five hundred taxis to go from here to Blagny,” he shouted through the megaphone.
The drivers stared at him in incredulous silence.
“There each car will pick up five soldiers and drive them to Nanteuil.”
Nanteuil was thirty miles east and very close to the front line. The drivers began to understand. They looked at one another, nodding and grinning. Fitz guessed they were pleased to be part of the war effort, especially in such an unusual way.
“Please take one of these forms before you leave and fill it out in order to claim payment on your return.”
There was a buzz of reaction. They were going to get paid! That clinched their support.
“When five hundred cars have left, I will give instructions for the next five hundred. Vive Paris! Vive la France!”
The drivers broke into wild cheering. They mobbed Dupuys for the forms. Fitz, delighted, helped distribute the papers.
Soon the little cars began to leave, turning around in front of the great building and heading across the bridge in the sunshine, sounding their horns in enthusiasm, a long bright red lifeline to the forces on the battlefront.
