IN CAMP AND ON THE MARCH
Manoeuvres fall at the end of the military year in the French Army,
being so arranged in order that the second-year conscripts shall pass
out from the Army and back to their ordinary civilian avocations
as soon as they return to barracks and have time to hand in their
equipment and arms. For the majority of these men, it is two years
since they have had time to see their friends, save for a stray day
or two of leave here and there for the man whose people live within a
short distance of the training-place to which he has been drafted, or a
stray visitor who brings news from home to one or other at infrequent
intervals. Thus manoeuvres mean a good deal to the conscript; even the
first-year men catch the infection from their fellows with regard to
the approaching time for going away, and there is as well the sense for
these juniors that, when they return to barracks, they will no longer
be first-year men, but able to advise and instruct such raw recruits
as they themselves were just a year ago. Added to this, again, is the
sense of freedom that comes from knowing of the days of marching,
billeting, and sight of fresh places and people from day to day, and it
will be seen that the change from barrack life with its perpetual round
of work to the constantly varying scenes of manoeuvres is one which is
anticipated with pleasure by all.
About a week, or perhaps more, before the time has come for the army
corps concerned--or the cavalry or other divisions concerned--to set
out on its march to the manoeuvre area, the cavalry and artillery send
out their patrols to gather up the horses which have been boarded
out at farms for the summer, and the men of these patrols are almost
invariably billeted on the inhabitants of the districts round which
they have to ride on their errand. It is a pleasant task, this; the
year is at its best, and summer just so far advanced that the early
rising, the riding through the day, and the evening tasks are alike
easy. The weather is good, the life is not too hard, and the party too
small to admit of strict discipline being maintained; the men know
that their picnic-time is due to their having been specially chosen
as reliable for such work, and consequently they do not abuse their
freedom.
And the horses come in from grass to train for what a horse can never
understand, though it is in the knowledge of all that a horse comes to
know his place in the ranks of the cavalry or in the traces of the gun
team, and would gladly go back to that place after he has been cast out
from the service to drudgery between the two shafts of a cart or cab.
Perhaps the horses have their own thoughts about going on manoeuvres,
and the change from stable life--such of them as have been kept in
stables while the troops are in barracks--to the open air existence
which is theirs in camp.
It is a great day for the conscript when the regiment marches out from
barracks. Farewell for a time, and in the case of the second-year men
farewell for good, to the barrack routine. They leave in barracks the
things they will not require on field service, the materials for what
the British soldier knows as "spit and polish soldiering," and the
conscript starts out with his field kit and equipment, prepared to have
a good time.
The infantry swing out through the barrack gates, a long column of
marching men; they talk among themselves of what they will do when
manoeuvres are over; the second-year men talk of going away, back to
their homes, and of turning their backs on military service; they have
done the duty their country asked of them, and now are at liberty to
think of a good time--almost a holiday, in spite of the hard work and
marching involved, with which they will end their service--to last them
through the coming weeks, after which they will resume civilian attire
and work. It has been a hard business, this conscript period, but
France asked it, and _ma foi_, but we are men now! The stern strictness
of the instructors, the unending discipline imposed by sergeants and
corporals, the everlasting watchfulness of the adjutant over buttons
and boots and the correct method of saluting--proper perspective,
rapidly growing in the mind of the man nearing the end of his second
year, assures him that these things are needs of a good army. And then,
he is going out on manoeuvres, among the apple orchards or the hill
villages; he is going to show the country what its soldiers are like,
and almost, but not quite, he regrets that the end of his period of
military service is nearly in sight. The time to which he looks forward
colours his view of all things; the barracks are behind, and before him
is the open road--that long, straight road which, in so many districts
of France, goes on and on across bare plains, to human sight a thread
laid right across the fabric of the world without bend or divergence.
A road of white dust which, as soon as the barracks are left behind,
rises from the many footsteps of the marching men and envelops the
column. The band in front goes free of the dust, and well it is that
the throats of the bandsmen are not choked and dried with the insidious
stuff, for one marches better, far better, with the music.
Somebody starts a song, for the regiment is marching at ease. A squad
takes it up, and it spreads through the company--the company in rear
has already started its own song, a different one. Interminably that
song goes on, and the miles slip behind. At the end of every hour the
column halts, and its men fall out for five minutes' rest--a good
custom, this, for one can get rid of some of the dust, and often get a
drink of water from a wayside spring--or Jean, who always gets enough
money from home to satisfy the desires of his heart, has brought
a bottle. It would be in the last degree injudicious to incur the
accusation of _faire suisse_ on this first day of the march, and Jean
has long since learned wisdom over such points of etiquette. Jean wants
to keep the bottle till the next halt, but it is pointed out to him
that the morning is already warm, and to carry a bottle for another
hour when one might empty it--with assistance--and be saved the labour
of transporting it further, is very bad judgment. Jean needs little
persuasion--but it is time to fall in and resume the march: the bottle
gets emptied while the column is marching, and Jean is voted _un brave
garçon_--as undoubtedly he is, in other things beside this.
Shrouded in dust the column goes on. The grey-headed colonel is at the
head, then comes the band, and then the men of the regiment follow, at
ease, singing, smoking, chatting together. They pass through a village
street in which is a simple monument to the men who fell in '70, and
the colonel pulls his men up to attention while they pass through the
street. Quietly, and with something ominous in the manner of their
march, the men pass out to the open road again, where "at ease" is
the order once more. But, when they march steadily at attention,
these French infantrymen seem the embodiment of military strength and
efficiency. The Army has taken them and made of them what it meant to
make, and, Breton lad or Paris gamin, they are stamped with the mark
of the Army--they are soldiers of the Republic, marching items which,
apart from their personal characteristics, mean each a rifle and a
bayonet for France when the hour shall strike. Over successive horizons
they go, stopping every hour for their five minutes; they grow heedless
of the band at the head of the column, and scarcely know whether it
is playing or no; one or two fall out, perhaps, for the first days of
the march throw out from the ranks all the unfit; there is a doctor
at hand to see to those who fall out, and the column swings on. Some
time, after what seems to the men very many hours, the band strikes
up definitely and with an indefinable new note--and the men know they
are marching into camp. Food and sleep are not far ahead; the column
stiffens at the call from the grey-haired colonel, and swings on to
the camping-ground apparently as fresh as when the men passed out from
the barrack gate. It is a part of their pride that they should come in
well, should end their march like soldiers and men, not like weaklings.
The cavalry also go out from the barracks with anticipations of good
times ahead. Unlike the infantry, they have to keep formation when
marching at ease as when marching at attention, for you cannot get a
horse to rein back into the rank behind you or come up to the rank in
front of you as easily as you yourself can drop back or go up, and,
moreover, you cannot regain your place in the ranks at the call of
"attention" as an infantryman can. But there are compensations. The
"fours" of men divide into twos, of which each takes one side of the
road; there is room in between the two inner men for the clouds of dust
to roll about, and, although some of the stuff comes up, especially
as regards the rear of the squadron, one is not so much down in it
as the soldier on foot. One sees the country, too; the infantryman,
keeping his place in his company, is just one of a crowd, and, in
marching along and getting very tired--so the cavalryman says--he has
no chance of looking about him and seeing what the country that he
is marching through is like. One's horse does all the work, in the
cavalry march, and one is merely a spectator, enjoying the fine day and
the new scenery. It is good to be in the cavalry, and who would be an
infantryman, when manoeuvres start? Patrol duty, for instance, and the
isolated tasks that take patrols of three and four men to farmhouses
where the milk is good and one is invited--yes, invited!--to pick fruit
from the trees--what infantryman knows anything of joys like these?
Assuredly it is a good thing that one chose to serve in the cavalry.
Supposing it is the first time one has gone out on manoeuvres, there
are all sorts of pleasant speculations in which one can indulge.
Guillaumette, the surly fellow, who when in barracks always occupies
the next bed and snores so atrociously--he who is not always perfectly
innocent of _faire suisse_, though he has the luck of a pig, and never
gets caught at any of his mean tricks--Guillaumette will be going away
when one returns to barracks at the end of the manoeuvres, and who
shall say what pleasant kind of a comrade may not come from among the
new recruits to take his place? Jacques, for instance, who belongs to
the third _peloton_ has a first-year man in the next bed to him, one
who is the son of a deputy, and has always plenty of money. When the
deputy's son was for guard and was warned for duty so late that he
could not possibly get ready in time, Jacques lent him kit and helped
him to turn out, with the result that Jacques had five francs--five
francs, think of it!--with which to go to the canteen. And, soon after
one has got back off manoeuvres, the new recruits will be coming in;
one will be a second-year man, then, with perhaps a deputy's son
to sleep in the next bed and dispense five francs at a time to one
who knows all the little ways of soldiering and can be of use. The
possibilities, both of the manoeuvres themselves and of what comes
after, are endless, and speculation on them is a pleasant business.
Surly old Sergeant Lemaire, too, is almost sure to get promotion this
year, and the _peloton_ will get another sergeant to take charge
of it--certainly not one with a worse temper, for that would be
impossible.
And the long road slips behind, while the troopers conjecture with
regard to their future, talk together of horses bad and good, sergeants
and corporals bad and good, comrades also bad and good; they smoke
as they ride, and talk yet more of horses, for any army of the world
the cavalrymen never tire of talking of horses and their own riding
abilities, while in the French Army boasting of one's own horsemanship,
and all the rest of one's own good qualities, is even more common
than it is among English soldiers. Not that the boasting among either
is carried to a nauseous extent, but the soldier is so subject
to discipline, so used to doing good work with only the official
recognition by way of return, that, knowing the work is good, he talks
about it himself since nobody is there to do the talking for him--and
this is especially true of the cavalry.
Some time ago Conan Doyle created in "Brigadier Gerard" an excellent
picture of a French cavalry officer of the old type, and to some extent
the picture of Gerard--the most human and realistic figure Conan
Doyle has ever penned, by the way--still holds good as regards both
officers and men. One may find in both officers and men of the French
cavalry to-day much of the absolute disregard of risks, rather than
bravery as that is understood among the English, which characterises
the brigadier. There is, too, much of Gerard's vanity in modern French
cavalry officers and men, much of his susceptibility to influence,
and all of his absolute loyalty to a superior. The French cavalryman
will tell his comrades how he dislikes his squadron officer, but he
will follow that squadron officer anywhere and into any danger--his
loyalty is sufficient for any test that may be imposed on him. Like
Gerard, he will brag of the things he has done, will devote much time
to explaining exactly how he did them and how no other man could
have done them just as well, until a British cavalryman, if he were
listening, would tell the speaker to pass the salt and hire a trumpeter
to blow for him. But, though the French cavalryman is true to the
Gerard picture in that he boasts inordinately, it will be found, when
one has got to close acquaintance with him, that he does not boast
without reason. He has done a good thing--why not talk about it, for if
he does not nobody else will? The British attitude toward a boaster is
one of contempt, since the man who boasts generally does little, and
exaggerates that little out of recognition. But the French cavalryman
boasts--and acts too; like the Englishman, he does his work, and,
unlike the Englishman, he talks about it. But it must always be
remembered that he acts as well as talks.
The picture of Gerard, however, is not a faithful portrait of the
French cavalry officer of to-day, for the modern French officer takes
his work far more seriously than Gerard took his, and understands it
more fully. For forty years or more French officers, in common with
the rest of the nation, have known that there would come a life and
death struggle with Germany; they have set themselves to the task of
mastering the difficulties attendant on the crushing of the invaders
and the avenging of Sedan--no matter to what arm of the service the
French officer may belong, he is first a soldier, and after that a man.
Gerard, on the other hand, was man first and officer afterwards. The
difference has been brought about by the training which the Army of
the Third Republic imposes on its officers, and since that Army is a
conscript force, the difference is of itself a necessity.
And it should always be borne in mind, especially by those who deplore
the training of the citizens of France into so huge an army, that the
step has been vital to the life of the nation. With a far smaller
population than Germany, France has been compelled, as a matter of
self-preservation, to keep pace with Germany in the means adopted with
regard to military training, has had to train and arm man for man,
produce gun for gun--and when the hour of trial came it was found that
the preparation had been none too great--there was not one trained
man but was needed to cope with the national enemy, with Prussian
militarism and Prussian greed of conquest. The conscript Army of the
Third Republic, unlike that of its eastern neighbour and unlike the
huge levies that Napoleon the First raised, has been intended as a
means of defence only; the worst enemy of the Republic cannot accuse it
of having maintained all its effective citizens as soldiers with a view
to aggression in any direction. The Army is, because it must be for
the safety of the nation, not because the nation desires territory or
conquest.
And all this time the squadrons are marching along the straight roads
that led over far horizons and to things unguessed, unseen by the
first-year men.
They stop, at intervals along their marching line, to water their
horses, loosen girths, and stretch themselves; they walk about
the roads and look at each other's mounts; they share packets of
cigarettes--those cigarettes made of black French tobacco that wither
the back of the throat when first one inhales smoke from them. The
lieutenant or sub-lieutenant comes round the troop to inspect the
horses and see that all are fit, and the sergeant comes round too,
probably to point out to the lieutenant some loose shoe or rubbing
girth that the less experienced eye of the commissioned youngster has
failed to detect. Then girths are tightened, the men mount again, and
go on, dividing the road between them as before.
As camp draws near, the line of men grows silent, or at least more
silent than at the setting out, and the horses take their work steadily
rather than eagerly, for this is their first day out, and they are not
yet hardened to long marches.
Then camp. The putting down of the lines, grooming, blanketing up for
the night, feeding--one casts a glance over toward where the infantry
have come in and got to their own meals, for this is the time when a
cavalryman may have doubts as to whether it would not have been better,
after all, to have joined the infantry. Unworthy thoughts, these--is
there anything in the world like a cavalryman, for real soldierly merit?
This business of believing one's own branch of the service to be
infinitely superior to any other is carried into the different branches
of the same arm, as well as existing between the three arms as a
whole. The cavalryman knows that service in the cavalry is infinitely
to be preferred to service in infantry or artillery, but further, if he
is a Dragoon, he knows that neither Cuirassier nor Chasseur nor Hussar
is nearly as good as himself, and the Cuirassier, the Chasseur, and the
Hussar have equally strong beliefs about the unquestionable superiority
of their own branches of the cavalry. Each branch, in the opinion of
its members, can produce the best riders, the best shots, the best
all-round soldiers, and the best officers. It is a harmless belief,
maintained quite impersonally.
Evening stables finished, the night guards are warned for their duty,
the men settle down to the chief meal of the day, and later they sleep,
the sound, healthy sleep induced by a long day in the open air. They
waken or are wakened early in the morning, and again they saddle up and
go on, for often the manoeuvre area is many miles from the barracks,
and days may be devoted to straightforward marching before the mimic
warfare begins.
One comes back to the guns, the long, murderous tubes that trail, each
behind six horses, just above the dust of the roads. The drivers are
there and the battery officers, but the seats on the guns are empty,
for the most part, for the gunners have marched out from camp very
early in the morning. The drivers are at a disadvantage, compared
with the men of cavalry or infantry--and even compared with their own
gunners; for if a cavalryman has to keep his place in the ranks when
mounted, then the gunner is absolutely a fixture in the battery. There
can be no dropping back to talk to a comrade, whatever the pretext
may be, for no man could take back with him the horse he is riding
and the one he is leading, when both are in the gun team. The driver
rides sombrely alone; the lead driver keeps his interval from the gun
ahead, the centre driver looks to it that his lead horse does its share
of work on the hills, and the wheel driver takes special care of the
direction of his team when an infrequent corner has to be turned, for
on him depends the track the wheels will make, and where they will run
with relation to the middle of the road. Were there only a lead driver,
the sweep taken on corners would not be wide enough, and it takes some
time to get such a ponderous engine as a 75-millimetre gun out of a
ditch.
The regiment of artillery comes out from barracks in one long column,
perhaps--unless one battery or a greater proportion of the whole has
further to travel than the batteries which take the straightest road.
For, if there are two or more parallel roads leading from the point of
departure to the destination, if it is possible for any considerable
part of the journey to divide up an artillery regiment into separate
batteries, this is done. The civilian has no conception of the length
of line on the road which an artillery regiment of ten batteries would
take up, nor can one who has not experienced the dust of a military
march understand what sort of cloud the last battery of ten would have
to march in. The column goes out as a whole, but as soon as possible
first one battery and then another turns off from the main route. If
there are only two alternate routes, then each alternate battery turns
off, leaving sufficient interval between the rest for the dust of one
to settle before the next shall come along. If there are more than two
roads, all are used, for the more a long column can be broken up into
separate units for a day's march, the sooner will the units of the
column reach their destination.
The fact that the larger a body of men is, the slower it moves, is one
well known to military authorities, though civilians and even many
military men would be prepared to dispute it. It will be seen to be
incontrovertible, though, if one realises that the pace of any body
of men which keeps together as one whole is the pace of the slowest
unit, and, moreover, that when a long column is in progress, not all
its units can keep exactly the same pace as the head of the column.
Consequently there occur a series of checks in the body of the column;
here and there crowding forward occurs, and then the units of the
column concerned in the crowding have to halve in order to rectify
this--or at least have to check their pace for the time. The check may
travel from the centre of the column right down to its rear, and then
there are gaps which have to be corrected, for when a check occurs it
is always prolonged just a little too long a time--and then the head
of the column has to check in order for the rear to catch up. And, the
longer the column, the more of these irritating little checks there
will be, with a net consequence that the column will take relatively
longer to pass a given point or to arrive at a given spot.
Because of these checks, as well as to give more air and comfort to the
men, in all arms of the service intervals are maintained on the march,
and a column is divided up into as many separate units as possible.
Infantry maintain intervals between companies, cavalry maintain
intervals between squadrons, and artillery maintain intervals between
batteries, while the two mounted arms split up their columns if
parallel roads are available, for the intervals do not quite compensate
for the checks described, and, the smaller the units of the force can
be made by means of separate roads, the shorter will be the march
between two points.