Everything has been said about Breton sailors, born from the rock and just as unshakeable, used to the rough lash of the waves, sons of a poor land where the church steeple rises over the golden gorse; faithful to their traditions and beliefs, with a faith that is affirmed as purely at the foot of the altar as when facing the enemy. They are men of the sea who know its surprises, its tricks, its secrets, as well as men of the land who know how to fight there. When Germany sent the flower of its youth against the frail defences of the Yser, drunk with blood lust, understanding that the fall of their country would be played out in this attack, when the wave surged forth it broke upon the naval artillery. They were there with a few Belgian units, ready to die, and some territorials; they were there and no way would the Germans break through. The enemy was repulsed, the battle won, France was saved, and they were re-embarked; the marine fusiliers resumed their monotonous service at sea, but their honour remained without blemish, like the ermine on the old heraldic emblem of Brittany.