First Offensive- The Marine Campaign for Guadalcanal
Sep 19, 2026 · 6 hr 33 min · 72 segments
"Daredevil of the Army" offers a gripping glimpse into the life of Austin Patrick Corcoran, who shares his experiences as a "Buzzer" and Despatch Rider. This audiobook captures the audacity and…
After the manner of a distinguished countryman, I speak my own prologue, not that I may the better explain the action of the coming piece, but rather that I may tell the reason of its being.
"I learned," wrote Sir John French concerning activities round Mons, "that General Longrezac was retreating on my right, that at least three German corps were moving against our front and another German corps trying to turn our left wing.
Whereupon it was decided to fall back." "I learned..." Suppose he had not learned.
Suppose he had defied von Kluck, quite unaware that von Bulow, also victorious, was threatening his flank.
"I learned..." "Information reached me..." The public reads the words every day, never once pausing to consider what they signify.
"The news reached me..." How? Before the eyes of the initiated rises the picture of the despatch rider, tissue paper strapped to his finger, revolver strapped to his waist, scurrying at his 60-odd miles an hour over a shell-shot and often enemy-infested highway.
The motorcycle Despatch Corps belongs to that branch of the British service which is known as the signal section of the Royal Engineers.
Metaphorically, and very happily, this branch has been named the nerves of the modern army.
They supply the channels through which the brain of the command communicates its orders to the main body.
Block those channels, disconnect the mind from any single member.
Immediately that member becomes paralytic, so to speak, unable to move, or at least to make its movements articulate with those of the other members.
Now suppose this huge body extended over a surface of some 50 miles.
Suppose it at rest, as we shall see it later in our narrative, when the armies had settled down to the trench deadlock.
An elaborate nervous system composed of some thousand of telephone cables, telegraph lines, wireless aerials, and the hundred other minor signaling apparatus keep all its parts in intimate intercommunication.
Radiating over the whole line, they all issue from a single point, general headquarters, the seat of army authority.
Where is the fighting most stubborn, the casualties most severe, the supplies most scarce, the men most exhausted? A quivering nerve tells the tale of the strength or weakness of each individual member, and the brain issues its orders accordingly.
A comparatively easy matter is this maintenance of the nervous system when the armies are, comparatively speaking, at rest.
But put the great body in continuous movement, as it was in the retreat from Mons, or in the advance after Marne, or in the swift sweep forward from the Somme, or falling back again, surely but slowly, as it was in the great spring drive of 1918.
Immediately that elaborate system of cable and aerial communication collapses more or less according to the speed of the movement and the effectiveness of enemy fire.
Individual effort, of course, is exerted to keep it intact, but it is a shaky system at best, ever on the verge of sudden collapse, and yet now, above all times, such a system is essential if the success of the advance or retreat is to be maintained.
For if the body advances a foot on one section of the line while the other foot remains in its old position, at once the stability of the whole body is threatened.
Either the first foot must be withdrawn or it must receive adequate support, else it will be cut off or become paralysed.
Information reached me, writes French, concerning the Battle of the Aisne, that the enemy had obtained a footing between the First and Second Army Corps and threatened to cut off communications.
After the manner of a distinguished countryman, I speak my own prologue, not that I may the better explain the action of the coming piece, but rather that I may tell the reason of its being.
"I learned," wrote Sir John French concerning activities round Mons, "that General Longrezac was retreating on my right, that at least three German corps were moving against our front and another German corps trying to turn our left wing.
Whereupon it was decided to fall back." "I learned..." Suppose he had not learned.
Suppose he had defied von Kluck, quite unaware that von Bulow, also victorious, was threatening his flank.
"I learned..." "Information reached me..." The public reads the words every day, never once pausing to consider what they signify.
"The news reached me..." How? Before the eyes of the initiated rises the picture of the despatch rider, tissue paper strapped to his finger, revolver strapped to his waist, scurrying at his 60-odd miles an hour over a shell-shot and often enemy-infested highway.
The motorcycle Despatch Corps belongs to that branch of the British service which is known as the signal section of the Royal Engineers.
Metaphorically, and very happily, this branch has been named the nerves of the modern army.
They supply the channels through which the brain of the command communicates its orders to the main body.
Block those channels, disconnect the mind from any single member.
Immediately that member becomes paralytic, so to speak, unable to move, or at least to make its movements articulate with those of the other members.
Now suppose this huge body extended over a surface of some 50 miles.
Suppose it at rest, as we shall see it later in our narrative, when the armies had settled down to the trench deadlock.
An elaborate nervous system composed of some thousand of telephone cables, telegraph lines, wireless aerials, and the hundred other minor signaling apparatus keep all its parts in intimate intercommunication.
Radiating over the whole line, they all issue from a single point, general headquarters, the seat of army authority.
Where is the fighting most stubborn, the casualties most severe, the supplies most scarce, the men most exhausted? A quivering nerve tells the tale of the strength or weakness of each individual member, and the brain issues its orders accordingly.
A comparatively easy matter is this maintenance of the nervous system when the armies are, comparatively speaking, at rest.
But put the great body in continuous movement, as it was in the retreat from Mons, or in the advance after Marne, or in the swift sweep forward from the Somme, or falling back again, surely but slowly, as it was in the great spring drive of 1918.
Immediately that elaborate system of cable and aerial communication collapses more or less according to the speed of the movement and the effectiveness of enemy fire.
Individual effort, of course, is exerted to keep it intact, but it is a shaky system at best, ever on the verge of sudden collapse, and yet now, above all times, such a system is essential if the success of the advance or retreat is to be maintained.
For if the body advances a foot on one section of the line while the other foot remains in its old position, at once the stability of the whole body is threatened.
Either the first foot must be withdrawn or it must receive adequate support, else it will be cut off or become paralysed.
Information reached me, writes French, concerning the Battle of the Aisne, that the enemy had obtained a footing between the First and Second Army Corps and threatened to cut off communications.
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