NATURE’S FIRST LAW
The American soldier in France finds new scenes, new conditions, new
customs. Unconsciously he compares life back home with his new
experiences, often to the latter’s disadvantage. He sees things he does
not like, that he would change, that he could improve. But, what does
appeal to him as perfect is the large number of small farms (53 per cent
of Frenchmen are engaged in agriculture) with the little chateaux, built
upon miniature estates, exquisitely tended, artistically designed, that
give joy to the eye and food for the stomach. These beautiful homes
encourage thrift, they show him, often, the better way.
Pride of possession makes the Frenchman patriotic, national. When the
enemy struck France, they struck him. He rushed to the frontier to meet
invaders who sought to subdue him and destroy his happy home. From a
cheerful, mirth-loving man, he has become serious and morose. Not now
does he sing or laugh any more. He has been treated unjustly. An
overwhelming power tried to force on him something he will not have. He
does not bluster—he waits. He does not scold—he works. When the time
comes—he acts.
To the non-land-owning German industrial slaves, driven by the strong
hand of Autocracy, he says,—“You shall not enslave us. If you have not
the brains to free yourselves, we shall free you, whether you wish it or
not.” To the robbers’ cry for peace (so they can legalize their stolen
loot) the French soldier replies,—“Yes, when justice has been done,
justice to the wronged, the oppressed, the raped. Justice is obtained by
regular procedure in a criminal court, not by negotiation between
equals. Arbitration is not possible between a crazy man and the woman he
has assaulted. The mad man must be caught and properly judged. If
insane, he should be confined, if not, he must be punished.”
As civilians become city broke, soldiers become army broke. Instead of
walking in mobs, they move in rows. Near the front, from marching in
companies, they advance in sections. These disintegrate, when an
apparently stray shell comes along. Units become individuals of
initiative and intelligence, adaptable to sudden, strange environment.
Necessity supersedes the regular book of rules. Books are printed,
orders given, to regulate ordinary conditions.
The soldier’s conditions under fire are neither ordinary nor regular.
Instinct tells him when to brace, when to duck. He knows an order to
stand up or lie down won’t stop that shell, put his cocoanut back, or
reassemble his family tree. So, he does what he thinks best. He may obey
or disobey the order, and save or lose his life. The man who gave the
order may die because he did, or did not, obey.
A good soldier can generally kick off unnecessaries as fast as a poor
officer can load them on. He runs light before the wind. Instead of
wearing himself out as a hewer of wood and a hauler of water, he saves
his strength for the enemy.
A luminous watch on the wrist, a compass in the pocket, a 2×6 box, with
toilet necessaries, are his private stock in trade. The other sixty
pounds are regular army. He always hangs onto his gun, cartridges,
bombs, little shovel, and tin hat. He doesn’t want tight-fitting shoes,
but prefers them a size or two large. He doesn’t buckle his belt
regulation style. Instead of buckling his cartridge belt in front, he
fastens it on the side, so he can slide the cartridge boxes around,
where they won’t gouge into his body when he sleeps. He covers his rifle
with oil. He wipes out his mess tin with dry bread crumbs. He does not
gormandize before a long march, or fill up on cold water. He keeps his
feet in good condition. He covers up his head when asleep, so the rats
won’t disturb him. He keeps his rifle within reach, and is always ready
to move at a moment’s notice.
One day, he may have eaten up the regulation hand-book of rules, for
breakfast, dined comfortably on regimental orders, and, going to sleep,
with taps blowing in his dome, dreamed sets of fours and double time.
Next day, he wakes up, to find by actual experience that, while plans
are made and ordered, everything is actually gained by opportunity,
individuality, initiative.
He may pass years in peaceful climes, going like a side-walk comedian,
through the empty mummeries of a Broadway spectacular production. Put
under shot and shell, he just knows he is a soldier, who must keep his
feet warm and his head cool.
The Poilu is first, first on outpost, first at the enemy, first in his
home, first in the affection of his country. From the ranks of the poilu
the officers are drawn. He is the Foundation. He honors France, France
honors him.
When, in 1914, he, with the original Tommy Atkins, turned at the Marne,
attacked fifty-two army corps of well-equipped, well-drilled, rapidly
advancing, victorious Huns, outnumbering him 8 to 5, and drove them back
with his bayonet (for some regiments had no cartridges), he saved not
only France, but England, America and civilization.
During the terrible year of 1915, it was the bare breast and naked
bayonet of the poilu and the little French 75 that halted superior
forces of the enemy, flanked and aided by longer-ranged, heavy
artillery, Zeppelins, liquid flame and aeroplanes.
Remember, German casualties, the first year of the war, were 3,500,000
men.
For eight continuous months, he was adamant, behind Verdun. One million
men (600,000 Germans and 400,000 French) were incapacitated within the
three square mile tract that guards the entrance to that historic town,
where, a century before, Napoleon kept his English prisoners. Here, the
poilu sent the German lambs to glory as fast as their Crown Prince could
lead them to the slaughter.
With face of leather, his forehead a mass of wrinkles, which hurt
neither the face nor his feelings—a man as careless of dress as the
French poilu, naturally, doesn’t care whether his clothes fit him or
not,—he goes his fine, proud way. His once happy countenance, now
saddened by suffering, will yet light up in appreciation. A little
kindness makes him eloquent. Strong in the righteousness of his cause,
he does not bow his head in sorrow, or bend in weakness. He stands
upright, four-square to the world. He has lived down discomfort. He
cares nothing for exposure or starvation. He has seen what the brutes
have done in the reconquered villages he passed through. He is
determined they shall not do it in his home, or, if his home is in the
invaded territory, he declares they shall pay for the damage. Animated
by the spirit of justice, ennobled by the example of St. Genevieve, of
Jeanne d’Arc, of Napoleon, inspired by the courage and devotion of the
wonderful women of France, supported by a united country, he knows he is
fighting for self-preservation and a world’s freedom.
He closed, locked, barred the door at the Marne. Now he guards the gate.
He makes no complaint and asks no favors. With almost certainty of death
in front, trouble in his heart, body racked by fatigue, with dark
forebodings of the future, bled white by repeated onslaughts, he remains
at his post and does his duty, without a murmur.
French officers are real, improved property, not vacant lots. They are
leaders, not followers. Ordinary people see what goes on before their
eyes. The French officer is not an ordinary person. Anything that is
happening, or has happened, his quick mind connects with something else
a mile away—not yet arrived. When it comes along, it has already been
met; and he is waiting for the next move. His special study is the
German Military Manual, his specialties concentration and initiative.
He will grasp another man’s opportunity, tie a double knot in it, and
have it safely stowed away, before the bungler misses it. He discounts
the future, beats the other man to it and arrives with both feet when
not expected—just before the other is quite ready. Endowed with
foresight, farsight, secondsight and hindsight, he sees all about and
far away in front. Every isolated movement is noticed. He connects it up
with some future possible development, eventuality or danger.
Men of other nations may have delusions about German organization and
system, but the French officer has none. He has beaten Fritz, time after
time. He knows he can do it again; and, if there is any one thing he
especially delights in, it is to throw a wrench into that ponderous,
martial machinery and break Kultur’s plans. Germans are lost with no
rule to follow, and their head-piece won’t work. They are at the mercy
of the man who makes precedents, but who does not bother to follow them.
Many a soldier has an aversion to saluting officers—it looks like
servility. We do it with pleasure in France, as a token of respect. The
French officers at the front do not insist upon it, and often shake
hands after the return salute. Mon Capitaine is the father of his
company, the soldiers are mes enfants (my children). They go to the
captain when they have a grievance, not as a favor, but because it is
their right; and he grants their request—or gives them four days in
prison, as the case demands, with a smile. Soldiers accept his decision
without question. The French officer does not mistake snobbishness for
gentility or braggadocio for bravery. In the attack, he takes the lead.
In the trench warfare he shares dangers and discomforts with his men.
It is a great honor to be an active French officer. He is there because
his achievements forced him upward. He has climbed over obstacles, and
been promoted on account of merit, not through influence. He holds the
front, while the inefficient, the aged, or crippled, are relegated to
the rear.
The soldier pays with his hide for the civilian’s comforts. The
civilian, in turn, apes the soldier, presents a military bearing, in
khaki coat, with swagger stick, a camera, a haversack and Joiners’
decorations. While the citizen works (or shirks) to sustain the soldier,
he is either using his strength on the front, or building it up in the
hospital.
An enthusiastic, spirited volunteer, gradually becomes a silent, sober,
calculating veteran. His days have been troubled. His nights knew no
peace. Recognizing discipline as the first principle of organization,
that it is necessary to have individual obedience, for a group to act
harmoniously, he submits. On the front, he finds—himself.
Half a dozen men are taking comfort in the shelter of a dugout. The next
instant, five are one hundred feet in air, snuffed out, torn into atoms.
But one is left, staring, mouth open. The others, swift arrivals at
Kingdom Come, went so quickly into the great Beyond, they never knew or
felt the shock.
So with the rum ration low and the water high, the morning bright in
sunlight, surroundings dark with death, one’s thoughts spring from the
mind. Words fill the mouth. One grasps his pencil to catch burning
impressions that flood his brain. He might as well try to tell his
grandmother how to raise babies as to think straight! He reaches out and
connects up, apparently isolated, strings of thought. He links a chain
of circumstance bearing on destruction’s delirious delusions that now
rocks the foundations of the world, which reacts on and affects every
civilization, person, and individual on earth.
He looks at things from an angle different from that of the civilian. He
has a new conception of life. He is not the same person he was before
the war. No longer does he smell the flowers, eat the fruit, or dwell in
the home of civilization. He has lived, like a beast, in a hole in the
ground, and slept in a seeping dugout with the rats and the lice. He has
seen his companion go over the top, killed off, like germs, changed from
a human comrade into a clod. He has lived long between two earthen
walls, the blue sky above, a comrade on each side, with Fritz across the
way.
It was a narrow prospect. His point of view was limited; but he knew,
that while apparently alone, he and his comrades were links in that
strong, continuous chain of men who keep back the enemies of Freedom.
Behind that chain are others, bracing, reinforcing,—artillery, infantry,
aviators, reserves, money, provisions and ammunition, flocking to his
aid from America, from Great Britain, from the uttermost parts.
Those larger operations in the rear affect him but indirectly. The
details in front are of vital interest. They mean life or death. Every
alteration in the landscape demands closest investigation. Boys do not
play, nor old women gabble, in No-Man’s-Land. Nothing is done without a
reason, and, for every change, there is a cause. An unusual piece of
cloth or paper is scrutinized by a hundred men, while a suspicious
movement empties their guns.
The soldier acquires the habit of noticing little things. He sees a
small, starved flower, struggling for sunshine and strength, alongside
the trench. He wonders why it chose such an inhospitable home. Next day,
there is no flower, no trench—just an immense, gaping hole in the torn
ground.
He watches the rats. Why are they so impudent and important? He grows so
accustomed to them, he does not even squirm, when they run across him in
the darkness at night. He knows they have enough camp offal and dead
men’s bodies—they do not eat the living. He watches the cat with
interest. She is an old timer and has seen regiments come and go. Her
owners are in exile—they have no home—the Germans took it. So, pussy, a
lady of sense and good taste, dwells with the French soldiers. He looks
at her long, lanky frame and wishes for some milk to give her, to
counteract the poison of the rat food. A shell comes along. Pussy runs
into the dugout, but comes out again to be petted. Another shell, again
she scurries away. Kitty does not like shells any more than do humans.
War is the great leveler. Deplored as pitiless destroyer, it more than
equalizes, a creator of good. It annihilates property, kings and
thrones; but it produces men. It taps hitherto unseen springs of
sympathy and mutual helpfulness, where thrived formerly but the barren
waste of self-sufficiency. It unmasks the humbug and reveals the
humanitarian. It teaches individual self-lessness. The cruelties of the
oppressor are overcome by love for the oppressed. The dominance of
wickedness is brought low by sweet charity for its victims.