During those awful black days when slowly, slowly
and horribly, French and British and Belgians fought a backward fight, day
after day and hour after hour, losing now a yard, now a mile, but always
going back--then it was that with the dreadful weight of superior
numbers--maybe twenty to one--the Germans had a chance to win. Then it was
they lost, and lost for all time.
All through this rearguard action there was the Mad Major. Mounted on his
airy steed, he flitted above the clouds, below the clouds. Sometimes
swallowed in the smoke of the enemy's big guns; sometimes diving to avoid a
shell; sometimes staggering as though wounded, but always righting himself.
There would be the Mad Major each day, over the rearguard troops, seeming
to shelter them. He would harry the German line; he would drop a bomb, flit
back, and with a brave "We've got them, boys," cheer the sinking spirits of
the wearied foot soldiers.
The Mad Major was a wonder. Every part of the line he visited, and was
known the length and breadth of the Allied armies.
Though for the moment the Mad Major had disappeared from our view, we were
to hear more of him later on.
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