SIR JOHN FRENCH
A few miles south of La Fère, the Brigade was halted in an orchard for
its midday rest. Taking from his pockets the various parts of his safety
razor, the Subaltern screwed them together, and with the help of a bit
of soap, from which the biscuit crumbs and chocolate dust of his
haversack had first to be carefully scraped, he shaved. As he was
returning, lovingly fingering his once more smooth cheeks, he saw three
large Daimler limousines draw up opposite the lines, and recognised them
immediately as the authorised pattern of car for the use of the higher
British Generals in the field.
An Officer hurriedly got out, and held open the door with great
deference, while a second alighted. The Subaltern easily recognised
both. The first was the Chief of the General Staff--Sir Archibald
Murray. He was a figure of middle height, with a slight stoop, and slow
movements. His face was kindly, mobile--not at all the conventional
military face. The mouth was tight shut, as if to suppress all the
little humours and witticisms that teemed in the quick blue eyes.
The other figure, short and dapper in build, quick and nervous in
motion, need not be described. The blue eyes, the pink skin and white
hair of the Field-Marshal Commanding-in-Chief are known wherever our
language is spoken.
Two of the Colonels came forward and saluted as only a senior officer
can. A private salutes like a machine; a subaltern is awkward, but a
senior officer manages somehow to insinuate into this simple movement
deference and admiration, backed, as it were, with determination and
self-reliance.
It is as if he were to say: "I have the greatest esteem for you as a
great man. I admire your brain and breeding, and will execute your
commands with the precision and promptitude that they deserve. But in a
lesser sort of way I am just the same, a great man; do not forget it!"
And in response the salute of the great man seems to say: "I heartily
appreciate the deference which you have shown me, and honour it the more
as it comes from such a man as you." Like the bow of a Versailles
courtier, it has its finer points, and is not to be learnt either soon
or easily.
The men were called round without any formality, and Sir John French
began immediately to address them. It was not the first time that the
Subaltern had heard him speak. As Chief of the Imperial General Staff,
he used to inspect and address the Cadets of the Royal Military College,
Sandhurst, at the end of each term. And he did it well. The Subaltern
remembered the sight of the long parade--"three sides of a square" the
formation was called--and the Generals with the skirts of their "frock"
coats and the feathers in their hats blowing in the wind. But in spite
of the absence of red coats, and the stiffness of parade, this was a
more moving harangue than any he had heard on the parade ground at
Sandhurst.
The Field-Marshal said that the greatest battle that had ever been
fought was just over. It had rolled with the fury of a cyclone from
Belfort to Mons. Nearly two million men had been engaged, and the
British Army had emerged from the contest covered with glory, having for
three days maintained an unbroken front in the face of an overwhelming
superiority in numbers. Never had he been more proud to be a British
soldier than he was that day. The Regiment had added yet another branch
to its laurel wreath. It had more than sustained its ancient traditions
for endurance and courage. He was proud of it.
The enemy had been nearly five to one, and yet had been unable to
inflict defeat upon them. If they had been "broken," the whole of the
French left would have assuredly perished. Thanks to their endurance and
obedience in the face of great provocation and privation, the Allied
armies were now free from the dangers that had threatened them. No one
knew better than he did that they would continue to be as brave, as
reliable, and as soldierly in the future, as they had been in the past,
until final victory had been fully accomplished!....
How they cheered him as he made his way to his car!
At first the Tommies had not realised what was happening. There had been
disturbing cries of "What's all this abart?" "Oo's the 'ole bloke?" But
they had soon ceased, and in a few seconds the men were crowding round
with eager faces, hanging on the words of their leader. He commiserated
with them upon their losses; he understood what they had been through.
In a word, he appreciated them, and in the Army appreciation is a "rare
and refreshing fruit." Although they would have died rather than own it,
there was a feeling of tears behind the eyes of a good many of those
tough old warriors. The personality of the Field-Marshal, and his
heartening words, had brightened many a grim face, and lightened many a
heavy load.