Front matter (continued 4)

After the opening phases of the war, the subterranean character of the fighting was maintained, until such big offensives as Verdun re-evoked the old-time battle, when the Kaiser watched the operations from an eminence, and on a front of twenty miles scenes of the old onslaught were re-enacted. But in this case the initiative was left to the Germans. To them also the greater part of the losses, for whilst they manoeuvred in the open and hurled masses of their grey-green warriors upon the French trenches, the defenders enfiladed the masses and mowed them down with the gigantic scythes that their science had forged since the war began.

A curious feature of the fighting in the Great War was the element of fatigue. We have met with it everywhere. It follows closely the course of the war; it is seen in every phase. At Charleroi and Mons and those terrific fights that marked the beginning of the war, the retreating armies of England and France escaped because of the exhaustion of the Germans. If cavalry had harried their rearguards and mobile cannon had cannonaded their flanks the retreat might have been turned into a rout. For the French, largely composed of reservists, were within an ace of demoralisation. And again the Allies, as conquerors, showed extreme fatigue in the battle of the Marne, when the victory might have been more decisive had it been followed up by unwearied troops, or, again, by masses of cavalry.

The cavalry, indeed, of both combatants proved singularly ineffectual, and, as I have just pointed out, failed as a means of attack or to pursue retreating armies; and an interesting feature was the dismounting of the cavalry and its employment as infantry in the trenches. Cavalrymen were divorced from their horses and given infantry guns; and their equipment and appearance approached very nearly that of the foot-soldier. The Cuirassiers, for instance, took off their picturesque manes and removed the top pieces of their helmets, and thus very nearly imitated the bourguinet, or low, mediaeval-looking helmet of the French infantry. Even reconnaissance, the old duty of the cavalry, has been undertaken by the aeroplane; and the horse-soldier, indeed, has little place in modern warfare. Some experts, however, hold that a new rôle has emerged from the war which the cavalry is qualified to fill. It consists in their employment in large forces flanked by mobile cannon and cyclists, whereby their offensive radius is greatly extended.

In these few pages I have endeavoured to sketch the varied phases of a war that opened with the glittering pageant of the time of Napoleon and merged into the dreary and sombre monotony of trench warfare. The "heroic" days of battle were over, but a new heroism arose. Men fought no longer to triumph as men among men; they were content to go forward, nameless and unrecognised: "to march heroically" (in the words of the French writer), to become, not men among men, but—

"des morts parmi les morts."

CHAPTER XVI

MILITARY COMMAND AND THE REVOLUTION

"On nous fait une guerre ennuyeuse!" How often was the plaint heard in France, where this war of "wait and see," this terrible game of patience, racked the nerves not only of the soldiers in the trenches, but of the multitudes who scanned the morning news in the hope of some startling manoeuvre and stunning victory which should end the hideous nightmare of trench warfare. Had Napoleon and his like passed, then, for ever? Could France never produce his peer? A man who would rise above all difficulties; who would drag guns over the snows in hollowed-out tree-trunks; who would arrive where no man had arrived; who would achieve the impossible? Times, it is true, had changed, but sound opinion urged the recognised fact that there is only one kind of strategy, just as there is only one geometry. The geometric truth of to-day is the geometric truth of a thousand years ago; it never changes. Thus, strategy is always strategy though the circumstances may change, and the café critic was a little inclined to blame the military command for the dreary monotony of the conduct of the war.

Historians such as Dupuis and Aulard, the eminent professor at the Sorbonne recalled Convention days, when youthful Generals were selected through the intervention of commissioners from the Government, who visited the armies, interrogated everybody and discovered talent. Sometimes they did not discover it, but only thought they did. The unhappy man, perhaps only just promoted from non-commissioned ranks, was dragged from his obscurity and placed, often against his own will, in command of an army and told to get victories or take the consequences. Good patriots were not allowed to refuse such signal honour as serving the country in a position of responsibility; and, placed between the devil of their own incompetence and the deep sea of the guillotine (for if they failed they would be hailed, certainly, before the tribunal and treated as traitors), they occasionally managed in sheer desperation to win; but more often they miserably failed, and joined the number of the suspected in the Conventional prisons.

Not only were these unfortunate people appointed, willy-nilly, to the command of armies whenever they attracted the eye of the representatives, but, once arrived at the perilous summit of their power, they were watched and their conduct noted as if they were the most disreputable of mortals. And their judges were not only the Convention, but the secret committees and clubs which flourished at that moment. Nevertheless, the results of this terrible system were astonishing. The most celebrated of the representatives was Carnot, who was in every way an exceptional man. On the eve of the battle of Wattignies, in October 1793, he obliged Jourdan, the General-in-Chief, to effect a frontal attack, which failed. Thereupon a council was held, and the two men were seen to differ materially in their views. Carnot, with characteristic impetuosity, offered to assume responsibility for his opinion and even to see to the execution of his plan. On the morrow, Carnot, who kept Jourdan under close observation, noted a column falling back before the pressure of the enemy. Instantly he seized a rifle, placed himself at the head of the retreating force and led them back into action. Thanks largely to his energy, the battle was won.

Saint Just was a man of similar type. In the operations on the Sambre, which were unfortunate, for a time, for the Revolutionaries, Saint Just and Le Bas pushed the armies to combat, it has been said, like a pack of dogs, without observing any rule of war. There is a memorable scene related by Dupuis. Saint Just convoked the Generals to a midnight council. "You are convoked," he said, "to do something great—worthy of the Republic. To-morrow there must be a siege or a battle; decide!" On Kleber smiling satirically, Saint Just rushed out into the darkness of the garden and remained there, hatless, for two hours, though the rain was falling in torrents. However, from all this confusion and tyrannous intervention and diversity of counsel emerged the victory of Fleurus, in the neighbourhood of Mons and Charleroi, which speaks so closely nowadays to our hearts. The Revolutionaries crossed and recrossed the river many times before they succeeded finally in overcoming the Austrians. And this victory marked the end of the peril of invasion, which was the excuse of the presence of the representatives with the armies. Washington said that an army must be led with absolute despotism to ensure victory; the armies of the Revolution certainly merited success from that point of view rather than by the talent of terrorised chiefs—men whose previous career was often that of a sous officier, and totally unfitted them for positions of authority. Balland, who commanded a division at Wattignies, was a drummer in a company of grenadiers, and, according to a contemporary historian, "cleaned our boots and ran our errands."

Yet some of outstanding character and talents profited by this system, which advanced a man like Napoleon to dazzling heights. The terror and confusion of the time gave him the chance he needed to soar. Whilst weaker men drowned in the storm, he rose triumphantly above it. And his first chance came through his connection with Saliceti, one of the representatives, who was a fellow Corsican and had taken part with Napoleon in struggles in the island against the dictatorship of Paoli. They met on the Riviera, where Napoleon, a simple captain, was transporting war stores. Toulon was being besieged; Napoleon, in the ardour of his temperament, proposed a plan to Saliceti and his colleague, Augustin Robespierre, the brother of the dictator, who happened to be there, insisted on conferring on him the rank of Brigadier-General, with command over the artillery in the army of Italy. Without these influences, Napoleon would have had to wait long for his preferment. Robespierre was particularly struck by Napoleon, whom he regarded as of transcending merit and, moreover, a sound and perfervid Republican!

Though Napoleon was accompanied, as the others had been, by the commissioners of the Convention in his campaign in Italy, they were men of an ordinary type, and he knew how to get the better of them. Moreover, he was extremely astute in his dealings with his possible accusers, and played a definite political rôle. He became, then, the favourite of Barras, the most influential of the Directorate, and finally, thanks to Barras and Carnot, obtained command of the Italian Army, which was the height of his ambition. Here he was able to give the measure of his military genius. His ardour and audacity were equal to every situation, and his popularity rose to such heights with the masses dazzled by his victories, and he inspired such confidence amongst the Convention itself, that he conquered his independence of action. Under the former tyrannous rule of the Convention the strategist was a mere puppet in the hands of the Government; Napoleon was not long in restoring all the old power to the General and giving to strategy its full amplitude, for he was able, as he rose to be Consul Life Consul, and finally Emperor—all in four years—to control the political destinies of France, and thus add to the military arm the civil power, and make the former serve the ends of his foreign and internal policy.

It is well to remember that Napoleon owed much of his advancement—his promotion at the age of twenty-seven to the rank of Commander-in-Chief—to his clever utilisation of the social disorder which followed the Revolution, and he obtained that liberty of which he had need to beat the enemy, as Colonel Dupuis points out, by his adroit relations with the Government. His personal prestige soon placed him above those who had given him the power. Finally, strong in his immense successes he threw off the remaining shackles and conquered the right to act as he thought best. He himself became the Executive. He was in the enviable situation of a man who gives orders to himself.

This page of the past is sufficient answer to the clamour for the heroic methods of the Revolution. French people have only to look back to recognise the danger of allowing ambition to realise itself either in the army or in politics—still worse when the two are united. A later instance, and one even more terrifying than that of Napoleon I, was that of Napoleon III; for, though his Empire similarly ended in disaster, brought about by foreign intervention, in the one case it represented the paling of a star of surpassing effulgence, whereas in the other it was the mere pricking of a bubble, if "historic," reputation. But in each event it brought humiliation and the foot of the invader on the soil. Joffre, therefore, a democratic and constitutional commander—the antithesis of Napoleon—is the only type of general really acceptable to the French Republic; and though the thoughtless individual may sigh for the breathless succession of events of Napoleonic days, there is hardly a Frenchman who would be prepared to accept the consequences of a return of the Napoleonic system; and Joffre, working for war that he may accomplish peace, eschewing inspiration and "strokes of genius," steadily developing in quietude and reflection the details of a preconceived plan, is an ideal figure in a country as profoundly democratic as France, where a chief modelled on the Prussian type or given to vain display and the "panache" would inevitably cause a reaction unfortunate in the interests of national defence. Never again will the French, having learned in the bitter school of experience, place power in the hands of a man who, by his masterly temperament, raises in their minds the fears of a dictator. Non bis in idem.

But not until the second year of the war was Joffre given that supreme command and that independence of action so essential to success. Only in 1916 was it recognised that there must be a co-ordination of effort in the different fields; that the Allies could not act separately without relation to each other and hope thereby to advance the common cause; they must carry out a certain preconceived plan and carry it out with a common energy, subserving all questions of persons and national prestige to the unique end of winning the war. The English Army, after the retirement of Marshal French, was placed directly under the orders of Joffre; thereafter it had its exact place in the common movement and represented a certain intimate part of the general machine. England thereby showed her loyalty and her conception of the necessities of the hour in bending to the principle of French dominance. It was inevitable, for the French were the chief combatants on the Western Front; their army was necessarily the more numerous and they were defending their own hearths and homes; the war to them was in reality a war of liberation. After, then, the general objects of the Allies were defined, it was seen that there must be unity of command. I remember how urgently a celebrated French General spoke to me on this subject after the war had lasted a year. "For the sake of our common action," he said, "do insist in England on the necessity of oneness in the command. Otherwise, the problem is impossible." And when that principle was at last acknowledged, and England merged her military fortunes more deeply with those of France, sacrificing also some of her independence in the field, the Allies were approaching the German homogeneity, where the Kaiser conducted the mixed orchestra and called the tune. Whatever the music was like, the general effect was certainly better than if there had been two or more chiefs and as many tunes.

But although Revolutionary times were no more, when generals of twenty-three gained such triumphs as when Rocroi was won by Condé, yet the fierce spirit of the Revolution remained. In that sombre hour France triumphed because she had the fierce determination to win; because she was ruthless with old-established reputations unless they responded to the exigencies of the hour; and also because, having her back against the wall, she realised that it was literally a case of "conquer or die." So in the war of to-day, the military command was aided by the popular clamour which speeded up the machine. When Charles Humbert, Senator of the Meuse, and certainly one of the organisers of victory, claimed almost daily in Le Journal, which he directs with such vigour, "more cannon and more munitions," he was but repeating, at a distance of one hundred and twenty years, the cry of Carnot and Lindet, who were rather disdainfully called "the Workers" by their colleagues of the Convention. But the harvest of the Revolution that the Generalissimo reaps most richly is that extraordinary and unsuspected virtue which our Allies have shown, that bull-dog tenacity and resistance which, blending with the natural allégresse of the French, made them irresistible in battle where the conditions were at all equal. In the last resort, the quality of the fighter prevails; every observer has recognised that fact. The guns may thunder and deal out death and destruction, but the machine which finally counts is the white arm, "Rosalie," as the bayonet is named in the familiar speech of the "poilu." This fact accounts for the superiority of the French on the field of battle; for the final word is to the common soldier, to that astonishing peasant and tiller of the land, who constitutes the greater part of the armies of the Republic. He fights, as I have said earlier in this book, not because he must, but because he feels he is privileged to defend his fields against the invader. Ever present to his mind, as he meets the Hun, are the depredations and deeds of horror of this civilised savage, and his arm is nerved by the determination to save his own village and his own kith and kin, if possible, from his devastations. The personal feeling enforces the personal element in battle; and, after all, a Holy Cause is the best sort of armour in which to engage in battle and the deadliest weapon to wield against those who have sinned against all the laws of humanity.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SPIRIT OF THE TRENCHES

The spirit of the trenches is the spirit of France. Never did mirror more faithfully reflect the personal traits than those endless trenches across France the splendid valour of the race. In no preceding war in history has courage been so abounding. Trench warfare created a spirit of intimacy as well as a spirit of adventure. Men of differing stations, of utterly opposed traditions, of antagonistic education, were thrown together in a narrow, self-contained comradeship, and the result was a firm and singular fusion. They partook of the same risks, they experienced the same emotions, whether standing shoulder to shoulder in the trenches, or racing, side by side, in some rush attack, storming villages, or retiring, it might be, beneath the pressure of an overwhelming cannonade. And out of this comradeship grew a conventual feeling. Though isolated from the ordinary world, they were yet of it, for family ties triumphed over even so radical a difference in experience and mode of life. The rigours and segregation of the camp-life could not separate from kith and kin.

Some have compared their existence with the cloistered life. True, they took no vows of celibacy, nor was continence the necessary attribute of their association, but they had sworn to serve in a deathless constancy. They slept and lived hard, exposed to inclemency; passed days in a narrow semi-darkness, and at night slept in the roughest shelters or in grottoes deep in the ground. Yet there was an essential difference in their state and that of those bound to the Church, for their thoughts were of earth rather than of Heaven—of some distant spot whereon stood a little white house surrounded with trees, with green fields beyond, where cattle grazed, children played, and geese cackled. Tender memories accompanied their vigils, and such human sentiments removed them from the category of the saints, who are not supposed to listen to the heart, and from the old professional class of soldier, the grognards of Napoleon's day. For between waiting France and fighting France there passed hourly a warm current of correspondence, ascending and descending, informed with honest passion, homely and kindly virtues, which softened and humanised the soldier's solitude and heartened the civilian. It was the "poilu" who, going to the war, comforted those who remained behind, and the strange thing was that pessimism more readily took root in security, far from the lines, than at the Front itself. And the soldier's courage was as much seen in his letters as in his conduct in the field—wonderful tribute to its depth and sincerity. For there were moments in the interminable war to try the nerves of the hardened campaigner, much more those of the young man but lately broken to its severities.

Yet there was never a tremor in the living wall encircling la patrie, no touch of despair in the letters that Dupont pencilled home in the intervals of bombardment. His natural gaiety found an expression there, as well as his courage and his calm. Letters from only sons, out of reach for the first time of maternal solicitude, manifested an almost disconcerting enjoyment of danger and the independent life. And those women who had feared hitherto for the health of their darlings now seemed to rejoice in new proofs of their courage and contempt of death. Lads, apparently the most deeply wedded to the soft and unheroic existence of towns, found an unexpected satisfaction in the strenuous routine of camps. The influence of the milieu, the daily contact with the hard practices and risks of the métier, riveted armour about the soul and bound the brows with brass. Men, whose habit in civil life led none to suspect the martial temperament, proved lions in the fight. And I knew a timid soul, a little delicate, much given to study and reflection who, after a few months' actual experience of the trenches, became utterly changed. No longer apologising for existence as in the old days, he bore himself proudly in the field, and performed acts of exceptional bravery. Of his civilian friends he asked with strange calm: "Do you know how many Boches I've killed since the war began?" And in the surprised silence which followed, he gave a tally, which was staggeringly significant.

Apart from the professional pride which dictated an air of gaiety, when a visitor arrived, the occupant of the trench did not in his off moments assume the mien of the troubadour. On the contrary, he looked grave and serious, and often austere. It was remarkable that when he went to Paris for a few days' relief from the monotony of danger, he found little enjoyment in the old-time pleasures. And those who had been distinguished for a high thoughtlessness, for an abandonment to the Red Gods, proved hardy and virile warriors in the new life, with a speed that astonished all who had not realised the French adaptability. Frivolous in the days before the war, they now adopted an attitude of disapproval and even of positive disgust towards some outward symptoms of the "light heart."

There was not necessarily opposition between "poilu" and "pekin" (as the civilian is amusingly called by the army), but there was, nevertheless, a gulf fixed between the two: the one had seen visions and experienced realities which were denied the other in his peaceful civilian path. It made all the difference in the world. Whatever his sympathy, the civilian brother had not suffered as had the "poilu"; he had been immune from the hourly risk, he had not endured cold and hunger; he had not lain out in the frosty moonlight, in the No Man's Land of the trenches, terribly wounded by one of the murderous engines of war; he had not known the anguish of mind in hospital, the doubt whether the limb could be saved or not, or whether he must go through life halt and maimed. No, for all his sympathy and moral suffering, the civilian had not reached the experiences of the other.

Reflections of this sort no doubt obtruded on the mind of the soldier in his hours of lonely watch. Sometimes, when echoes of the old life were wafted back to him in the trenches, or when he saw the report in newspapers of some futile discussion in the Chamber, a smile of disdain crossed his lips. Frankly, he was a little tired of this sort of thing. "If the Deputies were here, they would not talk quite so loudly," he reflected with bitterness. And then the headings of another column caught his eye: "Great scandal, a contractor charged with fraud! Huge and hidden profits." "Ah!" he exclaims, and his lips purse again. This time his comments are far severer than against the Parliamentarians. "After all," he says, "those Deputies are paid to talk; it is their business; but the blackguards who make money out of us, out of our lives and limbs——" The phrase is never finished, but the intonation leaves you in no doubt as to the fate of the offenders if they had fallen into his hands. On the following day, perhaps, he sees another scandal of the sort, and now his anger knows no bounds. "What—again? Then they are all at it!" he exclaims. In his excited imagination a considerable part of civilian France is engaged in plundering military France. Happily, there was great exaggeration in his sweeping assumptions. Certainly there were scandals in France during the Great War, as there were scandals elsewhere; but they were few and far between—so few that their rarity magnified their importance.

The soldier's sufferings in the trenches had warped a little his judgment. He was rather hard on others, disregarding their sacrifices and their griefs, none the less real because they had not been exposed to sudden death. The hard work of munition workers turning out shot and shell with ceaseless activity often escaped him, and if, as might happen, he was deceived in his most intimate affections, and a moral catastrophe awaited him at home, then his cup of bitterness was filled, and in his wrath he declared that all women were faithless and all men perjurers and conspirators against his honour or security. And these were the people for whom he was risking his life and sacrificing his professional prospects!

The close union of every day with men engaged in the strong-hearted and ruthless profession of war was bound to have a reaction upon thoughts and ways of life. In the rude existence of camps, something of the veneer of drawing-rooms disappeared and man returned to primitive directness and simplicity of thought and speech. He became impatient of subtlety and complicated ways, which seemed to him duplicity and the enemy of plain-dealing. A thing must be frank and clear to appeal to him. He had the soldier's disgust of those who whispered in secret in the warmth and shelter whilst he was exposed to the blast. A new temperament was forged in the out-of-doors born of the sun and wind and rain. And the thoughts of those who struggle with the elements and the incredible difficulties of a man-made warfare often take on the rugged character of their surroundings.

Directness of manner and speech are hardly looked for in the traditional French, but war as it is to-day, is no school of politeness, but of vigour and energy. A new naïveté 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 cafés 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 Galliéni'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 vécues, 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 littérateur, 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 François Joseph are discovered talking. "My dear François 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 Écho des Marmites, the Écho du grand Couronné, and the Écho 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 Félix Potinière. Every one who has kept house in Paris knows that "Félix 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 métier 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 à 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 Roncière, Keeper of the Printed Books at the Bibliothèque 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'élite—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 à 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 Lunéville, 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 Poincaré 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 béret (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 Lamorcière, 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 Algériens. 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.

At the beginning of the war the ranks of the Foreign Legion were swelled to a vast extent by the stream of volunteers of all nationalities who loved France and rushed to her succour. There were Italians, Belgians, Greeks, English, Americans, who were anxious to take up arms for the invaded country. Poles, Russians, Croates, Slovanes, Serbs, Finns, Montenegrins, and Tcheques joined. Some came to France from the uttermost ends of the earth to offer their services: Peruvians, Swiss, Argentines, Norwegians. There were German Poles and Danes from Sleswig-Holstein, Spaniards, Galicians, and Italians from the Trentino, and ten thousand Alsatians, German subjects, who had escaped. There were thus available 35,000 men, a veritable army corps. This was the figure, in spite of the rejection of a great number by the recruiting board at the Invalides. They all left for their dépôts four days later. These volunteers were of all ages and of all nationalities—boys of eighteen, and mature men of fifty and even more; Polish miners from the north of France; Kabyle workmen from factories in the Seine et Oise; Russian artists, international boxers (including a negro champion), famous trick cyclists, and jockeys, who had often worn winning colours at Longchamp and Auteuil. Alec Carter the well-known jockey was killed. There were also young artists from various nations at the École des Beaux Arts. Prominent writers and artists, a son of Maxime Gorki, and several quite well-known poets from Central America; the son of the Russian ambassador, M. Iswolsky, and a famous pelota player, Pablo Irraguerro.

The regiment has fought splendidly at the Front, partaking all the sufferings of the soldiers, all their danger and their glory too. The force has been employed in all the grand coups de chien. There was the spirited address of a Captain who read out the order of the General, and then said, "Mes Enfants, we have the honour of attacking the first. Pay no heed to those who fall. If I go down, leave me; push on without thinking of anything else." Some sang the Marseillaise and others their national hymns. Their conduct on that great day was sublime. They rushed fearlessly forward under the storm of shell, bayonets glittering in the sunshine of an early May morning. Nothing stops the formidable advance. They swarm over the parapet; the course commences. Their orders were to carry Hill 140, and they fulfilled their instructions. The Polish Legion was extraordinarily brave, and it saw fall at its head, brandishing the colours, Ladislas de Szuynski, son of the celebrated Polish historian. Concerning the Polish Legion there is the pretty story of a Pole who, wishing to discover whether there were Poles among the enemy, crawled on his stomach in the night to the German trenches. Once arrived there, he sang, very quietly, an old Polish song. Surprised, the German Poles lifted their heads, observed the bold singer, and allowed themselves to forget the horrors of war. When he had finished the listeners began to talk about Poland, that the Prussian kept underfoot. A Pole surely should not fight against France, who fights for Poland, insinuated the emissary. There was another song, and then, under the enchantment of the old memories, the Poles allowed themselves to be persuaded and carried over to the French trenches.

One of the principal elements of the new Foreign Legion were the Garibaldians, who showed immense fervour. They formed a part of the 10th Division under General Gouraud in the Argonne, and with them were the six grandsons of Garibaldi. Their tactics were extraordinarily impetuous, and in a three-days' fight they lost 800 men. The special corps into which they were formed was disbanded on Italy's declaration against Austria, but their valour had been such that Joffre expressed his sense of honour in commanding them.

Wherever it has fought, whether to-day or yesterday, the Foreign Legion has always left a record of valour, daring and devilry. An amusing story is recalled from Crimean days, when Canrobert stopped in front of a Legionary and asked him what sort of shoes he was wearing? Strange shoes indeed! for he had blackened his feet, having sold his boots for eau de vie. But episodes such as this are ever typical of a corps that sells its shoes for a little brandy, and its life for a spice of glory.

The colonial troops of the French Army were called, until a few years ago, Marine Infantry, and were attached directly to the Navy. Nowadays the system adopted is that of some regiments in the British Army; that is to say, one battalion remains at home whilst the other battalions serve in the colonies. They wear a dark blue uniform with yellow epaulettes. During the course of the war their composition became very mixed, and negroes and tribesmen from the Soudan were embodied with them. In this case also the colonial troops are perhaps less adapted to European warfare than they are to their own special field of action in the colonies against insurrectionary tribes.

A very fine corps, which covered itself with glory at Dixmude, is the Marine Fusiliers. The force retreated to Dixmude when their original mission, which was to defend Antwerp, failed, owing to the collapse of the Belgian defence. Here they held their ground with the greatest heroism for over a month, though the original plan was that they should be relieved in a few hours, and at this spot a peculiarly tragic incident took place. A second in command, a naval captain, Janiaud, went up to take the surrender of two German companies of infantry, which were surrounded by the Marines. The Germans seized the captain and kept him prisoner. The Fusiliers then opened fire, which was briskly returned by the Germans, but during the short engagement which ended in the capitulation of the enemy force, the captain was shot dead by two German officers with their revolvers. After this act of treachery, which took place in November 1914, the Marine Fusiliers swore to take no further prisoners, a resolution to which they have rigorously held in their various engagements ever since.

CHAPTER XIX

THE AIRMAN IN WAR

"Ah, monsieur, you fly like a bird!" said an admirer one day to Pégoud.

"A bird!" was the famous reply, "Les oiseaux ne savent pas voler!" ("The birds don't know how to fly!") And indeed the bird-man, soaring at immense height and incredible speed, has left the little denizen of the air far behind. The wings of the machine are rigid, it is true, but also they are tireless; and the skill of the inventor and science of the mathematician have excelled the pulsing wings of flesh and feather. A few years back—ten years ago to be exact—the birds must have tittered as they watched at Bagatelle the fearsome efforts of the ugly ducklings of the early days of aviation. On November 13, 1906, a famous date in the history of flying, Santos Dumont flew 220 metres in twenty-one seconds, that is, at the rate of nearly thirty-eight kilometers an hour. He had won the prize of the Aero Club for a hundred meters in a straight line. The experiments began at ten in the morning, but the test was not accomplished until late in the afternoon. Two enormous birds spreading their white wings of canvas—the one belonging to Santos Dumont and the other to Blériot—lay upon the green carpet of the ground. A crowd of enthusiasts, amongst whom were some of the great names in aeronautics, such as M. Archdeacon, the Marquis de Dion, Surcouf, Louis Renault and M. Besançon, were upon the ground surrounding the two pioneers and eagerly discussing the theories of lighter than air and heavier than air—that is, the bag filled with hydrogen that floated in air, or the aeroplane which flew by its own means of engine and wings. The machine of Santos Dumont was a weird-looking thing. Some compared it with an ibis or heron as it rose into the air with its long neck outstretched and its wings spread—a strange thing like an antediluvian bird. Its planes were formed of canvas frames divided into cubes, so that at one angle it looked like a flying cupboard. The square box-like head in front was the steering apparatus. The tail of the beast was represented by the screw continually lashing its way through the air. The pioneer sat in a little cage arrangement between the planes, so that his head and body emerged and he had the appearance of riding astride. The first starts were a little unpromising. The machine rose a few inches, and then a few yards, and came to earth abruptly in each case. In three separate attempts it flew one hundred and fifty yards in all, achieving, in the third attempt, eighty yards in seven seconds. But it was not until the light was failing that the machine really rose to any height. It then flew at six metres from the ground at a tremendous rate. The airman, however, was forced to descend for fear of an accident to the crowd, which was following his movements with impassioned interest. He had won the prize of the Aero Club for sustained flight, an advance, at any rate, upon the series of leaps in the air which had passed for flight before that. It was said that the Wright brothers had flown twenty-five miles; but that was in America, and, besides, the Parisians were not very sure about it; but here in France it was the first time that mortal man had flown over the heads of humanity by mechanical means. The Blériot-Voisin machine, though very ingenious in its construction, did not succeed that day; Santos Dumont, the little plucky Brazilian, was the real conqueror: future laurels were being reserved for M. Blériot. The French, indeed, have pioneered in the air. The brothers Montgolfier were the first to make ascents in their balloon; and the balloon originally appeared as a military engine for observation above the battle-field of Fleurus, where the Revolutionary General Jourdan vanquished the Austrians in 1794. The dirigible is also largely the product of French invention.

One of the amazing features of the war was the rapid development of aviation after the outbreak of hostilities. In a few months only the aeroplane emerged from its experimental stage and appeared as a highly finished and accurate instrument of war. An immense stride was attained when the machine was first adapted by the French to carry cannon, which enabled the attack upon another aeroplane to be made in the horizontal plane instead of vertically, as was necessary when one machine had to mount above another in order to drop bombs or flèchettes—one of those refinements of cruelty which the present war has produced. Incidentally, there are some who say that the German flèchettes, launched from the skies, were of such inferior steel that they buckled up when they touched a hard object. However that may be (and we have no reason to complain of such an arrangement), weight, whether in the form of cannon or other armaments, was constantly added to the aeroplane, and the problem then arose as to the maintenance of speed. In the aerial machine, speed is the first requisite, especially nowadays when it is necessary to mount and mount, perhaps, to six thousand yards to overfly the enemy craft, be he Zeppelin or fellow airman. And a few minutes make all the difference—the difference of kilometers—in the pursuit; thus speed must always be combined with those offensive properties that are being gradually added to the battle-plane.

And a third difficulty was that of starting the machine quickly in pursuit of an enemy travelling at the great heights that are now customary—and indeed obligatory—with the development of anti-aircraft artillery. Naturally the machine even of the speedier sort loses time as it mounts spirally or in a series of inclined planes to give battles to the Zeppelin or Fokker. Would it be possible to turn the observation balloon into a sort of perch for the airman, so that he would be suspended always midway between earth and sky ready instantly (if one may suppose him able to detach himself) to fly away in pursuit of the stranger? Yet in the present stage of development such a desideratum is difficult of realisation. The airman must start from the ground or return to it every time he wants to overhaul his engine or replenish his reservoirs. That is his touch with solid realities: otherwise one might suppose him flying for days, never setting foot to earth, the modern Guardian Angel, hovering eternally in the heavens.

The aeroplane has completely revolutionised warfare, inasmuch as it has deprived strategy of its chief weapon—surprise. As the eyes of the army the aeroplane played its most important rôle. A light and very speedy machine is the scout, and it is his duty to make reconnaissances, report upon gun emplacements, the numbers of the opposing troops, the movements of the enemy, and the disposition of his trenches. But the aeroplanes used in warfare are not all alike. The tendency is towards differentiation, and while the scout is swift and light, the battle-plane is extremely powerful and heavily armed with cannon or machine-guns, sometimes also carrying a spur for ramming enemy craft; and again there is a third type of machine armed also for defence, but adapted principally to range-finding, and fitted with signalling and photographic apparatus; it hovers continually over the enemy lines directing artillery fire. None of the offices of the aeroplane proved more valuable than that of giving the range of enemy positions to one's own artillery, and then registering the shots, marking where they fell too short, or overpassed the mark. This is one of the most dangerous as well as the most useful of the services rendered by the man-bird. It requires great nerve, judgment, and coolness on the part of the aviator, for he must hang over the enemy trenches and expose himself to the fire of their anti-aircraft guns, the efficacity of which made rapid strides as the war progressed. The German method of signalling to the opposing batteries by means of smoke bombs with different-coloured fuses was soon improved upon by the French, who used wireless telegraphy and the heliograph by day. But the rôle of the aeroplane is not confined even to these important services. It becomes at times the instrument of aerial bombardment for the destruction of fortified places, military stores, railway junctions, dirigible sheds, encampments, bridges, and roads used by the military. When war broke out, the French airmen received explicit instructions not to bombard any town for fear of inflicting harm upon civilians, but the Germans were not so scrupulous, and their defiance of the dictates of humanity forced a change in the policy of their Allies, if only in self-defence.

The aeroplane could be used also as a link for communicating with armies and their staffs, particularly in the case of a besieged army or town. And, finally, the man-bird is admirable in the capacity of aerial policeman; he can watch the clouds and he can prevent the passage of the enemy pilots. Not that it is possible to suppose that one force of aeroplanes, however numerous, can completely occupy the heavens, for the skies are broad; but bold aviators ever on the watch, patrolling the sky in constant relays (as was the case in the aerial defence of Paris against the Zeppelins), will generally succeed, whatever measures are taken against them, in overtopping the adversary; and the French aviator is remarkably good in that sort of warfare where native audacity and resource are in demand—that is why the Frenchman is so superb a performer in the air. None the less it is impossible quite to bar out the enemy. The clouds may always hide a foe; the fog is ever the possible lurking ground of the hostile airship. But although the barrage system (so successfully applied on solid earth in the tir de barrage) cannot absolutely prevent a Zeppelin attack upon a wide-spreading town, yet the aerial dam has given good results in the war of the air. The procedure is to institute a barrage of aeroplanes over against a certain locality—a certain restricted space. The enemy is marked down and prevented from passing. Undesirable visitors are invited to "move on," and they do not wait for a repetition of the request! I have heard of one hardy airman who, charged to watch the heavens against the passage of the adversary, so manoeuvred that the thick heavy clouds which hung in the sky were positively useful to him as a screen. Noting that at one point there was a clear space in the dense curtain of fog, he placed himself there and watched as a look-out might in the embrasure of a fort. None came to challenge his vigilance.

Again the barrage tactics are extremely useful in the prevention of secrets being divulged to the enemy. Certain important movements, such as the moving up of reinforcements, are taking place in a certain part of the line, and to keep the enemy from knowledge of the fact squadrillas of battle-planes are sent up to bar the way to the enemy scouts, and nothing can penetrate the screen of the avions. Thus it has so happened that, thanks to the barrage system, the enemy has been without definite news of the Allies' movements during twenty-four hours. But let it be remembered that the aerial dam implies the mastery of the air, as important to the Allies as the mastery of the seas: indeed, one could establish a very close analogy between the two. The mastery of the air—the complete mastery—would have meant the finish of the war, the absolute victory for that side which possessed it. And the aerial fleet must consist of aeroplanes, not Zeppelins. For after all the Zeppelins failed miserably either in their bombardment of England or their assault upon French towns. True they have taken toll of a certain number of innocent lives in England, but an infinitesimal number in comparison with the holocaust caused by a terrestrial bombardment. Cumbersome, unwieldy, unable to operate except in a fog, the Zeppelin was comparatively ineffectual as an engine of war, and would not have been employed by the Germans except to prevent the public exposure of a mistaken policy. Six aeroplanes could effect more damage than one Zeppelin, whose radius of action is circumscribed by the fact that it has to carry vast weight for a long journey, that it is expensive to build, and consumes immense quantities of fuel en route; that it is almost as dangerous to itself as to the enemy on account of its vulnerability from cannon and from high winds, and moreover it is constantly exposed to attack from the upper strata of air by the aeroplane which swoops down upon it with the speed of the eagle, and against which the Zeppelin has no defence. No, it is the aeroplane that has come to stay, and a very prominent airman—a man who bears a household name in aeronautics—declared to me that the side which could furnish ten thousand aeroplanes with the airmen to mount them would win the war. For if aerial bombardment had, up to that moment, taken very little place in the hostilities it was because it was on so small a scale. Very little effect was to be obtained by sending half a dozen apparati over a town—it is true that in some of the French raids over German towns there were as many as thirty machines employed, but this was the great exception. It is easy to conjure up the effect of a gigantic bombardment—a shower of metal from the sky—rained everywhere upon the enemy troops on the march, upon the enemy convoys in the rear, upon his stores and magazines, upon his bridges and railways. Such a bombardment, if it could be continued systematically for long enough, would mean his forced surrender, for retreat would not save him. His aerial foes would be always quicker than he, even his quickest motor transport, and would bombard him from the skies. So that the mastery of the sky would ensure the victory for any army.

The development of the aeroplane is full of the most startling possibilities. Already it has far outflown the vision of its inventors, for, a very short time ago it seems, one of the Voisin frères declared to me that the aeroplane would never be other than a rich man's hobby, of little use in war-time other than the dropping of a few explosives. My informant has since trodden the path of so many brave pilots, but had he lived he would have admitted to-day that the possibilities of the aeroplane seem limitless. The appearance of the Sikorski machine in Russia carrying five or six men in its cabin encourages the belief that the aerobus will soon be a practical reality, and the imagination is fired by the prospect of the air humming with giant aeroplanes, which, by the way, the Germans also attempted to use during the war. There is more than a possibility—so many surprising things have happened—that, in the future, commanders will have aerial motor lorries at their disposal for the rapid transport of their troops. Thus strategy and the physiognomy of the fight would be completely changed. It would effect a complete metamorphosis. The commander who possessed this aerial fleet would be able to carry the whole of his army with the speed and ease of the magic carpet of the Arabian Nights to some distant point and descend even into the enemy country. Nevertheless, as M. Blanchon in the Revue des Deux Mondes suggests, the General who resorted to these aerial methods could not carry out normal military operations for the reason that his matériel must go by road. But when the science of air-transport is sufficiently advanced to allow armies to pass in the sky, presumedly that army will know how to take care of its lines of communication.

These are dreams of the future, however, and their realisation is problematical. But the vision which is in no wise uncertain—the vision which will be realised in the near future, is that of vast armies of wings gathered in the sky. Nations will no longer possess fleets of hundreds of aeroplanes, but tens of thousands will lie in readiness to skim into enemy country and scatter terror and death over vast areas. The nations that plunge into war will no longer pledge only their fighting men; they will enter into battle knowing that their women and children must also endure the worst agony of horror, for modern science has destroyed civilised warfare, and modern man has joined hands with primitive man and wars upon the innocent and helpless.

But it must be conceded that superiority in the machines should be accompanied by superiority in pilots. In a conversation which I had at the time of writing this chapter with M. Louis Blériot (who knows as much as any man living of the practical side of aviation and even its scientific side), the famous winner of the cross-Channel prize confessed that France had not sufficiently developed her rich treasure in expert and adventurous men—the very pick of the pilots of the world—though the English, too, were extraordinary for their sang-froid and were remarkable airmen. For in the air as on the land, in the last resort, it is the personal element which tells. A school, urged Blériot, was necessary to form such super-pilots as Garros and Pégoud, men renowned for ever for their prowess in the air.

For the conquest of the air is to the swift and strong and fearless. Prudence and sagacity, and the slow measured wisdom that comes with the years, play no part in so breathless a pursuit. It is a game for young gods, not for the pale savant; a sport for young eagles, for a man must be sharp of eye, strong of claw and sinews to cleave his way through the clouds, right into the face of day. These super-men who ride fearlessly amongst the stars must be the very pick of humanity, revelling in the sensations of supreme danger, glorying in the knowledge that in a few seconds an assailant may emerge from yonder cloud with whom he must come into death grapples, and well aware that the vanquished will crash down thousands of feet to earth. Youth: youth has been poured out with a lavish hand on the smoking, bloody altar of the war. Youth: there is no incense more precious to the gods. Alas! a monstrous sort of selection is exercised. The young are mowed down by Death with the scythe, leaving the least adventurous, the timid and calculating—those who are sure eventually to die of a cold in the head—to live on.

Very curious is the psychology of the airman. He is billeted so often in the midst of the world in some pleasant little town away behind the lines—it may be even Paris; sometimes also Fate sends him to a château where he lives like a prince amid ancestral halls and a sweeping park—until the day when duty calls him to mount the perilous stairway of the skies to give mortal combat to the enemy. In the trenches men welcome an attack as a relief from the deadly monotony of life in pits, but the airman leaves an easeful, agreeable, social life for the cold, austere atmosphere of the skies under the pure radiant dome of heaven. It requires a man of special temperament to withstand so lively a contrast—not to be softened or unnerved by it. Think of the solitude of the upper air, careering absolutely alone, perhaps. And there is no turning back. There is no such word as "funk" in the bright lexicon of the airman. He is up there because he is fearless, because he does not dread being solus in the wide heavens, because he is a man and no craven, because he has nerves of steel and whipcord. And he must be ready to fight with any weapons. Garros was equally expert in attacking and bringing down his man with machine-gun, carbine, rifle, or even revolver, and in ten days before he was captured he had "grassed" three German aeroplanes. One of the men who fell into his hands having asked him to announce his capture to the German lines, Garros started off in that spirit of chivalry common amongst airmen. There is this delightful about the new arm, it has given a touch of romance to the drab horror of the war. Whenever a man was captured or killed, airmen from the opposite camp dropped a letter informing the comrades of the victim, often with an added word of praise. "Even the Germans are gentlemen in the air," remarked a young pilot the other day. There is chivalry in the air. The man with his head near the stars, flying in immeasurable space, has no room for littlenesses. His heart is large and splendid like the splendour of his deeds—deeds that make the exploits of the old heroes pale into insignificance. They are the phenomenal fruit of a limitless audacity, of a glorious and spring-like youth, of the heyday of existence, when danger is the mad intoxicant, the heady draught that puts brightness into the eye, that gives a riotous pleasure to life, that is like song and wine to the hero clad in the shining and invincible armour of his own superlative freshness and illusions.

The bodies that crash down from the heavens and the souls that soar into the white radiance of Eternity have known no petty thought, have perpetrated no mean deed. Yes, there is chivalry in the Air.

CHAPTER XX

THE POILU'S HOSPITAL

There is this wonderful and alluring in France, that, recognising the faults in an administration or department of the public service, she sets to work immediately to effect reform. And it was clear enough that the service de santé, or hospital service, was grievously defective at the outbreak of the war. It was a question that had never been properly worked out. Those who had thought about the subject at all, never supposed that the demands upon the department would be so terrific. Probably they thought, as did most Frenchmen, that the war would be of quick duration and that—well—the inconveniences of the system would be but temporary, and one would do the best one could in so short a time. But the actual facts were to give the lie to this prevision as to many others. The war lasted long, the demands upon the hospital were not only terrific but protracted. But with the spirit of adaptability, of which the French have given so many proofs during the war, they set to work with the resolution to do the best possible. Little by little the gross defects of the earlier days were remedied; the number of doctors, which at the beginning had been hopelessly inadequate, was augmented, and immense improvements were made in the organisation of the hospital trains. Thereupon the evacuation of the wounded developed on scientifically humane lines, in spite of the difficulties of an unexpected kind, mainly brought about by the colossal character of the war. Thus the wounded rapidly received attention in the ambulances and were quickly sent away in trains and motor-cars, and reached the most distant parts of France not later than the morrow of the combat. I was at Biarritz when the Champagne offensive was taking place, and saw arrive at the station wounded men, still powdered with the dust of the trenches, who had been in the fight twenty-four hours before.

The hospitals, however, even the most modern in their equipment, did not equal the English, still less the American, but the reason was not far to seek: a lack of money. A great many "sanitary formations" (as they are called in France) suffered also from a want of motors; in fact the French, by the very nature of the circumstances, had not the immense resources that the English possess. English newspapers raised immense sums for the care of the sick. But if the French had not the money to devote to the niceties of hospital installation they did the best they could with the time and means at their disposal. And although, perhaps, the hospitals were not as clean as would satisfy English tastes, they served their purpose, which was to restore as many men as possible to the firing-line and alleviate suffering.

Eternally to their credit is the manner in which the French resolutely set their house in order after the failure of the system was revealed on the field of battle. It must be remembered that the long duration of battles nowadays prevents the wounded from being removed at once, and often they have to remain the whole of the day where they have fallen until the night comes and they can be transported. Naturally it is of high importance in the saving of life that the wounded should be got away as quickly as possible to avoid the setting in of gangrene.

The Committee, which was formed by M. Millerand at the Ministry of War in the early days of hostilities, to effect reforms in the army medical service, fixed the number of sixty motor-cars per army corps. This number was in direct relation with the accommodation of the hospital trains. But when the war took on the character of a war of manoeuvres it became necessary to employ trains used for ammunition and even for food supply—returning empty to their base—for the evacuation of the wounded. In a general fashion it may be said that the great preoccupation of the military command is to transport the wounded away from the scene of action as rapidly as possible in order to remain unhampered. One could draw a melancholy picture of the first victims of the war and its shambles being sent right across France in crawling trains—the word is applicable in a double sense, a long-drawn-out agony—before the arrival at the base hospital. Never shall I forget the first trainful of British wounded I encountered coming from Mons. The goods train, without seats, benches or beds, crawled and jolted by, passing my train going in the opposite direction. We shouted words of cheer, to which many of the Tommies replied, gaily enough. Some even jumped off the creeping train to pick up the fruit we threw (one fellow, I remember, with a bandaged leg, hopped on one foot in the permanent way, determined not to lose a pear that had fallen there). But others, again, made no reply, and we hushed our voices and bowed our heads as we saw recumbent figures, stretched in cattle trucks on bundles of straw, figures that gave no sign. Would they ever speak again, these men lying alone, untended, in the creaking, jarring train? But these terrible conditions were quickly changed. At the beginning of the war there were only five regular hospital trains provided with beds for the wounded, and a hundred improvised trains, formed to a large extent of the rolling stock of goods trains. The wounded could not be properly attended in such trains, because there was a lack of communication between the different parts, but afterwards, corridor trains were adopted almost exclusively. Nevertheless the number of the wounded was so great, after some of the battles, that every sort of train possible and imaginable had to be pressed into the service. But the Committee, by its wise and careful dispositions, rendered a great service in providing train accommodation for sixty thousand wounded to which the Minister of War added twenty thousand; and which again, I believe, was considerably increased by General Galliéni during his brief but strenuous period at the Ministry of War.

As originally conceived the ambulance of the Front was equipped for major operations as well as the hospital in the rear, but afterwards it was found inadvisable to perform operations in these conditions where the surgeon had not the time or the tranquillity of mind necessary for the purpose; and so by a later arrangement the hospitals for the major operations were placed fifteen or twenty miles to the rear. And so it happened that the first mistakes were rectified. Instead of great and important operations being conducted on the field of battle, subject to the dangers and interruptions from such a propinquity, the more gravely wounded, whose state required amputation, were rapidly transported to these hospitals in the rear after their wounds had been attended to in the first place, and an examination made in the field hospital, or ambulances as they are called in France. This system gave much better results than that adopted in the beginning, whereby the ambulances de l'avant (or advanced ambulances) and the reserve ambulances, the divisional ambulances, and the army ambulances, were interchangeable. They were intended to serve for all the purposes of attending to the wounded. They were used either as a place of temporary relief for the wounded or took on a quasi permanent character according to the necessities of the case. When the advanced ambulances in certain circumstances became stationary, the reserve ambulances followed the army on the march. It seemed in many respects an excellent system, and certainly was very supple and ingenious, for these ambulances became interchangeable; but they possessed the inconvenience, to which I have already alluded—that is to say, the proper sort of attention could not be given to the important cases. Hence the change that the Committee brought about, whereby the grands blessés were transported to the hospital at the rear, where the necessary skill and the instruments required were at their disposal. The present system works in this manner. The battle takes place. The chief medical officer fixes the spot in the rear where the formation ought to be established. The formation establishes itself there in a couple of hours with its motor-cars. An hour after, it has pitched its first tent and is ready to shelter the first wounded which come to it from the ambulances, perhaps in the space of three or four hours. Instruments sterilised in advance permit the surgeons to commence to operate three hours after having received their orders to establish the hospital tent. Other tents can be established to the number of five. A hundred wounded persons can thus be taken care of and treated in the open country. Reserve ambulances can be called upon in case of need. As soon as operated upon, and out of immediate danger, the wounded, in the majority of cases, can be evacuated to permanent hospitals further back in the rear.

In case of retreat, the formation, if warned in time, falls back carrying with it if possible all the wounded and follows the troops. These tent hospitals carry with them the wherewithal to instal an operating theatre and a section d'hospitalisation, composed of a hundred beds, five double-walled tents, and the necessary doctors and male attendants. Of course the problem of removing the wounded from these tent hospitals at the Front is always a grave one. When the war took on the character of a siege war, a train acted as a sort of shuttle from the field ambulances to the station where the "army zone" finished and the "interior zone" began. The two were generally seventy or eighty miles apart. Here the wounded were carried to the other train, where the cases were sorted out and sent to the distant base hospitals. But, as I have said, the tendency was to keep the slight cases as near as possible to the lines, and send only to distant parts either medical cases—infectious diseases, and convalescents—or the more serious surgical cases, which were entering upon a secondary phase.

One of the most interesting aspects of the question of the treatment and recovery of the wounded was the utilisation of the mineral waters which exist in such abundance in France, particularly in the Pyrenees; and all the well-known stations of this delightful region were filled with soldiers recovering from their wounds or illnesses incurred in the service of the country. Magnificent results were obtained also by the same means in '70. Strongly impregnated sulphur waters gave then, as they have given during this second war, most admirable results, particularly in combating the infection of wounds caused by fire-arms. It is not necessary to insist upon the dreadful error of the theory that bullet wounds were clean wounds. Before it was discovered that the bullet infected the surrounding tissue much harm had been done. The mineral waters were also invaluable in the treatment of nervous affections arising from wounds and rheumatism contracted in the trenches. Some really remarkable recoveries have been made in this glorious region irradiated by the sun and full of pure air charged with the balsamic odours of a pine-clad district.

Whilst, as I have said, there was rapid improvement made in the various services, the defect inherent in all administrations, English as well as French, but perhaps more particularly French, subsisted. For instance, M. Joseph Reinach, the well-known Deputy, has inveighed especially against the abuse of red tape in the hospitals. All sorts of dreadful formalities were necessary to be fulfilled to obtain a lemon or a bottle of the simplest medicine. There had to be a proper requisition made with several signatures attached, and this entailed visits to different offices situated in different parts of the building—a formidable waste of time. Some string and nails, value 1 fr. 25, appeared in somebody's report. Immediately there was an imperious demand for details, which were supplied, of course—though purely imaginary. The precious document travelled during several weeks from the bottom to the top of the administrative ladder. Papers even pursue the unhappy doctor or stretcher-bearer right into the trenches—though, of course, every reasonable person would admit that records must be kept. M. Reinach, who, furnished with special powers of investigation, has carried his inquiries into every part, points out that even if the high administration decrees simplicity and the different sub-departments apparently incline, they continue their complicated practices just the same. Says M. Reinach, and his words will serve to depict the unhappy state of the public in this country as well as in any other: "We believe we are governed at one time by this party, at another by that. In reality, we are governed by the departments in the interests of a mysterious syndicate of paper merchants. It will require a revolution more profound than that of '89 to rid us of administrative routine." And it must be remembered also—one feels authorised to mention it since it is admitted by M. Reinach, as well as by other thoughtful Frenchmen—-that favouritism and nepotism have made terrible ravages in this direction as in so many others; but these abuses have been corrected, we must hope, by the touchstone of war.

One of the most pleasing, and at the same time touching, sides of the war is the heroism in the hospitals. The majority of the patients belong to the class of manual labourer, but they were as dignified, as calmly Stoical, in their way as those who had larger opportunities for education. Though they had never read Epictetus or Marcus Aurelius, and were often just simple labourers, they showed invariably a greatness of soul. Women working in the hospitals have given me pathetic instances of soldiers' gentleness and resignation. They calmly watch the surgeon going about his work probing in their own flesh. They look on apparently unmoved, idly smoking a cigarette. Heroic simple souls of France. They are always joking, even before a most serious operation; one cannot overcome their invincible courage and good humour. Often it is touching enough. In the Metropolitain of Paris I travelled with a man who had lost his leg—one of the numerous army of the mutilated. In conversation he had forgotten to alight at a certain station. The train had already begun to move from the platform, and, to the alarm of those next to him, the poor fellow tried to jump out. He was pulled back just in time. "J'ai oublié," he said simply, looking reflectively at the empty trouser leg. In the hospital it is easier, perhaps, to be uncomplaining, to support with appearance of equanimity the pain and suffering of the wounds; it is more difficult in the evacuation stations, where sometimes the wounded have to stay a night exposed to all the discomfort of a provisional arrangement.

There are, too, pathetic instances of self-sacrifice. The "poilu" (as I have said elsewhere in this book) is a generous-hearted soul, very forgiving to his enemies, even when they have done him unspeakable hurt; he will share food with the wounded Boche in the next bed. He will send him his comforts. "Here," he says to the nurse, "take this woollen waistcoat and give it to that chap over there; I have clothes enough." The humanity of the French and their intrinsic civilisation are revealed in the intimacy of the hospitals which are tended by those admirable women whose quiet and unadvertised devotion have inspired the admiration of every beholder.

Another very charming feature is the care taken of the permanently crippled. At Lyons, M. Herriot, the mayor, worked hard in this direction, and established schools where the mutilated could be taught useful trades. M. Maurice Barrès in Paris, chiefly by making use of columns in the Écho de Paris, worked for the same holy cause. One of the prettiest things is to go into a French hospital and see the semi-convalescents at work upon ingenious and charming little objects wherein they show their taste and inexhaustible ingenuity. They are never at a loss, these sons of France: a cunningly carved flower, an amusing caricature, a doll with articulated limbs, dainty little baskets—all these bear witness to the inherent culture and good taste that are theirs by right of birth, in virtue of having been born on the fruitful soil of France.

I have spoken of the bravery of the soldier as he lies under the surgeon's knife; but let us not forget the signal heroism of the surgeons themselves, and their staffs. They have given proof of a super-human courage and self-forgetfulness, and surgeons and doctors, stretcher-bearers and nurses, have frequently figured in the Army Orders for their absolute devotion to duty. In many cases the enemy granted no truce for the recovery of the wounded, and it was necessary to seek them under a hail of bullets and shell fire. Wounds were dressed on the field of battle during the fight or in ambulances, which the Red Cross flag did not always protect from the bombardment of the Huns. In many cases it was perfectly evident that the building was the positive target of the enemy. The trained nurse, as we understand her in England, hardly existed at the outbreak of the war, but the women of the Red Cross worked in the hospitals and made up for a lack of professional training by a devotion without limits, and a whole-hearted willingness to learn and adapt themselves to the new conditions. It is true that no amount of good-will can supply the want of professional knowledge, but I have the testimony of many doctors that the better-educated Frenchwoman speedily acquired the essential part of hospital practice. The ladies who belonged to the various societies under the Red Cross were unpaid, and had gained their certificates after six-months' service in a hospital. Three societies form the Red Cross organisation in France: the Sociètè de la Croix Rouge, the Sociètè de Secours aux Blessès, and Union des Femmes de France. There is a religious basis to the French Red Cross, and before the war, before every woman who had leisure, rushed to offer her services to her beloved country, nursing in France was almost entirely in the hands of the Sisters of Mercy. True, in late years, in the course of the terrible struggle between Church and State, many of these splendid women had been driven from France, banished to carry their beneficence and charity to foreign climes. But when the German hordes swept over the frontier, France was invaded by another silent army, an army of white-capped, calm-browed women, who with exquisite serenity moved to the beds of sickness and suffering. The nursing sisters returned to their kingdom, and the Head of the State bowed to receive them, for their heroism is matchless; they blench at no risks, they falter at no fear of infection; with placid brow they look, undismayed, at the most fearful sights, and the agonised patient, gazing into their steadfast eyes, gains strength and courage from the light of hope and faith that shines there. Never again will the Orders be banished from France.