The eyes grow dimmer. The mind fades away. The memories grow fainter.  And yet I can still recall vividly that terrible day in 1914 when death had me in its cold clutches, only to have its prey snatched away by the hosts of heaven.  I’ve heard all the stories about how it didn’t happen, how it was no more than a piece of imaginative writing, a piece of propaganda … and yet I saw them … the Angels of Mon.

My time is at an end, a time when another war bestrides Europe and all I can think about now at the end of my life are the mates I lost in a battle that took place twenty-five years ago and the angels from heaven that saved me.

History recalls the Battle of Mon which occurred in Belgium on August 23rd 1914 between the British Expeditionary Force and the German Army. After concentrating near Maubeuge in France, we had moved up to Mons ready to advance further into Belgium. I was part of the Middlesex Fusiliers. It was the start of the war and spirits were high. When dawn broke on that August day - a beautiful dawn that quickly turned dark. Seventy-five thousand men with three hundred guns faced one hundred and fifty of the enemy with six hundred guns.

There was so much slaughter and carnage in that war … how does one describe it? There are much better wordsmiths than I. It is impossible to convey what it was like unless you were part of a war, of a battle; I do not know how to relate such things. The enemy threw everything at us; they outgunned us with their superior artillery. I lost Gordon, Terry and Michael or within the first ten minutes of battle. Death is so strange, one moment they are there and the next they are not.  Mates I grew up with went to school with, played football with.  I suppose that no one is truly dead as long as they are remembered by someone, yet I can barely recall their faces now, nothing but jumbled images in a mind marred by fog.

Although our foe was strong we managed to slow their murderous advance with our rifles, we were all accurate shots. But although we fought bravely, making the enemy earn every inch of ground they took, but slowly and surely their numbers began to overwhelm us. The orders were finally given to begin the retreat; we were one of the last battalions to move back as an orderly and sustained withdrawal was the only way to keep the casualties down. It was late afternoon when we moved out. A thick blanket of smoke and mist covered the battlefield. The orange orb of the sun could barely pierce the shroud as it sank beneath the horizon … I remember that. 

We thought we were safe, that we would make it, but suddenly the ground began to explode around us, earth, mud, rocks and limbs flew into the air. It was a cauldron of death. The German barrage mowed us down like a scythe cutting wheat, effectively blocking off our retreat. When the ground stopped shaking, the enemy charged and the close quarter combat began, bayonet versus bayonet. The true horror of any foot soldier.

At this time my memory evades me, whether willing or unwillingly I cannot say, perhaps my mind just does not wish to remember. I fought and somehow survived, but we were overrun and surrounded. All around me pitched battles were taking place. The orderly retreat was seemingly about to become a route. It was then that an odd angry shot got me in the chest, puncturing a lung. I staggered and slumped to my knees. A coldness gripped me. Then the German Calvary charged intent on finishing us with the deadly tips of their lances. Orders were given to make for a small nearby mound where we might be able to offer a defense.

I could not move. 

In that moment I offered my soul to God. I was ready to lay down my body in that hellish place.

I was only twenty-two.

Then the Angels arrived.

The enemy Calvary pulled up, the riders reigning in their mounts that refused to go any further. So abrupt was the halt that many a German rider was thrown off their horse, crashing hard to the ground. The German horses were terrified and stampeded in all directions.

A mass of armored Angels on horseback had appeared from out of the mist between us and the enemy. A squadron of phantoms. The hooves of their horses not touching the ground, yet the noise of their bridle and snouts clearly evident as were the metal scrapping sounds of swords being drawn, shields being raised and armor clinking. The host was corporeal and solid, fading and transforming from one to the other. And then there were their faces, ageless, not a mark or wrinkle upon them, pale and yet full of life, their eyes a multitude of emotions, anger, love, hatred, truth, justice … I saw all this and more as they stood silently between the two armies preventing anymore conflict, daring the enemy or us for that matter to take up arms.

Later I learned from others that they remained for over twenty minutes thus allowing for the final retreat of our forces. The enemy could not get at us.

But I saw none of this.

My body grew colder.

My life ebbed out from the hole in my chest.

Oblivion awaited me.

But it was then that one of the Angel riders came up to me and gently took my dying body up into their arms, placing me on their horse and delivering me to safety, giving me the strength to live, whispering words into my ear, words I could not understand or make out, they were like a fly buzzing in my ear. But they filled my body with warmth and my soul with love and hope.

When I came to several days later the doctor who treated me would not speak about how I came to the field hospital, but I could see fear in his eyes. And of course there were the hushed whispers among the nurses about the Angel that brought me to safety. When the story appeared in the papers, those that were there would not speak of it or even admit that something happened that day. In time it became just another strange and bizarre tale from that terrible war; even a waltz was composed about it.

Did it happen?  Were they avenging Angels from heaven, a spectral army, or some otherworldly beings from another realm? I cannot say. What I can confirm is that they were real - it did happen … I was there. One thing is certain; a miracle did take place that day, despite overwhelming odds and heavy casualties, our retreat was successful and the British Army remained an effective fighting force.

Even now as the light of the world around me goes out I still see the face of that guardian Angel that saved me … and it comforts me greatly.

John Cooper Middlesex England November 21st 1939.

                                               Author’s Note

To this day no real satisfactory explanation has been given to explain the strange events that took place at the Battle of Mons. Most experts believe that it was just made up; a propaganda tool to show that heaven was on the side of the British. But there are still the eyewitness accounts. One final point, is that several decades ago a diary belonging to a German Soldier from WorldWar1 was discovered that spoke about this incident and mentioned the angelic host. Unfortunately the diary has since been lost.

Peter Jessop © April 2019