Soon after leaving Mailly we had the privilege of beholding some of
the four hundred centimetre guns of France, all prepared and
ready to travel at a minute's notice along the railway lines to the
section where they might be needed. Some idea of their size may
be obtained from the fact that there were ten axles to the base on
which they travel. They were all disguised by the system of
camouflage employed by the French Army, and at a very short
distance they blend with the landscape and become almost
invisible. Each gun bears a different name, "Alsace," "Lorraine,"
etc., and with that strange irony and cynical wit of the French
trooper, at the request of the men of one battery, one huge gun
has been christened "Mosquito," "Because it stings."
The French often use a bitter and biting humour in speaking of the
enemy. For instance, amongst the many pets of the men, the
strangest I saw was a small hawk sitting on the wrist of a soldier
who had trained him. The bird was the personification of evil. If any
one approached he snapped at them and endeavoured to bite
them. I asked the man why he kept him, and he replied that they
had quite good sport in the trenches when they allowed the hawk
to hunt small birds and field mice. Then his expression changing
from jovial good humour to grimness, he added, "You know, I call
him 'Zepp,' because he kills the little ones," (parcequ'il tue les tous
petits.)