One morning in a little restaurant in Paris I was talking with a British
army-captain. The young soldier was a typical Englishman, quiet,
reserved, but plainly a little excited. He had just been promoted to his
captaincy and had received one week's "permission" for a rest in Paris.
We had both come down from near Messines Ridge.
"Of course," said the English captain, "the French are the greatest
soldiers in the world."
"Why do you say that?" I answered. "What could be more wonderful than
the heroism, the endurance of the British at Vimy Ridge? They seem to me
more like young gods than men."
To which the captain answered: "But you must remember that England has
never been invaded. Look at my company! Their equipment is right from
helmet to shoe, so perfectly drilled are they that the swing of their
right legs is like the swing of one pendulum. I will put my British
company against the world. Still I must confess this, that, so far as I
know, no English division of fifteen thousand men ever came home at
night with more than five thousand prisoners.
"But look at the French boys at Verdun! As for clothes, one had a
helmet, another a hat, or a cap, or was bareheaded. One had red
trousers, one had gray trousers and one had fought until he had only
rags left. When they got within ten rods of the German trench they were
so anxious to reach the Boche that they forgot to shoot and lifted up
their big bayonets, while they shouted, 'For God and France!'
"That night when that French division came back ten thousand strong they
brought more than ten thousand German prisoners with them to spend the
night inside of barbed wire fences.
"The reason is this: These Frenchmen fought for home and fireside. They
fought against an invader who had murdered their daughters and mothers.
The Huns will never defeat France. Before that could be done," exclaimed
the English captain, "there would not be a man left in France to explain
the reason for his defeat."