We left that tall tree whose fruits are death ripened and
distributed at the tingle of small bells. The observer
returned to his maps and calculations; the telephone-boy
stiffened up beside his exchange as the amateurs went out of
his life. Some one called down through the branches to ask
who was attending to--Belial, let us say, for I could not
catch the gun's name. It seemed to belong to that terrific
new voice which had lifted itself for the second or third
time. It appeared from the reply that if Belial talked too
long he would be dealt with from another point miles away.
The troops we came down to see were at rest in a chain of
caves which had begun life as quarries and had been fitted up
by the army for its own uses. There were underground
corridors, ante-chambers, rotundas, and ventilating shafts
with a bewildering play of cross lights, so that wherever you
looked you saw Goya's pictures of men-at-arms.
Every soldier has some of the old maid in him, and rejoices in
all the gadgets and devices of his own invention. Death and
wounding come by nature, but to lie dry, sleep soft, and keep
yourself clean by forethought and contrivance is art, and in
all things the Frenchman is gloriously an artist.
Moreover, the French officers seem as mother-keen on their men
as their men are brother-fond of them. Maybe the possessive
form of address: "Mon general," "mon capitaine," helps the
idea, which our men cloke in other and curter phrases. And
those soldiers, like ours, had been welded for months in one
furnace. As an officer said: "Half our orders now need not
be given. Experience makes us think together." I believe,
too, that if a French private has an idea--and they are full
of ideas--it reaches his C. 0. quicker than it does with us.