Fall of Giants

But next morning, Friday, September 4, to the delight of the French defenders, von Kluck continued southeast. That was enough for General Joffre. He gave orders for the French Sixth Army to move out from Paris the following morning and strike at von Kluck’s rearguard.

But the British continued to retreat.

Fitz was in despair that evening when he met Gini at Albert’s. “This is our last chance,” he explained to her over a champagne cocktail that did nothing to cheer him up. “If we can seriously rattle the Germans now, when they are exhausted and their supply lines are fully stretched, we may bring their advance to a halt. But if this counterattack fails, Paris will fall.”

She was sitting on a bar stool, and she crossed her long legs with a whisper of silk stockings. “But why are you so gloomy?”

“Because, at a time like this, the British are retreating. If Paris falls now, we will never live down the shame of it.”

“General Joffre must confront Sir John and demand that the British fight! You must speak to Joffre yourself!”

“He doesn’t give audience to British majors. Besides, he would probably think it was some kind of trick by Sir John. And I would be in deep trouble, not that I care about that.”

“Then speak to one of his advisers.”

“Same problem. I can’t walk into French army headquarters and announce that the British are betraying them.”

“But you could have a quiet word in the ear of General Lourceau, without anyone knowing about it.”

“How?”

“He is sitting over there.”

Fitz followed her gaze and saw a Frenchman of about sixty in civilian clothes sitting at a table with a young woman in a red dress.

“He is very amiable,” Gini added.

“You know him?”

“We were friends for a while, but he preferred Lizette.”

Fitz hesitated. Once again he was contemplating going behind the backs of his superiors. But this was no time for niceties. Paris was at stake. He had to do whatever he could.

“Introduce me,” he said.

“Give me a minute.” Gini slid elegantly off her stool and walked across the club, swaying slightly to the ragtime piano, until she came to the general’s table. She kissed him on the lips, smiled at his companion, and sat down. After a few moments’ earnest conversation she beckoned to Fitz.

Lourceau stood up and the two men shook hands. “I’m honored to meet you, sir,” Fitz said.

“This is not the place for serious conversation,” the general said. “But Gini assures me that what you have to say to me is terribly urgent.”

“It most certainly is,” Fitz said, and he sat down.

{III}

Next day Fitz went to the British camp at Melun, twenty-five miles southeast of Paris, and learned to his dismay that the Expeditionary Force was still retreating.

Perhaps his message had not got through to Joffre. Or perhaps it had, and Joffre simply felt there was nothing he could do.

Fitz entered Vaux-le-Pénil, the magnificent Louis XV château Sir John was using as headquarters, and ran into Colonel Hervey in the hall. “May I ask, sir, why we are retreating when our allies are launching a counterattack?” he said as politely as he could.

“No, you may not ask,” said Hervey.

Fitz persisted, suppressing his anger. “The French feel they and the Germans are evenly balanced, and even our small force may tip the scales.”

Hervey laughed scornfully. “I’m sure they do.” He spoke as if the French had no right to demand the help of their allies.

Fitz felt himself losing self-control. “Paris could be lost because of our timidity!”

“Do not dare to use such a word, Major.”

“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.