French, but war as it is to-day, is no school of politeness, but of
vigour and energy. A new _naivete_ accompanied the new strength of soul,
and one of its manifestations was an art, which at other moments would
have astonished by its crudity and garishness. It was visible in the
shop-windows, where cards showed the soldier in the trench. Above him,
in a luminous break in filmy clouds, appeared the vision of the wife and
children gathered about the evening lamp. They were thinking obviously
of the absent "papa." Maudlin and mawkish though it was, it appealed to
the simple soul. Exile from the social round, from the life of affairs,
from the frequentation of cafes and theatres in the small country towns,
had affected the mentality of the countryman. This incredible existence
of the trenches, with its hairbreadth escapes and daily incidents in
which life and death played a tragic game of hide-and-seek, developed
such essential manliness and such rough and hearty heroism that the
mechanism of the mind reverted to the simplest expression. Before the
great and serious question of to be or not to be, the minor aspects of
life ceased to have importance. A man dying of hunger does not discuss
ortolans or peacocks' tongues, nor do the subtleties of sauce appeal to
the meatless. And the soldier of France, divorced from his usual
pleasures, and being in no mind to complicate existence, turns to the
readiest and simplest forms of literary or pictorial expression to
satisfy his emotions: it might be the cinematograph behind the lines, it
might be the _feuilleton_ in the halfpenny paper.
No doubt the mass became infected with the peasant spirit, for peasants
formed the bulk of the army, especially when the townsman became the
munition-worker. The peasant's mind is both childlike and suspicious,
slow to anger, secretive, inclined to deep reflection. He attaches
himself slowly, and only after long proof, to those who win his
reluctant confidence, and deeply tenacious are his purposes. He will
defend his land to the death; he loves it as he loves liberty. He
insists on his independence as he insists upon equality, and only upon
that principle will he submit to discipline. Injustice arouses his
intense resentment, and General Gallieni's crusade against the shirker
found its deepest roots and efficacy in his tacit recognition.
The fact that it was a war to resist invasion made it a holy war,
differing intrinsically from a war of aggression, which would never have
gained his whole-hearted support. The Great War awakened the old
vehemence of the race, which first revealed its astounding power at the
battle of Valmy, where the shoeless hosts of the Revolution shook the
proudest might of Prussia. That was the birth of the National Army,
which, a century and a quarter later, was to come to such extraordinary
development. The nation coalesced in 1792 against the foreign tyrant,
but that union lacked the complete union of 1914, though it made up in
intensity of spirit what it needed in numbers. The Revolution fought
for liberty against a caste system; then, as now, the peasant recognised
that he was defending his own ground--not the privileges of feudal
Europe--and the knowledge made him strong. A man is always formidable in
defending his own. In the same way, the French patriot realised that
militarism had forced the German to make war upon his peaceful
neighbour. In the hospitals I have seen the soldier share with the sick
German prisoner dainties that had been brought to him. "Poor devil, he
was forced to fight against us," he would say, showing his realisation
of the intimate differences of the two. In _his_ case it was a
privilege to fight; he was defending his own fields against the hordes;
in the other, a blind obedience to the State compelled him to take arm.
One was a virtual volunteer in a sacred cause, the other the victim of
German Imperialism. It was well to know what one was fighting for, and
when one had realised the grandeur of the cause, then heat and cold, mud
and rats, and even occasional shortness of rations became of small
account. The issue was paramount.
The French soldier was actuated by a deep love of country. In his
mortal breast beat the immortal heart of France. When the bugle
sounded, as M. Charles Humbert, the Senator Editor has told us, there
was a magnificent hastening to the frontier. The fighting souls of the
people reappeared, the old memory of struggles was reawakened. "We
dreamed of heroic encounters, of brilliant actions, of sublime gestures,
of flags conquered in the sun. The reality, alas, was quite otherwise!
Rapidly the war became a sad and protracted affair." It became an
invisible, scientific, subterranean war of tenacity and endurance,
though sometimes blazing into manoeuvre battles as at Verdun.
Life, none the less, was not altogether disagreeable behind the lines.
There were compensations during the rest moments. Concerts and
theatrical representations in which all the stars of the army appeared,
men who had been renowned artists "in the civil," made the audience
forget the dangers and discomforts of their actual life. And in these
_entr'actes_ in the villages, the subject of the war was taboo by a sort
of coquetry; one talked of anything else, and occupied one's leisure in
acquiring relics from the ruined houses in the devastated villages, or
sought, in other ways, to import some variety into the monotony of
danger. The concerts revealed the singular talent of the French for
improvisation and gave occasion to a latent gaiety, which flickered and
flamed into pure joyousness. From the mind in those moments was
banished dull care, and badinage became the current coin. Whilst the
younger and more vigorous played games, the studious and literary
engaged in intellectual exercises. Impressive in their reality are some
of the books that have been written at the Front. There is a suggestion
of actual experience about them, of _chases vecues_, which one does not
feel in second-hand impressions.
Poems, too, flowed from the trenches--not poems, in general, concerned
with war, but love and the softer passions. Where war was treated, it
was as a mistress, stern and hard to woo. The Great War inspired
something of the lyricism that succeeded the Napoleonic era, when de
Musset, Hugo, Lamartine, and a pleiades of poets existed. Talent
certainly flourished in the trenches. An opera was a proof of it--words
and music of such startling excellence that the critics, before whom the
work was played, expressed a deep enthusiasm for it. It was reserved
for production at the Paris Opera House until the music of the trenches
should have given place to the music of peace. Like many a hero in the
fight, the author will remain anonymous until the war has ceased to be
anything but an ugly remembrance, and then we shall taste the quality of
the composition.
Heroism belongs to no class; it is present in the simple as in the
learned, in the rude as in the polished. One of the comforting
reflections of the war is that civilisation, in whose name it was waged,
is often justified by her children. Civilised man proved his
superiority over the savage, and the untutored child of desert and
jungle was less master of himself in the dread hour than the finished
product of the study and laboratory. That, at least, contains a certain
solace more satisfying to human pride than the diabolical inventions of
the Germans. Brains triumphed in the direction of battles, and they
triumphed in the trenches, where the most cultivated showed the
ascendancy of mind over matter. Though the savant and the peasant might
be on equal terms of courage, yet it is true that character is the basis
of it. And where there were defections from the common bravery, the
explanation was in moral failure. A division which broke in the early
days of the campaign and retreated some kilometres from the fight, was
composed of southern regiments containing, it was said, a large
percentage of the flotsam and jetsam of society. And this, it seems,
proved that only those can wear the crown of heroism who have borne
themselves uprightly.
The schoolmaster has contributed to the spirit of the trenches by his
glorious example on the battlefield, if not by his teaching, which was
often in a sense opposed to what we term Patriotism. Was he not the
arch-antimilitarist? But his intelligence was awakened; he realised
what was at stake, and so he strove to make good that civilisation in
the name of which he had taught his beautiful but impracticable
theories. All honour to his rapid realisation; all honour to his pupils
in the trenches.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*TRENCH JOURNALS AND THEIR READERS*
There is no better indication of the gaiety and good humour prevailing
at the Front than the journals that are circulating in the trenches. I
know one charming periodical which was printed within a hundred yards of
the German lines, deep down in the earth, in one of those subterranean
forts that one imagined impregnable until it was discovered that the
Germans, by employing their great guns, could force their way through
the soil and attain these defences. The best of the journals that the
war has produced on the French side is probably _Rigolboche_, an
extremely clever little paper, and yet unpretentious withal, being
hand-written and reproduced by a duplicating machine. The letterpress
and sketches are really charming, and convey in the most eloquent manner
the good temper and high spirits maintained during this protracted war.
Even the deadly monotony of the fighting did not damp the artistic
ardour of its contributors. Indeed, the pages of many of these jovial
little publications prove how indigenous to the soil of France are wit
and talent. The wide mobilisation gathers every one into the
fold--artist and _litterateur_, artisan and peasant; but the last named,
notwithstanding his lack of letters, has qualities of his own, qualities
of soul, and even if he is unable to contribute directly to the trench
journal, the little newspaper sparkles with wit which he inspires.
_Rigolboche_ has a characteristic sketch. The Kaiser and Francois
Joseph are discovered talking. "My dear Francois Joseph," remarks the
Kaiser, "I think the moment has come to kill the Gallic cock; it is fat
and in good condition." He draws his knife, but the cock flies full at
his face; at the same time, the British bull-dog gets his teeth into his
leg, and the Russian bull, charging up, bears him away on his back.
The "poilu" has given his name to many publications. There is, for
instance, the "Poilu et Marie-Louise," a title a little obscure, no
doubt, to the British reader; but the adjunction of "Marie-Louise"
signifies that it is associated with officers who left the famous school
of St. Cyr in a year when the anniversary of Marie-Louise, Napoleon's
Imperial wife, gave its name to the academic year. This organ appears
in all the glory of print; but the majority cannot afford this luxury.
The _Argonaut_ explains its origin, of course, distinctly enough. It is
produced in the Argonne. It contains illustrations and letter-press
copied by the duplicator. Another has the suggestive name of _La
Saucisse_--the popular name of the observation balloon, which directs
the fire of the guns. The _Souvenir_, especially to French ears, has a
serious sound. Before the war it had a definite military meaning.
To-day, as applied to this particular journal, it means an effort to
keep green the memory of those who have fallen in the field. Whereas
the majority of trench publications give an amusing view of life at the
Front, the _Souvenir_ strikes the grave note. Its articles are devoted
to cherishing the memory of brave deeds, and of the heroes who performed
them--lest we forget. The editor, in an article of considerable charm,
quotes the remark of a mutilated soldier to a sympathetic civilian.
"Yes, I am the hero to-day," says the victim of the war, "but a hopeless
cripple to-morrow." A glorious deed may be the work of a moment, but
crutches have no apparent glory and endure for a lifetime. There is no
halo round the head with sightless eyes; no monument over the little
green grave, and society, on the morrow of victory, forgets. And so the
poetic and heroic pages of the _Souvenir_ are full of the recital of
deeds of valour either actual in their happenings or symbolical.
_Le Ver luisant_ ("The Glow-worm ") represents quite a different
conception of the duty of a trench journal, as does _La Voix du 75_
("The Voice of the 75"). The _Bellica_, the _Boum Voila_, the _Boyau_,
the _Canard Poilu_, the _Clarion Territorial_, the _Cri de Guerre_, the
_Diable au Cor_ (the organ of the 3rd Brigade of the Chasseurs Alpins),
the _Echo des Marmites_, the _Echo du grand Couronne_, and the _Echo du
75_ are other titles. Cheery productions they are, full of light
touches--humour that is not always very refined perhaps, but still
humour, among the bursting shells and the agony of death. "Bocheries"
is the title of an amusing column in the picturesquely named _Marmite_
(the name given to heavy shells), and there is sometimes a light
fantastic column of fashions--such, for instance, as the correct way of
wearing the respirator, or the chic angle to tilt the steel helmet.
The British trench newspapers have also their particular
charm--intermingling Tommy's robust cheerfulness with the shy pathos of
homesick islanders, but printed on fine paper, in good type, they lack a
little the winsome appeal of those tiny hand-written sheets, sometimes
no bigger than a sheet of foolscap, that are produced in the very
atmosphere of war, and which are nearly always dainty, and represent in
some subtle way the aroma of France: the wit and tenderness, the
heroism, the grand virtues of the fighting man, and yet his simplicity
of soul. Obviously, they have been born in war, and yet unaffected by
the crash of metal, the horrid jar and thud of falling earth, the ruin
of defences, the crashing, crazy effects of heavy fire.
Here is another paper bearing the title of _La Felix Potiniere_. Every
one who has kept house in Paris knows that "Felix Potin" is the name of
a large provision stores; but the word _potin_ is the slang term for a
piece of gossip, and gossipy indeed are the contents of this amusing
little sheet. What tranquillity of mind is revealed by these jokes and
_jeux d'esprit_; one would imagine the Boches were many miles off
instead of just round the corner! and, moreover, these stimulators to
gaiety have the professional touch: the cuisine is perfect; the man of
the _metier_ has been at work, and "news," with its accompanying
comment, is served up with _sauce piquante_. _La Guerre Joviale_ does
not belie its excellent title; it shows us war under its most agreeable
aspect; at least it is heartening if not strictly true. And
_L'Indiscret des Poilus_, the _Lapin a plume_ ("The Feathered Rabbit")
and _Notre Rire_ (the organ of the artillery) are brimful of laughter
and the joy of living, even though sometimes, in their surroundings,
there is little laughter, a festival of Death rather than of Life.
Another "poilu," a very curious sort of fellow, comes from the Champagne
district, and yet another from Verdun, smoking hot with battle. One can
imagine the editor inditing his poems and dishing up his article--one
can almost see him doing it--with an aerial torpedo sailing overhead and
all sorts of death-dealing engines threatening his plant down in the
deep-sunk chamber where the joyous little herald blows his blast of good
hope and perseverance to the soldiers of its circulation. These are
real examples of the indomitable will of France in the most tremendous
episode of her existence, hardly excepting the Revolution--for the War
of '70 sinks into utter insignificance before this vast and world-wide
upheaval. There is no mistaking the gay insouciant character, though
sometimes the effort to cheer may go a little beyond the strict
requirements. Nevertheless, these little papers are barometers of the
fighting spirit of France. It is not strange to find this fighting
spirit so keenly developed in the first-line trenches, for here it was
tuned to the highest pitch by reason of the stress of circumstances, by
reason of the close proximity of danger, by the very intoxication of
that danger, and by the common spirit of heroism that comes from close
comradeship; but it is significant that the same spirit existed at the
rear where men were awaiting their turn for battle--the sort of waiting
that is the severest test for nerves; and it is as symbols of this
splendid and invincible spirit that these charming little documents have
their greatest psychological importance.
In glancing through the collection of M. de la Ronciere, Keeper of the
Printed Books at the Bibliotheque Nationale of Paris, one is
particularly impressed by the spirit of fraternity that pervades the
trench newspaper, evidence of the thoroughly democratic army of France.
No journal prides itself as being the organ of a "crack" regiment.
There are, in fact, no _corps d'elite_--corps that are specially
recruited. In the Republican model army each regiment is placed on a
footing of equality, and the tendency in all records of achievements is
to keep a strict balance and to give no more glory to one unit than
another. None the less, certain regiments have perforce distinguished
themselves in spite of this arrangement. They have distinguished
themselves because they have been in the forefront of the fighting,
because they have borne the brunt of dangerous enterprises, because they
have persisted in keeping alive the old traditions of the corps,
traditions which arose from the fact that the men forming it came from a
certain district renowned for its hardy types, and capable of an endless
energy of resistance. Such a regiment is the "Chasseurs a Pied," the
most famous corps of the Home Army, and popularly known as the
"Chasseurs Alpins." For although the Chasseurs were used all along the
eastern frontier from Belfort to Luneville, the popular mind constantly
associates them with the mountains--the little thick-set men in dark
blue tunics and blue Tam-o'-Shanters, skimming over the snow upon skis.
These are men of the Alps and the Vosges, sturdy of limb and sound of
wind, real mountaineers, courageous, resourceful and capable of endless
fatigue. No unit of the French Army has suffered as much as they in
proportion to their numbers. They have been everywhere where the
fighting was most severe, and at Verdun they took a foremost part in
resisting the colossal attack of the Germans. Although there was a
Chasseur regiment under the Empire, dressed very much as were the
Grenadiers, with a high fur bonnet, in their present form the corps is
of comparatively recent date, and has existed only three-quarters of a
century; the regimental records, however, hold some well-known names.
President Poincare performed his military service in this famous corps,
Bar-le-Duc being his recruiting centre, and among its officers were both
Canrobert and MacMahon, the one commanding the fifth and the other the
eighth battalion.
The Great War effected changes in the traditional uniform of the
Chasseurs. Though they kept their dark clothes out of pride of family
whilst the rest of the army--except the Moroccans, who were in
khaki--adopted the horizon blue, the famous blue _beret_
(Tam-o'-Shanter) embroidered with a golden bugle was sacrificed for the
steel helmet, at least for service in the trenches--that valuable
head-gear which has saved probably fifty per cent. of head wounds.
One of the most picturesque elements of the French army are the Zouaves,
with their blue embroidered tunic and vest and the baggy red trousers
reaching to the knee, the whole surmounted by the fez. Of this gorgeous
uniform the only survival of the war, alas, was the fez. The blue tunic
was changed to a khaki coat, the voluminous trousers copied from the old
Turkish garb became merely baggy khaki breeches. _Sic transit gloria
mundi_! But if the Zouaves were deprived of their brilliant plumage,
they made up for it in glory of achievement. Largely employed in
storming-parties, the Germans learnt to fear the Zouaves more than any
other troops, so reckless were they in their bravery and their utter
disregard of desperate odds. The corps dates from the early days of
Algeria, and was created in 1831, when two battalions were formed,
receiving the name of "Zouaves" from the Arab _Zouaoua_, a fierce and
intractable tribe of Kabyle, the best fighters of Northern Africa. The
Zouaves were recruited originally from the Kabyles and Arabs of Algeria
and also, a curious feature, from the hot bloods of the Paris
population--an element that was introduced, because it was thought
advisable to dilute the number of natives by Europeans. The blend was
admirable, and the new troops performed marvels of dash and daring in
those days, just after the July Revolution of 1830, when France was not
sure whether she wanted her new colonies or not, and left to the
Algerian administration the onus of consolidating the nominal conquest
and pacifying and developing the country. One of the early commanders
of the corps was de Lamorciere, a bold and dashing officer, with more
than a touch of eccentricity in his composition. He spoke all the
Arabian dialects perfectly, and indeed was an ideal leader for such a
corps of dare-devils.
The Zouaves hold many distinguished records in French history. Under
Marshal MacMahon they fought at Malakoff and Sebastopol, and the Third
Zouaves went into action under the eyes of Victor Emmanuel, taking a
prominent part in the capture of the bridge at Palestro, marking the
victory of the French and Piedmontese over the Austrians.
The formation of the Zouaves led to the establishment of other native or
semi-native corps, notably the Tirailleurs Algeriens. Since that day
the conquest of Morocco has added other elements to the native army;
and, particularly in the early days of the war, the French populations
in the region of the Front were interested to see the picturesque
figures of the Spahis, or native Moroccan cavalry, in their robes and
turbans, sitting superbly their swift and strong little horses.
Later, however, the native element (which could not overcome its fear
and repugnance to cannon) was largely eliminated, and the Zouaves,
greatly increased from their original numbers, were mainly composed of
colonials of French parentage.
But perhaps the most interesting regiment from the psychological point
of view--the regiment that teems with romance and holds thousands of
secrets in its ranks--is the famous Foreign Legion. Under Napoleon I
the Foreign Legion existed side by side with distinctly national
regiments, such as the Portuguese, the Dutch, and even the German
regiments. But under Louis Philippe the two regiments that were the
original force became definitely formed into a Foreign Legion. The
sphere of the Foreign Legion was mainly Africa, for owing to its mixed
nationality, resulting in a large diversity of sympathy, it was deemed
unsuitable for European warfare. True, it was actively employed in the
Crimea, and also earlier against the Carlists in Spain; but during the
Crimean War there was a certain amount of desertion by elements of the
corps that had Slav sympathies. Hence the Foreign Legion was mainly
employed in tribal warfare, and Africa was its recognised home.
Strangely diverse were its ranks--the Paris hooligan, the swindling
banker, unfrocked bishops, aristocrats who had dragged their names into
the dust, the discredited politician. Of the Legionaries no questions
are asked, and the pseudonyms they adopt often cover the once famous
names of men who have "disappeared." Rumour credits the corps with many
strange tales, but it is undoubtedly true that an authentic German
princeling fought with the Legion until the opening of the war, when he
crossed over to Germany and used his local knowledge to great effect
against his quondam friends.