was a good soldier, a hard bitten, dyed in the
wool, regular army officer with a great contempt for the Virginia
militia, and an over confident belief that the British soldier was
invincible. He believed absolutely that the methods of war that were
used on European battlefields would overwhelm anything in America, and
he liked to see his redcoats with their boots polished and their
buttons furbished, marching in solid platoon formation, turning and
wheeling with the mathematical regularity of a machine. His men were
drilled and disciplined until they were automatons, for Braddock was a
martinet. Their ranks ran true, their equipment was in the pink of
soldierly condition; the sunlight glittered from their bayonets, you
could see your face in their leather accouterments, and Braddock
proudly marched them into the American woods as though they were
parading on the Strand in London. When Washington warned him of the
dangers of ambush, urging that an advance guard and scouts be thrown
out, Braddock turned scornfully away, believing that a volley or two
from his brave regulars would soon drive off any foes that might fall
upon him, and he said bluntly that when he desired advice from his
subordinates he would ask for it.

As his men were marching in close formation, their red coats blazing
against the dark green of the forest, shifting figures were seen in the
trees ahead, a French officer suddenly appeared cheering them on to the
attack, and with shouts and yells an unseen enemy shot down the
Britishers from the protection of fallen trees, from behind rocks and
stumps, and from the concealment of forest branches.

The redcoats fell by scores and were thrown into hopeless confusion.
They were not used to fighting a hidden foe, and were appalled by the
death in their midst as well as by the wild cries and war whoops that
echoed from the forest. Braddock, waving his sword, ordered his
platoons to wheel and advance in solid formation into the woods--and
the platoons were wiped out like sheep in a slaughter pit as they tried
to obey the hopeless order. But the despised Virginia militia,
experienced in Indian fighting, spread out in open order at the head of
the column and kept the enemy in check, while Braddock with hopeless
bravery attempted to rally his men. It was in vain. The dismal cries
and yells continued. The bullets sang overhead like a swarm of wasps,
British officers dropped at the shots of invisible sharpshooters, w