Front matter

BY

CHARLES DAWBARN

AUTHOR OF "FRANCE AT BAY," ETC.

MILLS & BOON, LIMITED 49 RUPERT STREET LONDON, W.

Published 1916

IN MEMORY OF GENERAL GALLIÉNI TO WHOM THIS BOOK WAS DEDICATED (BY PERMISSION)

FOREWORD

This book is intended as a presentation card to the French army. It is a plain story for plain people, and there has been a deliberate avoidance of any technicalities. In it you will find references to the leading figures in the fighting organisation of France—Joffre and his most brilliant collaborators; and I have tried to render just homage to the "poilu," who is the French common soldier. Perhaps the most touching thought about that man, whose deeds of glory and pure heroism will inspire the poets for many a long year, is that he represents not the soldier of profession, but the soldier drawn from the most peaceful occupations. Practically the first great encounter of the French with the Germans in the battle of Charleroi, and the subsequent retreat, accounted for a large part of the regular army, and more or less placed hors de combat the greater number of its officers. That professional force was replaced by the Reserve and later supplemented by the youngest classes—men culled from the very heart of pacific France. They came to the trenches with all their civilian instincts—it was a peasant and bourgeois army—but in an amazingly short space of time they were vying with the old soldier in the brilliance of their exploits, in their ability to endure supreme hardship with the greatest gallantry, and without complaint: an extraordinary story of adaptability. And it came to pass in the process of time that there was the army at the front and the army in the rear: the army of the field and the army of the munition factory, recruited from different elements, for the men in the trenches were the peasants, the sons of agricultural France; and the army of the factories—the munition workers—was composed of the artisan and typical town dweller. And it is as well to remember, when the question of the future of France, after the war, arises, that the peasant supported to a great extent the physical sufferings of the war, the danger of death and mutilation, the exposure in the trenches, the cold and damp, whilst the townsman was harnessed to the intensive labour of producing shot and shell for infantry and guns. I do not insinuate that the townsman shirked the more bitter task. Each time a demand was made upon him, involving sacrifice of life, he also was ready to rise to any height of abnegation. And in the more mechanical branches of the war, such, for instance, as artillery and aviation, it was often a townsman who was the hero, and who gained, by some glowing deed, the precious symbol of the war cross and even, perhaps, the Legion of Honour. A pure Parisian was Guynemer, the sergeant pilot, who, on a monoplane where he was pilot and combatant, bore down six German machines in as many months, and won thus his stripes as sergeant, the military medal—the highest military award in France—the Legion of Honour and the War Cross with seven palms; and all this at the age of twenty-one. Indeed, in every enterprise that demanded skill and daring the townsman was to the fore. But it is not possible to differentiate in the heroism displayed by the French. The historian will never point to the bravery of one class and the timidity of another, for there has been bravery everywhere—bravery and heroism of the most sublime sort poured out with lavish hand to the eternal glory of France.

In these pages I have sought to give a glimpse of the "poilu" at work in the trenches, that one may peep a little through the shutters of his soul. For the mind of the "poilu" is strangely barred and curtained, more strictly than the windows in any English east-coast town. The outsider is not permitted to see the light within. Question him and he will proudly boast his vices; concerning his virtues he is silent, and quaintly ashamed; and to understand the mentality of the "poilu," to discover what manner of man he is, one must rub shoulders with him in everyday life. Upon some of these familiar visits I hope my readers will accompany me, at least in imagination, and will gather some insight into the character of the Soldier of France. I shall, indeed, have ill performed my task if I have failed to show how valiant he is in facing mortal danger, how uncomplaining in the midst of monotonous peril, and in the worst discomforts—waiting the order to attack without the least murmuring, with soldier-like acquiescence in the bitter cold of a winter's night or in the chill of early spring. He has forged in a surprisingly short time the âme militaire; he has exhibited an amazing adaptability. Some had supposed him ill-disciplined, incapable of the highest military virtues. "Is this a school treat?" exclaimed an outraged Britisher as a detachment of French soldiers slouched, singing and whistling down the road. Yes, a sloppy and disorderly lot they looked, their clothes dirty and ill-fitting, and hung around with their kit like travelling caravans. Surely such men were no soldiers! There was a large section of English opinion convinced that the Frenchmen would not fight; that, probably, was the German idea also. What, then, has effected the transformation? How has the "poilu" become inspired by the highest military courage, and for weeks and weeks, as at Verdun, sustained the most devastating bombardment? Ah! that is the secret of this war, that is the secret of the French temperament, that secluded soul, which is not always what it seems to be. It ever carries in it the seeds and possibilities of greatness: seeds that lay dormant until this war germinated them and they developed into the glorious flower of achievement. In an instant this quick and imaginative people awoke to the necessities of the war; they had every reason to realise its meaning; it was only too plain. There it was, written in blood and carnage in the invaded departments. England, of course, lacked that object-lesson. Merely the Zeppelins reminded her of the "reality" of the war, with their pitiable toll of innocent lives; and moreover, the attitude of the authorities, far from insisting upon the realisation of the war and its horror, tended to starve the imaginative side of the campaign. There were, of course, the scenes at the recruiting meetings, the posters and the rest: but that, after all, was undignified, a little pathetic, and sometimes even rang false; the great diapason of the Country's Call was but rarely sounded. "Your country needs you," said a theatrical-looking poster; but did it really need one? One had to be sure of that. And yet, in spite of these disadvantages, in spite of a despairing and exasperating silence about the achievements and daily heroisms of the army in the field—until one began to think that the only records other than the meagre communiqué, were the casualties—in spite, I say, of these drawbacks, in spite of the paucity of the appeal, the response of the young men to this voluntary call was stupefying in its splendour and spontaneity, so that the French were able to say—though they did not always say it with satisfying eloquence—again the fault of those who did not trouble to let them know precisely what the splendid English army and English organisation were doing—that never had the world given such a picture of sacrifice, of absolute, undiluted courage. The men of England were splendid, and only the Government, so ill-adapted to the exceptional, limped painfully, slowly and awkwardly, behind public opinion, instead of springing in front to direct it.

I have said that people at home were not always sure that the French would be equal to the enormous strain put upon them by the tragic events of the invasion, by the systematised savagery of a relentless foe. Perhaps they had dipped into history and become inspired by that wonderful picture that Alfred de Musset draws in La Confession d'un Enfant du Siècle. A generation pale, nervous and feverish was born during the wars of the Empire. "Conceived between two battles, raised in the colleges to the roll of drums, thousands of children looked about them with sombre eyes and shrinking, quivering muscles. From time to time their fathers, stained with blood, appeared, raised them on their chests shining with decorations, and then, placing them on the ground, remounted their horses.

"There was only one man living then in Europe: the rest filled their lungs with the air that he had breathed. Each year France gave three hundred thousand young men to this man; it was the tax paid to Cæsar, and if he had not had that mob behind him, he would not have been able to carry out his plans. Never were there so many nights without sleep as in the time of this man; never has one seen so many desolated mothers, never such silence, the hush around the shadow of death. And yet there was never so much joy, so much life, so much war-like music in hearts. Never was there such pure sunlight as that which dried up all this blood. It was the air of this sky without a cloud, where shone so much glory, where so much steel glittered, that the children were then breathing. They knew well that they were destined to the hecatombs, but they believed Murat to be invulnerable, and one had seen the Emperor pass immune through such a hail of bullets that one doubted whether he could die. Death was so fine then, so great, so magnificent in its smoky purple.... The cradles of France were shields and coffins also. There were no longer any old men, but corpses and demi-gods. Nevertheless, France, widow of Cæsar, felt suddenly her wound. She began to fail and slept with so heavy a sleep that her old kings, believing her dead, wrapped her in a white shroud. The old, grey-haired army returned, worn out with fatigue, and the fires on the hearths of deserted châteaux sadly rekindled."

The war is over; the children no longer see sabres and cuirasses; Cæsar is dead, the portraits of Wellington and Blücher hang in the Consulates. Anxious children sit on the ruins of the world, the children that were born at the breast of war, for the war. They had dreamed during fifteen years of the snows of Moscow and of the sun of the Pyramids. Every one was tired, used up, exhausted. The light of life had gone out. The children, when they spoke of glory, were urged to become priests, priests when one spoke of ambition, love and hope; and, whilst life outside was so pale and shabby, the internal life of society took on an aspect silent and sombre. The habits of students and artists were affected; they became addicted to wine and women. And then De Musset speaks of the influence that Goethe and Byron—the two finest geniuses of the century according to Napoleon—exercised over Europe. "Can't you put a little honey in the fine vases you make?" he asks of Goethe; and of Byron he questions, "Have you no well-beloved near your dear Adriatic?" and adds that though perhaps he, personally, has suffered more than the English poet, he believes yet in hope and blesses God. It is the reign of despair. "The ills of the century come from two causes," he says: "the people who have experienced the Revolution and Waterloo carry two wounds in their hearts. All that was, is no more; all that will be, is not yet. Do not look elsewhere for the secret of our ills."

Could he have foreseen the terrific experience through which France was to pass a hundred years from Waterloo, how his tone would have altered into deep commiseration. And yet it is interesting to compare this picture of the years following the Napoleonic wars and the exhaustion which then revealed itself—the utter hopelessness of every one—with the condition to-day when, with the first pale beams of the sun of peace, France is thinking of the future, already discounting the profit that will be obtained by her victorious and long-suffering arms. What great repose has she not merited? What great reward of peace and plenty? This generation has fought, has given its life with unheard-of prodigality that the new generation may not have to fight. It has purchased freedom at the terrible price of blood—freedom from the slavery of Germany. No. De Musset's picture is no longer true, but it is doubtless this portrait of a puny, bloodless, spiritless France which impressed itself, all the more vividly because of the splendour of the word-painting, upon the foreign observer, and it was perhaps these students of French history who moulded English opinion. De Musset's powerful description was photographed upon the brain, and few realised that the conditions of which he spoke were transitory, and that France had emerged triumphant from her darkest hour when the pulse of her being was but a thread. The France of to-day is not bowed down with despair, but is buoyed with invincible hope. Hope in the morrow, hope in the recreative genius of her people—of their marvellous powers of recuperation. It is pleasant, it is comforting, to note the contrast, to observe the salutary change the century has brought; the France of De Musset shuddered, demoralised, over the cold embers of conflict—a conflict gigantic as it then seemed, but small in face of the sacrifices of the Great War. Even the agonies of Napoleon's invasion of Russia cannot compare with the hecatomb, the awful onslaught that Joffre had to meet and defeat. Glory to the "poilu," to his courage and constancy. He has saved France; he has gained for her the sweet and fruitful repose of a century wherein her inventive industry and creative genius may be revived; wherein she may excel in the arts, in the most splendid works of peace; wherein she may prove to be the torch-bearer of advanced civilisation, the pioneer—only a prudent and alert pioneer—no longer the dupe to illusions, of that beatific time when there shall be no more war.

Nor in this picture of fighting France must one forget the wife and daughter of the "poilu"; their work has been splendid. In no direction has the national spirit been more finely emphasised. I recall a visit to a typical factory in the east of France, some twenty miles behind the lines, where the workers were women. I was struck by their positive fanaticism. Upon the walls hung mottoes, just as in pious English homes one sees texts of Scripture. One in particular caught the eye by its terse and vivid eloquence: "Bad work may kill your brother!" And I can well believe that there was no bad work in that factory. There was no question of wages; they were never discussed; no one thought of them; they were of no importance. Wages, disputes, strikes! when the men were fighting a life and death struggle a few miles away, and when you could hear plainly the hoarse rattle of the guns when the wind lay in the right direction? Impossible! Instead of striking, women worked themselves to death and often were carried fainting from their tasks after a twelve and fifteen hours' day. And what an example the masters set of untiring devotion. Addressing the Creusot workers in the twenty-first month of the war, M. Albert Thomas, head of the Ministry of Munitions, spoke of chiefs who had kept to their duties for eighteen hours at a stretch. For them, at least, there were no restorative week-ends and pleasant breaks in public fetes—nothing but a continuous, back-aching and brain-wearying round. First to realise the shortage of the shells, some six months before the English, the French displayed astounding energy in remedying the defect. Their ant-like industry and powers of organisation, rivalling even the vast enterprises of America, attracted a world-wide admiration as great as for their heroism in the field. And if it awakened an equal homage, its presence was even less suspected than those martial qualities for which, after all, history gives credit and the brilliant proof though we had forgotten it in this talk of perpetual peace, in an atmosphere of material prosperity and a super-civilisation bordering on decadence.

These things are faintly reflected in my pages together with some appreciation of the English. Sometimes it is a little pale, that praise for the gallant ally: the cause of it I have shown already in a rudderless Governmental policy and a Press starved into undue reticence by the Censor. The harm of it was seen in querulous articles from Boulevard pens. "France has borne the brunt, France has bled, let others now do their share." That was during Verdun, when the trumpets had blown the fame of France over the wide earth and there was no note resonating for England—in spite of her casualty list. Had the chroniclers, then, forgotten the glorious stand of the English in the Great Retreat, how they had saved the French army from being crumpled up by Von Kluck's furious attacks on the left wing, and how they had shown unparalleled resistance against overwhelming odds? No; the French have not forgotten, it is engraved eternally in their hearts. Those who seem to forget adopt a political pose; yet it is necessary to reassert the facts, not to diminish the "poilu," but rather that we may "realise" him the more, that we may regard him as a brother for whom we have laboured and fought, for whom we have shed our blood. England, by her early heroism in the war, contributed to the full development and glory of the French soldier. It is not the least of our satisfactions that we have helped to build the proud monument whereon is emblazoned the imperishable record of his victories. Thus may we cry with greater fervour, "Vive la France! vive son armée!" If we know that army and know its chiefs, we shall be the readier to protest our faith.

CONTENTS

CHAP.

FOREWORD

I THE AWAKENING II THE THREE-YEARS LAW III DEVELOPMENT OF THE NATIONAL ARMY IV JOFFRE—HIS ORIGIN AND RECORD V PREPARATION VI JOFFRE IN ACTION VII THE SECOND IN COMMAND VIII THE ORGANISATION OF MUNITIONS IX FRENCH DISCIPLINE AND LEADERSHIP X GALLIÉNI AND HIS POPULARITY XI GALLIÉNI AND HIS COLONIAL EXPERIENCE XII THE HERO OF THE OURCQ XIII THE MILITARY POWER OF ENGLAND XIV SOME TYPES OF COMMANDERS XV CHARACTERISTICS OF THE FIGHTING XVI MILITARY COMMAND AND THE REVOLUTION XVII THE SPIRIT OF THE TRENCHES XVIII TRENCH JOURNALS AND THEIR READERS XIX THE AIRMAN IN WAR XX THE "POILU'S" HOSPITAL

JOFFRE AND HIS ARMY

CHAPTER I

THE AWAKENING

"Rather than submit to the slavery of the Germans, the whole French nation would perish." These words of General de Castelnau are no idle boast—the coloured eloquence of a General who wishes to hearten his troops: they are a simple statement of fact. France has left behind eloquence and embroidered phrases: her commerce, her agriculture, her arts are gone. She has only one business, that of fighting: her men are all mobilised. And behind them stand the old, the young, the women and children, waiting their turn, should that turn come. And if France ever lies under the German heel, at least of the French people there will be none left to weep. That is the spirit animating the army of Joffre, that army whose exploits must have impressed even the most unimpressionable by their continued splendour. Never was finer heroism displayed than theirs. And they recognised from the very first the desperate character of the enterprise. It was not a war of chivalry. There has been no incident as at Fontenoy when Lord Hay, addressing the French guards, invited them to fire first. The Germans carried no sentiment of any kind into the battlefield, where their sole endeavour was to overcome the adversary, and any means were considered legitimate. To them the doubtful honour of the most diabolical inventions for destroying life. This is not the atmosphere—the atmosphere of asphyxiating gas—where chivalry thrives, and the French character, legends, and traditions of fighting, are utterly opposed to such scientific barbarities. "These civilised savages inspire me with more horror than cannibals," said Flaubert. But far from being overcome and dismayed by German barbarism, the French showed an instant spirit of adaptation; the hideous conceptions of the Hun brain were hurled back to them across the trenches. And horror begets horror. Officers, from the most accomplished generals down to the subalterns, learned with astounding speed the new art of war—this terrible, unscrupulous, brutal combat which, after fearful carnage in the open, as at Verdun, constantly ran itself to earth, settling down into trench war of the most monstrous description.

Protracted trench warfare, it has been said a thousand times, is quite contrary to the French disposition, which is all dash and go and impulse. But to-day we shall have to revise our views, no doubt, and find that the French have mixed with their audacity, with their natural quickness of thought and action and their high receptivity, some of that resistance and tenacity which are characteristically British. Confirmed Anglophiles in France attribute this phenomenon to the moral influence of ourselves—a flattering and satisfying doctrine to our own self-esteem. But the appearance of this "new" virtue extended to all parts of the population, and was so universal that we cannot credit this grand attribute of the French in the hour of their great adversity to anything but their own innate qualities. It was exhibited by mayors of communes, even the most remote, who have been exposed to the brutalities of the invaders; by the clergy to a conspicuous degree—nothing was more touching and remarkable than their absolute devotion in the most nerve-racking conditions. It was shown, indeed, by the whole of the civil population, young and old, and especially by women. How splendid they were! They did their work with extreme quietude, with a positive genius for adaptability, and no illustrated paper published photographs of their uniforms—for they had none. On the first day of the mobilisation the French women turned into the fields to gather the harvest the men had left on the ground. They had no time to choose a suitable costume; no need of exhortations from the Board of Agriculture. They were left to do the work, and they did it without fuss and without parade. Such examples of determination, tenacity, sheer self-sacrifice, courage and abnegation existed in all directions, diffusing a golden light over the country, just as the coloured windows at the Invalides bathe the tomb of Napoleon in a splendid effulgence.

In the army itself the adaptability of its leaders is a thousand times exemplified by the manner in which erudite soldiers who have taught tactics and strategy in the War School, along certain lines, suddenly confronted with the problems of actual war, have seen that they were quite other than those laid down in the text-books, and thereafter have speedily adapted themselves to the new conditions. Some failed, and there arose the rumour of many enforced retirements from active command. But the inference to be drawn from this was not always correctly stated. The generals in most cases were not incompetent; they correctly applied the old war rules to the situations as they arose; but they were not sufficiently supple; they did not adapt themselves to the new conditions. The officers who proved the most successful were, for the most part, the colonels and majors, who in a few months obtained important commands.

The classic instance of this is General Pétain, who, when the war broke out, was a colonel, and rose with breathless rapidity to take supreme command of the armies at Verdun during that terrific fight which occupied many weeks of the Spring of 1916. Romantic as such a rise may seem to be, it is as well to remember that the new commander was eminently qualified by reason of his long preparation to occupy such a position. He possesses one of the finest brains in the army—which in France for long has been an intellectual profession—and had so trained it that he was able at once to take advantage of the new conditions of warfare which have so materially changed since the area of war was charted for the guidance of commanders.

When the war broke out, France was not ready. We in England have been often accused of our lack of foresight; but the fact that France, living under the shadow of war, at least since the Agadir incident, was unprepared seems to have been incredible folly. How is it to be explained? The explanation is politics, and the pleasant, but alas! entirely false, atmosphere created by the dreams of pacifists. Whilst Germany planned war and prepared for it in the most cold-blooded manner, France was dreaming of peace and behaving as if war were a thing of the past. All her preoccupations were pacific; to her purblind politicians, the real danger was either a struggle between Capital and Labour—and there were not wanting signs that this was probable—or else a largely imaginary conflict between the dispossessed Church and the State. And, again, there was a large party in the nation led by the persuasive eloquence of Jaurès which urged that universal peace was a practical reality. France herself did not want to fight, England showed no bellicosity; Germany, it was true, through her governing classes, displayed a disquieting tendency to bully, but the heart of the people—was not that pacific? Had not Socialism, and the doctrine of the brotherhood of man, taken firm root? The French Socialists were convinced that it had. And so they argued war was a practical impossibility; for, certainly, this great mass of German opinion, penetrated with Socialism and with the ultra-pacific doctrines which go with it, would never permit the nation to be drawn into war for the benefit of the fire-eaters and directors of the great war machine. The wish was father to the thought, and these misguided but well-meaning people were always seeing across the Vosges evidence of the same beneficent principles that manifested themselves at home. The French Socialists were, indeed, to a great extent anti-militarist: did it not take two to make a quarrel? Was it likely that they would be wantonly attacked when they had not the least intention of attacking anybody? Very naturally, I think, they argued in that strain—and the great fault was that the directors of opinion in France, as in England, made no effort to explore the dark waters of political probability. It was pleasant to walk ruminatingly along the banks and to dream that the good time would always continue. The bomb-shell of the invasion brought the awakening. In a certain sense English politicians were more to blame than the French, chiefly because no one of them with their hard practical Anglo-Saxon sense really believed in universal brotherhood—there was no Jaurès to capture the public imagination by the witchery of words. England realised clearly enough that war between France and Germany was, sooner or later, inevitable, and the high failure of these self-same politicians was that they did not bring home to the public conscience the no less inevitable intervention by England. "But we are not scaremongers! There was too much talk already about the sword and keeping one's powder dry," say the apologists. But it is precisely in a pacific interest that the so-called leaders of the nation ought to have spoken. Mathematics is the base of war—and of its prevention; and in this case the sum was easy: merely two and two make four. If England had displayed the precaution that she adopts in other affairs—the caution of the typical citizen safe-guarding his own personal interests—then Germany would have thought a long while before crossing the frontier and would still have been thinking about it. Knowing what we do of the Teuton temperament, revealed more particularly in the report of the camp at Wittenberg, we are convinced that Germany would have hesitated long had she not had the quasi conviction of an easy victory. Everything points to that: the rapid defeat of France, and then a swift turning upon Russia, whose mobilisation is proverbially slow and whose armament was known to be ludicrously inadequate. Undoubtedly a little plain speaking as well as definite and resolute preparations for eventualities would have done much to prevent war. Forces are blind and superior to man, but war was made by man, and man sets the current that renders it inevitable; then, the same human energy directed at the right time and right place could have prevented it.

Nor was there in England the same anti-militarism which prevailed in France amongst a large section hypnotised by the engaging doctrine of high-minded theorists. There was no anti-militarism, for the reason that there was no militarism; England was not a military power. And thoughtful Frenchmen have been immensely impressed by the speed with which she became one. The unchanging England had become changed out of all recognition. I remember that when Rodin went first to England, he was struck by the eighteenth-century aspect of the people and their institutions. In the houses and in the streets he met types such as Gainsborough and Lawrence painted. Their clothes even had not changed, for though English women nominally wear French fashions, they individualise them and adapt them to their own tastes. And this friendly observer was constantly meeting in the unchanging women evidences of the eternal England in their classic features and fresh complexions, their dignified carriage, splendid shoulders and fine open countenances. Even the clothes—the broad hat and the use of scarfs and trinkets for the adornment of the person—signified the same thing.

And in military matters this faithfulness to the past was every whit as pronounced. The English Army was unchanging in its traditions, habits and customs, in its equipment and even in its names. As M. Germain Bapst, the French battle historian, has pointed out, the names of commanders remained unaltered from the Peninsular War and Waterloo to the Crimea. Men purchased commissions in the British Army until after the Franco-German War, and only a quarter of a century has elapsed since soldiers were whipped. In 1894 there were forty-six sentences of this sort carried out. There was little or no change in the army from the Crimea to the Boer War. Lord Roberts and Lord Kitchener were the two magicians who awakened England from her lethargy.

And then consider the continuity of tradition in the English regiments: they bear on their standards the names of the old victories, and their history and achievements can be traced for hundreds of years. Not so with the French regiments. Their identity has been lost in the shifting sands of the Revolution. To quote one instance: the Regiment of Piedmont, which existed in the time of Henry VIII, became a departmental regiment, then the Third of the Line, and then the Seventh—it is impossible to keep pace with its changes. Practically the history of regiments in France stops at the Revolution. That was the moment of great changes when everything was swept away and new principles established. England the immutable, France the fluid, enthusiastic, passionate, artistic, wildly given over to new ideas what singular destiny has brought the two together as comrades and allies on the field of battle in a union much closer than in the Crimea, where, however, Canrobert came to the same conclusion as Foch, who repeated the eulogium, at an interval of sixty years, to General Delannes, a former chief of staff: "Once the British Army has agreed to do something, the thing is done." The unchanging spirit, then, the bull-dog tenacity, that tremendous grip that never lets go—these British qualities blend and render powerful the Latin temperament, with its quickness of comprehension and adaptability. Slow to see a new fact, still slower to excite himself, John Bull is the ideal character to play the waiting game, that game of exhaustion of the war. The more wonderful, then, in the eyes of the French that he should have made so prodigious a military effort.

Eminent French military critics have dealt with all the phases of the movement for raising men, first by the old traditional system of voluntaryism, then by graduated processes of compulsion. The result was an army whose peer the world had never seen, either for the high training of the men or the quality of the equipment. Already in the Spring of 1916 the English artillery was more numerous than the French, especially in heavy guns. It is true that the shooting of those pieces was not as good as that of our Allies, and that the French sent instructors to coach the English in their own methods; but one need not be surprised that we had not immediately acquired the full science of artillery usage upon which the French have specialised for many years. In the strict co-operation of two armies of differing nationalities working together in the field there must be necessarily certain difficulties and differences, and it is certain that the French did not always comprehend our methods of fighting. The English "stick it out" is often opposed to their own notion of a judicious retreat. For instance, the "marmites" are falling fast upon the front-line trench; there is a danger of the trench caving in and burying its occupants. Realising the situation, the French withdraw their men to the second line—perhaps three hundred yards behind the other. The British, however, will not countenance this strategic move; they remain; their own flank is exposed. Two rival principles are here in play. Say the British: "Better remain in the trench, because, on the morrow, you must win it back again by a counter-attack which is a wasteful process." "No," say the French, "retreat in time and save your men; you can get it back at a less cost than if you stayed and ran the risk of being decimated by the big shells."

You may see, no doubt, much of the same spirit in the question of guarding or abandoning sections of the line which are difficult to keep. For instance, the French probably would have given up long ago the salient at Ypres, which the English maintained at a considerable cost, mainly for sentimental, at least, for moral reasons, whereas the French would have urged that there was a line behind that would have given a better and easier frontier to defend. None, however, can estimate the moral value to the French of the mere presence at their side of their old rivals and antagonists; and the effect of contingents arriving in France from far-off Canada and Australia, New Zealand and the Cape, has been quite extraordinary. Almost inconceivable, also, has been the material help that Britain has extended to her Allies. To France alone we have advanced £500,000,000, a wonderful achievement in itself, and we have also supplied unending stores of coals, steel, boots, clothing—material of all sorts.

Of the "poilu," too, I shall often speak, but you will never realise how big he is—this sometimes unlikely-looking man, hung about with pots and pans and cumbered with all sorts of strange impedimenta. And he is often a poet as well as a hero. I wish you could read the letters from him I have been privileged to see, written under the hail of bullets and in the thunder of the big guns. His courage and undying spirit shine through these tender communications which lose so much in the translation, which are untranslatable, in fact—for one cannot translate a perfume or a colour, nor can you put upon cold paper the complexion of a kiss. The "poilu" is peculiarly French in the mood and manner of his life, in his apparent slackness, in the speed with which he braces up at the proper moment, his disgust and objection to mere unintelligent parade, his amused disdain of the "panache," his admiration for and whole-hearted devotion to a man capable of understanding and drawing him out, able to appeal to the particular form of his patriotism, and to fire him with a holy zeal for a holy cause—to a man, in fact, who combines a species of apostolic fervour, a winsomeness and appeal, with the sterling qualities of a real leader of men. Of such men I shall presently speak—men who inspire devotion like Mahomet over his followers, men who bring out the spirituality of war—if so be that one is allowed to speak of its spiritual side. For amidst the awful wreck of war—the sufferings it entails, its thousand miseries, the break-up of the home, the desolation of hearths, and the abominations practised upon civilians by the drunken or cynical soldiers of the Kaiser—there are incidents, as great and as sublime as ever immortalised the saints and martyrs dying for their religion, suffering nameless tortures that, in their quivering flesh, they might represent, for ever, the sustaining power of God. Of such heroism, of such priceless sacrifice this war is full—so full, that one knows not where to begin, and certainly would not know where to end, in a recital of deeds of valour and of splendour, irradiating poor human nature with a glow of glory whose beams will reach Eternity. Yet this war, despite its horror, despite the fact that it has filled the streets of every big town in France with a melancholy line of cripples, of men hopelessly maimed, who must go through the remainder of their existence on this earth with diminished vigour, has taught lessons and inculcated warnings which must continue through the years to bear their fruit and point the way to the right road as well as constituting a danger-signal to national shortcomings.

"Quit yourselves like men." The war will not have been in vain if this lesson is laid to heart. Let us have no more cant; no more false sentiment; no more idle dreams and castles built upon the foundations of a civilisation that does not exist. If, after nearly 2000 years of Christianity, we have not learnt to love one another, let us not, at least, pretend we do—until we are awakened by a Hymn of Hate. The Peace of the future is to the strong, to the country that is alive to the menace of war, to the nation constantly vigilant, to a people standing to arms. France, with her woman's soul, clung to a belief in civilisation that should make war unthinkable. But the nations that emerge from this war will have lost their illusions; they will have grown old and wise, and perhaps a little hard. Yet, at least, they will have learnt to face facts; they will not cry Peace when there is no peace. No, the policy of the nations will be directed by hard facts; the horrors of the camp of Wittenberg are seared into our souls. Dreams and idealism must have no place in our national affairs; such pleasant pastimes bring too rude an awakening.

CHAPTER II

THE THREE-YEARS LAW

During the Summer of 1913, it became evident that France had to change her military law to enable her to cope with the new forces Germany had arrayed against her. The growth of the Imperial effectives was quite remarkable. They had been increased by new legislation to 876,000; the cover troops, that is, those placed along the frontier in readiness for immediate service, were reinforced by 60,000 men and 500 pieces of artillery. To these numbers must be added the enormous total of the reserve: 4,370,000. Such masses were quite unknown to Europe and inspired legitimate alarm, not only in France, but amongst the other nations. The French Army numbered 567,000 of the active, and 3,980,000 of the reserve, namely, 700,000 fewer than the Germans. Again, of this number, 50,000 were employed in Northern Africa, and the infantry mass was further depleted by the creation of artillery regiments, machine-gun sections and aerial squadrons. It was time, therefore, to act.

When the German Emperor went to Tangiers in 1905, few French people ignored the significance of the step. And when, in 1911, the Panther anchored off Agadir, each one realised that it was a new menace, a new challenge to the right of France to Morocco, notwithstanding that "scrap of paper," the Algeciras Conference. The presence of the cruiser was a protest against the settlement by France of the Moroccan Railway question and against the march of French columns on Fez, which was the symbol of French possession. On both occasions, Parliament went hurriedly to work to vote extra credits, realising the state of unpreparedness, and then sank into its habitual indifference to these matters. But now it was no longer possible to postpone the question of effectives. The German advance was so real that France was forced to take note of it on pain of being relegated, definitely, to an inferior position. It was soon apparent that if the discussion revealed some of the vices of the French Parliamentary system, it also demonstrated that Parliament could rise, on occasion, above party and give an example of enlightened patriotism. The Government of the Republic, indeed, was more alive to its duty than the Imperial Government, which, forty-five years before, had not had the courage to support Marshal Niel's motion for universal service. It was on the eve of the elections and it had its own policy to pursue. It was again the eve of the elections in 1913, but the spirit of the country had changed; temporisation was no longer possible. "Let the Chamber tell me the sum it will place at my disposal and I will say in what measure I can organise the National Mobile Guard," cried Marshal Leboeuf, in the discussion under the Second Empire. It was a preposterous attitude to adopt, quite in consonance, however, with the lack of seriousness of the period. On the very brink of the war, the Government actually proposed to reduce the annual contingent!

The discussion in 1913 was remarkable for several things. One was its great length: it lasted three months; another was the prolixity and poverty of the speeches; hardly one contained the germ of a great idea. The striking contributions in this mad welter of talk could be counted on the fingers of one hand. The majority of deputies, until convinced of the error of their ways, persisted in treating the question as if it were political rather than patriotic. Day by day they mounted to the tribune and delivered orations as empty as air. An exception was the great speech of M. André Lefèvre, who had been Under Secretary of State for Finance, some years before, and had resigned "because he had not enough to do." This novel reason proved his originality; nor was it belied by his methods in the rostrum. He was not eloquent in an ordinary sense; there was no attempt at phrase-making; his facts spoke for themselves. His rather homely appearance gave instinctive force to his unadorned style, but his manifestly deep concern for his subject obviated all need of rhetoric. Thus his sentences were sharp and telling, and free from all pose or attempts at persuasion; and, perhaps, because of that, they carried a double conviction. Facts and figures were so downright in their character that none could dispute them.

He showed that Germany had spent a colossal sum upon her military preparations, and had been indefatigable in their continuance. He showed that, during the preceding thirty years, France had spent £110,000,000 as against £188,000,000 on the part of Germany. Who was responsible for this disparity of such danger to the country? M. Lefèvre showed that no party in the State could escape from censure. In 1868, each section of the body politic was united—to do nothing: the Republicans, because they would not "turn France into a barracks"; the Bonapartists, because they feared the effect of any action upon their popularity at the elections; and the Government, because it had not the energy to stand against a cry of "reaction."

But if M. Lefèvre's speech represented the sound view of the situation, the contribution of M. Jean Jaurès presented features of brilliant generalisation, expressed in lofty language, which always appeals to Frenchmen. His counter proposition had but one defect: it would not have worked. None the less, it was attractive in the abstract and had much to recommend it. Its weaknesses were in the details, which were too fantastic and shadowy for a people who knew what war was and had drunk deep of the bitter cup of defeat. The Socialist leader based his argumentation on the principle of: "la nation armée." The only way to meet the situation was to utilise, fully, the reserve, he insisted. And in this he was right, as the Great War has shown. Germany's initial advantage, apart from heavy cannon, machine-guns and a more intensive training of her troops, was due to her rapid mobilisation of reserves.

But the Socialist leader failed, notwithstanding his talents, when it came to working out his scheme. And yet the House, fascinated and half-convinced, cheered him repeatedly—but it voted the other way. This is a common attitude in assemblies which distinguish between personal success and political expediency. The deputies, indeed, could not withhold their support from General Pau, who, with General Joffre, was the special commissioner of the Government. Yet so much was admirable in the scheme of M. Jaurès that, had he not been known for his anti-militarism—and therefore suspect—he would have fared much better.

What was the matter with France in a military sense? It was a question, was it not, of effectives? But the birth-rate must be arraigned for that. Whatever was done, declared Jaurès, that primary fact could not be disavowed. The Germans were more prolific than the French and, consequently, had more soldiers. "The Three-Years Law is mere plagiarism of the Germans," he said, with an impassioned gesture such as Jean Weber has so happily caricatured. "You are beaten in advance!" he shouted. "Notwithstanding the Three-Years Law you will have an inferiority, at the outset, of 200,000. Thus the sacrifice demanded will aggravate the malaise. The equilibrium, already disturbed, will be further accentuated to the extent of 20,000 a year." The population of France was only 43,000,000 and that of Germany 70,000,000. In face of this inequality it was essential that every citizen should be trained to arms. But when he came to this part of the subject, the Socialist orator fell short of his first flights. He was pathetically inadequate. He proposed a military service of eighteen months, then of a year, and finally, from 1918, onwards, of six months. Before their embodiment, the young men were to train for one day a month, and, after their liberation as reservists, one day every quarter.

The war has shown the possibility of training the young soldier in less than six months; but when M. Jaurès presented his scheme none foresaw the fantastic character that the fighting would assume. If it had presented its habitual physiognomy of massed movements in the open, soldiers of six months' training would have been inadequate to the first shock of battle. Though, as we have shown, there were points in the speech that revealed acute observation and an accurate reading of the times, the treatment of details was deplorable. Here and there his inspiration failed him, as if his mentor, who was known to be Captain Girard, a writer on military topics, had ceased to jog his elbow. One of the least happy of his inventions was his proposal in regard to the "cover." He considered that it was quite adequate with the protection of the Eastern Forts. Again, the frontier departments, being rich and highly industrialised, could organise their own defence. "If you have confidence in the people, if you organise them in unities constituted locally and ready to march at the first sound of the war tocsin, if you launch all these living forces towards the frontier, this, indeed, is the real cover." From this passage you may judge the character of his pleading: the appeal to national sentiment and spontaneous enthusiasm, as opposed to the laboured and essentially mechanical preparation of the Germans. He went to military history to prove that, in 1813, Germany was saved not by her generals formed in the school of Frederick the Great, but by her landwehr, which constituted 60 per cent. of the army—peasants hastily armed to defend the soil. Evidently he thought that the old revolutionary spirit would flame forth again in France and suffice against any wanton attack.

He was admirable in his description of the German plan to invade France abruptly and to bring her to her knees by forced marches, by a rapid succession of blows, and the occupation of her capital, and then to turn swiftly towards Russia. Jaurès found consolation—alas! unwarranted—in the thought that Germany under Prussian domination would never make full use of her reserves. She was afraid, he said, of a democratic army, afraid of that spirit which had enabled France, amidst all her difficulties and lack of preparation, to resist for seven months, in '70, and had given Bismarck and Von Moltke a certain anxiety even after Sedan. Better build strategic railways than barracks, he said, so that an avalanche of men might be poured on the frontier to meet the German mass—a conclusion which was wise enough.

Then there was M. Clementel, a former Minister of Colonies, with some experience of army affairs, who had likewise his little plan to propose. He wished to divide the reserve into eleven classes which would train alternately, for a month at a time, during the year. Parliament rejected it, not because it was fanciful, but because the transportation of 200,000 men a month to their training camps would disarrange the railway systems. M. Messimy—who was Minister of War, during the early days of the Great Invasion, and, like Mr. Winston Churchill, resigned his Cabinet functions to join the army—devised a method whereby the youth of the country would be trained for twenty-six months. How he proposed to bridge the gap between the departure of the time-expired men and the arrival of the new recruits was never made clear. In the light of his subsequent experience as a Colonel of troops, and wounded in action, he probably thought better of his own plan.

General Pau clinched the matter by a series of irrefutable figures. His style differed utterly from that of any other speaker. He showed the quick temperament of a leader of the old school, who believed in a brisk offensive. Taking umbrage, one day, at the remarks of a deputy, he gathered up his papers and walked out of the House, to the consternation of the Government. Wounded in the 1870 conflict and bearing the token of it in an amputated arm, he looked and spoke with the abruptness of the traditional soldier. As a leader of men he was impetuous and brusque in his methods, rather than a cool calculator like the Generalissimo. He told the House, with a certain impetuousness, that the troops available for national defence were scarcely more than half the German effectives. For, abstraction made of the number serving overseas, France had only 480,000 in her active army, whilst Germany had 830,000. First-class reserve, territorials, and the reserve of the territorials amounted to 3,978.000, of which a part had performed only twelve months' service in accordance with the terms of the 1889 law. In Germany, the reserve amounted to 4,370,000, giving an advantage to that country of 400,000 men. The effectives were constantly growing in the one country, with the advance in population, but remained stationary in the other. Whilst France called up every available man for service, Germany was in the happier position of being able to dispense with a certain portion of her resources. Thus, automatically, an increase in her peace establishment meant an increase in the reserve.

The German law of 1913 gave 63,000 more men to the active army and increased the effectives to 5,400,000. The speaker was even more impressive when, looking forward to 1937—in twenty-four years from that date—he anticipated that the adverse balance in the reserve would amount to one million and a half. "Since our numerical weakness is undeniable, we must increase the value of our troops," declared the veteran in the thunder of the House. And he added, that military value was dependent upon cohesion and training. Those two advantages could be obtained by increasing the effectives and prolonging the period under arms. What had the law of 1913 given to Germany? It had given to her a better quality of troops and permitted greater rapidity of mobilisation. The cover troops represented, henceforth, about half the total effective of the German Army. In a few hours, then, half the German Army could enter the field. Out of twenty-three German army corps, eleven were up to war strength and ready for instant service. Finally, this unconsciously eloquent advocate of the momentous change in French armament said that by incorporating a class and a half of their youngest reserve, the German troops of the interior would reach their full strength whilst the French had to receive four or five classes of reserves—a fact which retarded, notably, the mobilisation.

I have given the discussion at length because it supplies the underlying causes of Germany's military superiority. It explains why the "attaque brusquée" succeeded up to a certain point; it explains, also, why the Chamber, after listening to the most authoritative champion of Three-Years, gave M. Barthou, whose courage throughout the tremendous debate was proof against all assaults, an overwhelming majority, and France an additional 180,000 men, whose presence with the colours was of immense value in the Great Retreat a year later. It is acknowledged by military experts that, had not thoroughly trained troops formed the base of the army, the Generalissimo would not have found to his hand the instrument needed to make the stand on the Marne. The fact is undisputed, and to M. Barthou is due the honour of having refused to disregard the logic of events, for which, alas! he had every precedent.

CHAPTER III

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE NATIONAL ARMY

The national army arose suddenly out of the blood and turmoil of the Revolution. The country was aflame with enthusiasm and informed with the spirit of sacrifice. The urgency of the times was well represented by the law of March 4, 1791, which declared in all the ardour of the First Republic: "The service of the country is a civic and general duty." That fine definition was born of the need of the nation to defend itself against overwhelming odds; and thus, every citizen was called to a place in the army. The King's forces, which existed before the nation in arms, was composed, on the other hand, of French and foreign mercenaries and a militia raised by royal authority. Though, sometimes, these professionals espoused the popular cause and fought for patriotic purposes, they were primarily engaged to defend the King's interest, and the two were not necessarily identical. Not infrequently it happened that the army was on one side of the barricade and the people on the other. The recruiting sergeant had much to do with the presence of men under the King's banner, and certain vigorous methods reinforced his arts of persuasion. To the regular pay of the soldier was added the prospect of unlimited pillage in foreign war. Generally he fought because he was paid for it, and his royal master had no particular need to enlist his sentimental interest in the enterprise.

But another change came when the Republic emerged from the glowing brazier of Revolutionary France. The country was beset with numerous enemies anxious to champion the lost cause of monarchy, though the people of these nations, as the official text-books in France tell us, had no quarrel with the people of France. And then, just as one hundred and twenty years later, the German princes led the hosts against France and the response was the uprising of the nation. Since the Revolution, the nations of Europe have adopted national service in acceptance of the principle laid down on March 4, 1791, that it was a "civic and general duty." The Convention ordered levies en masse, and this principle was embodied definitely in the enactment of March 23, 1793, which said that from this moment until the territories of the Republic were free from enemies, all Frenchmen were liable to serve; the 2nd Article decreed that young men should fight, that the married men should forge arms and transport material, the women to make tents and clothing and serve in the hospitals, the children to convert old linen into surgeons' lint, and the old men to be carried to the public squares to encourage the warriors, to excite their hatred against the Kings, and promote unity in the Republic. The annual drafts were fixed by the law of Fructidor 19 An VI, and they were recruited by drawing lots and by enrolment. A later law of the Year VII allowed those drawn to purchase substitutes, and it was under this law that Napoleon raised his armies. The system lasted until 1814, when the fortunes of France were at a low ebb. The country had become tired of a military Imperialism, which had devitalised it and left it with monstrous debts. There was no further taste for arms; voluntary engagements had practically ceased. Thus the abrogation of conscription was tantamount to abolishing the army. The wars of the First Empire had worked out the vein of militarism.

Compulsion, however, had to be re-established, in principle at least, on March 18, 1818, by the Gouvion St. Cyr law. A certain number of men was called up annually and the system existed side by side with voluntary engagements. The annual contingent was fixed at 40,000. There was further legislation on March 21, 1832, due to Marshal Soult. This established that conscription was the normal method and engagements the subsidiary one, but the principle of paying substitutes was admitted. The service was for seven years. The army was divided into two classes: the one performed the full term; the other was en congé, and constituted the reserve. The business of finding substitutes rose to such a pitch that agencies were founded to deal with it. It became a crying scandal. Reform was necessary, and it was embodied in a law dated April 26, 1855. By its provisions a fund was formed. Those who wished to buy themselves out were obliged to contribute a certain sum fixed each year by the Minister of War. This money was allocated to bonuses paid to time-expired men to re-engage. The system was not as brilliant as it looked and in practice it worked badly. It lowered the status of the soldier in his own eyes and in those of public opinion, for it gave to national service the character of a punishment or a commercial transaction. Only those remained in the ranks who could not find a substitute or because of a monetary inducement. Again, it was bad because it created a permanent class of under-officer who regarded the army as his perquisite and shut the door of promotion to the common soldier. The plan, none the less, prevailed until 1868, when, like a trumpet blast, startling Europe out of her sleep, came Prussia's victories over Southern Germany.

The meaning was clear. It meant that, since Napoleon's amazing successes, Prussia had adopted a military régime which gave her superiority over her neighbours. It was based on universal service. If France realised how great were her own military shortcomings, she had not the strength of mind necessary to institute a system involving serious sacrifice. Even Marshal Niel, who presented a project to the Imperial Legislature, did not prevail against a conspiracy of optimism based on a total disregard of the facts. The Marshal, indeed, played the ungrateful part of a Lord Roberts in warning his nation against an illusory peace. His was the vox clamantis in deserto calling in vain for a real national service. His prophetic eyes had seen the storm, which others preferred not to see. However, the law was altered in a half-hearted effort to obtain reform, but the old facilities for substitution remained. It was then decided to create a national Garde Mobile composed of men excused from active service. Unfortunately, there was no time to organise it before war with Germany broke out. Though it lacked training and experience and was comparatively ill-disciplined, it was not wanting in courage, and proved of utility in the campaign. Lord Kitchener joined it as a young volunteer.

When the débâcle came, the whole of Europe was able to read the lesson in the lurid light it flung to heaven. German dominance had been built up on a conscripted army, against which a volunteer and partially conscripted army struggled in vain. It was overborne by sheer weight of numbers. England felt herself guarded by the inviolate sea, but the other Powers of the Continent adopted the principle of national service. In France itself, the law of 1872 was the logical outcome of the dread experience of the année terrible. The subsequent legislation, which is dated 1889, 1905, and 1913 aimed at rendering military service more complete and more in accord with Republican equality. The last law, just before the war, imposed the same burden upon each citizen. But an immense amount of discussion was necessary before reaching this simple result, for alas! political interests in various specious guises had interfered with the pure working out of national defence. As a consequence, exemptions were always considerable. The broadest interpretation was given to "higher education," and examinations, useless from a national point of view or as a test of learning, existed for the sole purpose of allowing the son of the bourgeois to curtail his military service. It was obvious that a knowledge of some out-of-the-way tongue could not be held to compensate, in a national sense, for the loss of a man's service in the army.

A large number of exemptions arose through the laudable desire to lighten the burden for widows and families dependent upon an only son. But, as a result of it, two different categories of reservists were created, those whom the baccalauréat had excused after a year's service, and that much larger class of comparatively unlettered lads who escaped with the minimum term because of being only sons. In their case the year's service was not as efficacious as in the other, where education had made possible a more intensive process of training. And two theories, affecting the use of reserves, see-sawed through the Parliamentary debates for many years. One school held that it was sufficient to season the mass of reservists with long-service soldiers, whose influence and training would be strong enough to lead them to victory on the day of battle; the other side maintained that salvation lay in giving training to as large a proportion as possible, so that units could act independently, and this theory eventually prevailed. The Three-Years Law was the outcome of it.

The law of July 27, 1872, had reaffirmed the old Revolutionary principle that every Frenchman was liable to serve. The military period was fixed at twenty years—from twenty to forty. Thus considerable advance had been made over the earlier legislation. There was no longer any question of a limited contingent or of substitution by money payment, yet, as is clear from my earlier paragraphs, the law did not establish equality. The yearly contingent was divided into two parts; the one served for five years, the other for one year or six months only. The drawing of lots decided to which category a man belonged. Only sons, who supported widowed mothers, the clergy, and members of the teaching profession were excused; also, there existed a one-year service for young men who volunteered before the yearly drawings, who had passed their matriculation and had paid sixty pounds. I have touched already upon the defects of this system and its doubtful advantage to education.

Then came the law of July 15, 1889, which established a Three-Years service on a basis of absolute equality. It represented the principle of training for everybody, whereas the earlier enactments had created a nucleus of professionals to act as motor to the military machine. No one served for five years under this new system, but then no one served only for six months. The weakness of the measure resided in the wide facilities given for "dispenses." After a year's effective service, exemption could be obtained either for bread-winners or for the theological and general student. Thus the real advantage of the Act was whittled down to a partial instead of a total exemption. The old voluntariat d'un an was superseded by a special dispensation for students, but there was no money payment. Yet the law of 1889 caused heartburnings because of its invidious character. Examinations designed to fulfil the letter but not the spirit of the enactment sprang up with the express object of shortening military service. Even art workers and students in commercial colleges were included in the dispensation.

And now comes the statute of March 21, 1905, which purported to promote homogeneity of the reserves and to suppress exemptions so favourable to the fils à papa. But its primary object was to reduce the period of service to two years. It was a Revolutionary measure, daring and insensate in its contempt for the danger involved by an obvious reduction in the effectives. This danger was to be conjured in various ways: by employing "auxiliaries" (or the medically unfit) in clerical work; by suppressing exemptions, and limiting furloughs, and by giving special advantages to re-engaged men.

One of the main objections to the change was that it prejudicially affected the staff of army instructors, who were exposed to a dangerous fluctuation. Just when greater intensity in the training was needed, the quality and quantity of the instructors declined. It was the exact opposite of the condition created by earlier legislation, which rendered the corps of drill sergeants practically inaccessible to new blood. The Bill offered special inducements to sous-officiers to remain with the colours, and gave to likely young men in the ranks an opportunity to rise—the class, who, under the earlier laws, would have benefited by the voluntariat. These previous efforts at army-making had created masses of imperfectly trained reserves. The soutiens de famille (supports of widows and poor families) represented, for instance, 60,000, which made 600,000 in a decade. Each man in this vast army had had only a year's training, which, though adequate in some cases, was inadequate in the mass. The two-years law sought to remedy this by requiring a minimum of two years from every one. Another important provision allowed grants to be paid to poor families deprived of their sons, which shows that Parliament was solicitous for the weakest in the community, even in such a matter as the national defence.

Finally, there was the law of 1913, passed by M. Barthou, the then Premier, in the teeth of great opposition, and as a reply to the formidable preparations of Germany. This we must leave to the next chapter. Suffice it to say here that the Act provided for a three-years service in the Active Army, eleven years in the First Class Reserve, seven years in the Territorial Army, and seven in the Reserve of the Territorial. Thus the citizen could be mobilised up to the age of forty-eight. After that, he was no longer liable to be called up.

CHAPTER IV

JOFFRE, HIS ORIGIN AND RECORD

There is this satisfactory about a Frenchman—that rarely he disdains his origin. He is not the sort of man who spurns the ladder by which he mounted; rather does he contemplate with pleasure every rung of the way. Joffre, in that sense, is typically French. He rejoices in the modest origin which has given him the privilege of building his own fortune. But his pride and his independence come, I think, from his racial attributes. They are indigenous to the soil, to that fruitful soil of the Roussillon, the old province of France which came under the French crown in the reign of Louis XIV, in the middle of the seventeenth century, and as a result of the Treaty of the Pyrenees. Known to-day as the Eastern Pyrenees, and become one of the regular departments of France, it has preserved much of its old Spanish character. It has maintained a particular flavour, like the wine which grows in its smiling vineyards and the peaches that stretch for twenty kilometres, a vast and fertile garden, round Perpignan. The local capital is peculiarly Southern: sunny, wide-spaced, prosperous, embowered in handsome planes. The inhabitants wear the easy grace and captivating manner of people who, under a blue sky, do not find life too hard. Joffre's town of Rivesaltes is close by, connected by tram and rail. It is less agreeable of aspect than Perpignan, there is less pride in appearances; indeed, it is thoroughly Spanish in style, even if French in the temper of its politics. The inhabitants speak Catalan like their brethren on the further side of the Pyrenees, where newspapers are produced in the tongue, but their sympathies are as wholly French as those of their famous townsman. And what a cult of him there is! Every café and most of the shops have a portrait of him on the large scale, as if a small reproduction would not suffice for his reputation. The album of a local tobacconist is a gallery of the great man in various stages of his development. Old inhabitants contribute anecdotes more or less authentic of his studious yet sturdy youth, of his kindness and modesty, of his astonishing simplicity.

"Yes, he came here years ago and played manille with his father and his father's friends, and he would not allow his old acquaintances to change their manner of speaking to him; they were to say 'thee' and 'thou' as in the old days. His father's bit of land had become flooded. 'You must cut trenches to drain off the water,' he said to Joffre père, 'I know something about that; it is my métier.'..." When war broke out, the inhabitants had no doubt about anything. The country was safe. What was an invasion when Joffre was in command?

The future Generalissimo was a flaxen-haired boy, with a light complexion and a firm, straightforward and kindly expression. There was certainly little of the Southerner either in his face or in the square-cut vigorous figure, but he had the independence of the Catalan in his character. Though an excellent comrade and full of fun, he did not like to be interfered with in his work, and was ready to fight his tormentors to secure quiet. Later, the kind blue eyes, wide set beneath the bushy eyebrows, grew steel-like in their expression when an acquaintance tried to take advantage of his amiability to advance a protégé. Joffre has a horror of the recommendation. "Let the young man make his own way as I have made mine," he would say; "that is the only sound method." All his life he has been opposed to patronage; it annoys him, he feels it to be unfair—a mean advantage. When he was appointed Chief-of-Staff, and eventually Commander-in-Chief, in 1911, he received visitors only once a fortnight at his office in the Invalides, because he wished to avoid, as much as possible, bores and protectors of interesting young men. Merit is the only channel which he recognises for advancement. The knowledge of his utter impartiality has robbed his decisions, often sternly disciplinary, of all personal sting. The army felt that in him they had a final court of appeal, pure and fearless.

Boyhood's days at Rivesaltes were unaccompanied by a luxury, which might have dulled the edge of fine ambitions. The little house in the narrow Rue des Grangers where he was born, remains the symbol of his simplicity. The humble bedroom, flanked by dining-room and kitchen, where he first saw the light, the store-room above served by an outside pulley for the raising of winter's stores—all this speaks of a laborious and thrifty life such as the peasantry live hereabouts. The future General was one of eleven children of a working cooper. According to Joffre's sister, the family, of Spanish origin and called Gouffre, is of noble descent; but its fortune had dwindled when Grandfather Joffre, leaving his native country for political reasons, started as a tradesman at Rivesaltes. He left no particular heritage to his son Joseph, the offspring of middle age, whom he seems utterly to have neglected. Joseph was little more than a working man with a patch of vineyard close to the town. But for a friendly uncle, struck by his intelligence, Joseph Jacques César Joffre—our Joffre—would not have enjoyed the education which was his at the lycée at Perpignan and at the Polytechnique in Paris.

It was to his stay in that admirable school for civil and military engineers that he owes the groundwork upon which he has so successfully built. It gave him an immense advantage at the start. Though he passed into the school with the high number of fourteen and became, because of it, a sergeant in his dormitory, charged with keeping order amongst older lads—rather trying to his silent and unassertive character—he did not consistently show the brilliancy that was expected of him. On leaving, his number had fallen to thirty-five, which did not entitle him to high civil employment under Government. Whether as a consequence of it, or because of a pronounced vocation, he joined the Corps of Engineers as lieutenant. Already he had had a taste of the life, sufficiently discouraging, one would think, in the War of 1870, which broke in upon his school career. He served for some months as a junior subaltern in a fort round Paris. Even at that age, he was known for his silent seriousness, and the memory of the national defeat seemed to have sunk deeply into his soul. It made him a patriot, eager to work for France and for her re-establishment. That, more than anything else, fired his ambition, for he was not one to crouch at the feet of chance, waiting, as an arriviste waits, for his own advancement. Not until the moment of his Soudan expedition, in early middle life, did he expand to the full limit of his capacity, and then the call of country and the consciousness of duty done for France were responsible. Before that, he had not shown, I think, any great desire to progress beyond the common mark. But when he saw that he could be useful to his time and generation, a holy zeal possessed him to press on to the great achievement. And his tranquil courage and perseverance were rewarded to an extent that seemed incredible in his early years. But, even so, he would not regard his position as head of the army with complacency or self-satisfaction. "The war found me," he said to a lifelong friend; "I did not seek it." That is the note of the man.

His Soudan campaign, which came when he was a Commandant at the age of forty-three, gave him deserved renown, for it was a masterpiece of organisation. Before that, he had done more or less humdrum work on defences, gaining his captaincy that way, when working on the forts round Paris; he continued in the provinces and in Upper Tonking, where his constructions were aimed at the predatory Chinese. He fought them from Formosa, whither he had gone as a change from spade and trowel work, but partly, I suspect, to forget in change of scene the loss of a beloved young wife. Admiral Courbet, most famous of pioneers in the French Colonial domain, was then concluding the Tonking campaign, and employed him to the general satisfaction. The future Generalissimo was in fighting and fort building showing an equal talent. Finally, he exhibited a new side to his character by organising an artistic and industrial exhibition at Hanoi. Though wrapped up in his profession and seeming, daily, to take a greater pleasure in it, he showed adaptability and could turn his hand to anything.

His celebrated march to Timbuctoo again showed him as the all-round man, for there he had to think of everything. He had gone out into the wilds for a pacific object, for the building of the Soudan railway, destined to link the Senegal to the Niger river. His new post did not, strictly speaking, appeal to him. It interrupted his course of lectures on fortifications at the School at Fontainebleau, which succeeded to his command of the Railway Battalion of Engineers. It seemed to him like his own first-class interment. Surely there was no glory in building a railway in the desert; yet he was to find it there. At that moment France had become conscious of her colonial possessions, and with it had become the desire for development. A haphazard policy had been amended into a settled plan of pacific penetration by means of the Niger. The railway was to be the great instrument of civilisation, linking the two great waterways and making the desert blossom as a rose. It had begun at Kayes, the capital, under Colonel Galliéni, then commanding in Upper Senegal, and had been pushed to the hundred and sixteenth kilometre. Then yellow fever and a lack of credits from home brought it to an abrupt stop. Commandant Joffre, with his habitual vigour, added kilometre to kilometre until the hundred and fifty-ninth mark was reached.

Thereafter came orders to undertake an expedition to Timbuctoo. The mysterious city had been entered, just before, by Commandant Boiteaux, who had gone up the river Niger in a flotilla of boats as far as Cabara and there gained the city on foot. It was resolved to extend the French dominion over it and over the loop of the river as it sweeps downward to its ocean outlet. Joffre's duty was to support his superior, Colonel Bonnier, who had given him a rendezvous outside the city's walls. The Colonel was to go by river; Joffre followed the left bank with a force of one thousand, three parts of which were bearers and servants. He started from Segou, two days after Christmas 1893. The rendezvous never took place. The Colonel having made quicker progress, turned back to meet the Commandant, but failed to arrive; the column was assassinated. Only one white officer, Captain Nigotte, escaped to tell the tale in Timbuctoo, where fears were expressed for Joffre's safety. But the latter had acted with great vigour and yet caution in his dealings with the natives. He went quickly to the rescue of the few survivors of the column, chastised the murderers, and then, on February 12, entered the city without further fighting, carrying with him the bodies of the white officers. At the moment when the news reached him, he was engaged in crossing the river, in face of a hostile band of Tuaregs, who had burned his boats at the habitual crossing-place.

More than 500 miles separated Segou from Timbuctoo, and the journey had been beset with peril and difficulty, how difficult and how perilous is admirably told in Joffre's own report of the expedition. He showed good generalship by keeping his men in close order and by throwing out scouts to protect his flanks and rear. At night a careful watch was set over the camp, and the young Commander went the rounds to see that his black sentinels did not sleep at their posts. Water was a great difficulty, for there was either too much of it or not enough. Great flooded areas, where the river had overflowed, left swamps which could only be passed by circuitous marches in an unknown country. By contrast there was a stark and staring need of wells in a burning desert, where bearers dropped by the way for want of the precious liquid, and communications were endangered because posts left in the rear could not obtain the necessary water. In consequence, the young Commander had to scatter his column through the villages, where existed a species of boycott, for the natives had fled before the advance and had carried off all foodstuffs. Joffre kept a stout heart and a cool head in these trying circumstances. There was a good deal of fighting, especially in the later stages, but Joffre took the offensive, as the safer way, and did not allow himself to be attacked by the enemy. He fought to clear a path for his column.

His initiative and sense of responsibility shone in this crisis. When he entered the city the engineer in him reappeared, and he planned and plotted for the safety of the citizens. Strategic positions were seized and upon them were placed forts and blockhouses. Then, in his turn, he acted as political officer and received the submission of the tribesmen. In the midst of these high occupations he received orders from the Governor of the region to rejoin his railway at Kayes. For once in his life he disobeyed and sent his reasons, which, of course, were accepted. When, finally, he left Timbuctoo, he had made an excellent job of it. He had established his reputation as an organiser and soldier-colonist, and his reward was the red rosette which decorated his tunic of Lieutenant-Colonel. His first grade in the Order had been gained in Formosa. Timbuctoo closed the second colonial phase in Joffre's career.

The third was to open two years later when, as full Colonel, he was given fortification work to do in Madagascar. It was at the moment of British reverses in the Boer War. Certain memories, connected with Fashoda and Dreyfus, rankled in French breasts. The Paris Government felt it was as well to be prepared against possible enterprise on the part of the British fleet in the Indian Ocean; and so the defences of the big island were set hastily on foot. Diego Suarez, the naval base to the north, was fortified by Joffre under the eye of the Governor, General Galliéni, who was then gaining renown for his administration of the island. It was there that the two met and fraternised, as expatriated Frenchmen will, and learned to respect each other's qualities.

Therewith closed the final chapter in Joffre's colonial life. Henceforth he was to work in France, in the immediate path of the great office to which destiny was hastening him. Successively he commanded the 19th brigade of Artillery at Vincennes, and the 6th division of Infantry at Lille, of which town he was the military governor; at Amiens, he was head of the Second Army Corps. Between the stages of Brigadier and General of Division, he was director of Artillery at the Ministry of War. And so he performed the whole cycle of the military art, before arriving at the Superior Council of War where he was to receive the crown of the chief command. He had served in just the capacities, colonial and metropolitan, which equipped him for his great responsibility. No point in his experience could be considered useless from the building of forts to the construction of railways; from the organisation of a self-contained force on the Niger, to the command of troops in France; from his lectures to military students, to his direction of the artillery.

The supreme honour came to him on July 29, 1911. The Panther had dropped a noisy and menacing anchor in the quiet waters of Agadir. In spite of assurances of peace from Germany and the fixity of the pacifist idea in France, clear-sighted people saw the cloud of danger in the sky. Joffre had no misgivings on the subject. One of the earliest questions to occupy him was that of effectives. None but he and his charming wife, whom he had married on returning to France, will ever realise how hard he worked during the three years that intervened before the outbreak of the war. Sundays and weekdays—it was an incessant round. He was deeply convinced that the hour was approaching for the trial of the French military institutions, to which he was called to supply not merely the finishing touch, but, alas! a great deal of the foundation work. That was the tragedy of it, the tragedy of an optimism, which had ignored all German preparations. It had ignored the vast accumulations of engines of war on the frontiers of Lorraine and Belgium, it had ignored the meaning of the caves and subterranean passages prepared in advance in the Champagne and the Soissons district, just as it ignored the other phases of German activity, the systematic corruption, the spying, and the rest.

Thus Joffre came to the post which his persistent work had made a just, if onerous, reward. He was Generalissimo in new conditions. The old duality, which allowed one man to lead in war and another to prepare for it, was swept away. Parliament at last had awakened to its dangers, and MM. Caillaux and Messimy, Premier and Minister of War, had submitted to President Fallières a new decree designating Joffre the Supreme Commander in time of war and the Chief-of-Staff in peace.

It was an admirable choice. If it meant little to the public which had forgotten all about the march on the Niger, it meant a great deal to the army which felt comforted and relieved at the appointment of a sound and thorough administrator. For Joffre, by long contact, knew every cog in the military machine, which he was now called upon to direct. As divisionnaires went, he was the youngest of his rank in the army and had still some years before him which he could count his own. Thus he joined experience to a comparative youth, which was all in his favour. Probably the defects rather than the qualities of the organisation engaged his attention and stimulated his amazing energy to even greater efforts. At the age of fifty-nine he was faced with a task to try the strongest head, the steadiest nerves, the most robust health. Happily he possessed all three and placed them unreservedly at the service of the State. France was fortunate in her General-in-Chief. How he succeeded in the colossal burden of the Great War may be left for consideration to a future chapter.

CHAPTER V

PREPARATION

We have seen Joffre in the various stages of his career acquiring that many-sided experience, which was to serve him in excellent stead when, finally, he came to supreme power. Sometimes the engineer officer was uppermost, sometimes the combatant. Though in the latter years, when qualifying for the Council of War, he commanded troops over the very ground where French and English were to oppose the invaders in incredible battles, it is yet true that his experience, with the exception of operations against the Chinese and the Tuaregs on the Niger in his march to Timbuctoo, consisted in the main of engineering exploits with a military aim. Thus he coaxed the desert into a railway track, and thus he cast up mounds of earth and built defensive masonry around Paris and in the provinces and at various strategic points in France overseas. This contact with a larger patrie and with the wider aspects of his profession proved of immense service when, in the process of time, he came to his great estate. It was in reviewing the work of his early years, the period of his maturity and then of his later life that he fully comprehended the character of his task. He realised all the elements that make up France, all the elements that must be flung into the crucible of a national army. "Vive la France" had a new meaning for him, for it meant the France of Asia and Africa as well as the France of metropolitan frontiers.

None the less, for all the pleasure of the prospect, he was sensible of the weaknesses that lay underneath. None better. Had he not himself said in his now famous speech to the Polytechnicians, that you could improvise nothing in war? As a soldier, tried in the service of his country, he was penetrated with that truth. There must be preparation in war—that was the implacable verity. He was emphatic on the point in a speech which must be regarded as one of the documents of the war. For he was speaking to officers, past members of the famous school of which he is a distinguished alumnus, and declared with that sense of reality joined to idealism, which is as pleasing to the plain man as to those in search of lofty generalisation, that preparation implied many things. His auditors, at this Old Boys' gathering, strained their ears in the expectation of hearing something removed from the banalities of the usual chairman's utterance. And they were not disappointed. The speech fitted the occasion like a glove; it was no common one, for the Balkan War had broken out. The eventual Commander-in-Chief could not ignore a subject fraught with such consequence to himself and to his hearers (for the most part officers) and quietly aware, no doubt, of the curiosity he had excited, dealt broadly, yet sufficiently, with the situation.

He began by arraying the forces one against the other in the theatre of war. On the one side he said were numbers and on the other preparation. You could tell by the way in which he insisted on the latter word how much it meant to him. And yet the subject must have been painful, for none realised better than this impressive-looking man, with brow rimmed with white hair and the white of massive eyebrows, that France was not prepared. In elaborating his theme, he told what preparation meant. The whole of national life must co-operate in it. And what were the factors of success? They were of three kinds: material, intellectual, and moral. Under the first came the number and equipment of the troops, under the second and third the capacity of leaders and the patriotism of the people. It was clear that he felt the deep significance of the last quality. Numbers and equipment were certainly important, but patriotism was the soul of the army. "To be ready in our epoch," he insisted, "implies a significance of which those who prepared and conducted war in the past can realise only with difficulty. It would be illusory to count upon the popular élan though it exceeded that of the volunteers of the Revolution, if it were not supported by a previous organisation. 'To be ready' to-day, one must have directed, in advance, all the resources of the country and all its moral energy towards the unique end, 'Victory.'" And then he proceeded to utter the phrases which have become classical. They are a synthesis of Joffre's system, the exposition of his inward faith. "One must have organised everything, foreseen everything. Once hostilities are commenced, no improvisation will be valid. What lacks then, will be definitely lacking. The least omission may cause a disaster."

And he proceeds to particularise. The call to arms must reach those for whom it is intended. Each man must know where to go and how to get there and he must meet there his officers, his arms, and his effects. And over this army which has been organised, equipped, and assembled must be chiefs, military and administrative, imbued with the national theory of the war. "But neither the material organisation of this army nor its training would suffice to assure victory if to this intelligent and strong body a soul were lacking. This soul is Patriotism." That he should lay stress upon the word showed how deeply he had realised how even elaborate schemes of mobilisation could come to naught without this saving grace, without the faith which moves mountains. He seemed to say: "We can save France, even if there are flaws in our preparations, provided we possess Patriotism—the sacred flame." By this alone could soldier and civilian summon the courage to resist reverses.

That Joffre himself accepted the heavy burden of office, showed that he, too, was inspired by a strong love of country and faith in the unlimited powers of French adaptability. He knew that his countrymen were capable of heroic resistance and a persistent and yet strenuous effort, which would astonish the world, because he had read in the heart of the piou-piou undying love for country, and because he had watched silently the growth of that national spirit evoked by the brutal provocation of Germany. He knew, also, the delicacy of fitting discipline to democracy and a fierce national spirit of independence and justice to the exigencies of a European War. Intuition and experience told him that only by the finer emotions could the mass be moved, that it would rebel against mechanical methods and harsh domination and yield only to the influence of enlightened chiefs. Thus he was the man destined to lead and to become the interpreter of the racial spirit of France.

Joffre had established between himself and the soldier in the trenches an irresistible current of sympathy. How, nobody knows, but, at the very commencement, his benevolent activity for the common welfare was a common saying endearing him to the legions under his control, and many were the incidents quoted of his tenderness of heart. He had found a swift way to the understanding and implicit obedience of his troops. By his acts of kindness and consideration he had accumulated a stock of allegiance from which to draw in the supreme hour, when he should say, as on the eve of the battle of the Marne: "Now is the time to conquer or to die." Had he learned these secret arts of sympathy in the wilds of Africa or in the cloistered life he led, like the Pope in the Vatican, when harnessed to his work of preparation at the Ministry of War? I do not know, but I suspect that this trait, like the others, was inborn and developed by urgent circumstance. However we explain it, he became the most popular man in France, a god and a hero, a name to conjure with. "Notre Joffre" was a symbol of success, and of popular confidence. The "magnificent rumour" which had preceded him on the day of mobilisation was crystallised into a solid renown when the public saw with what calm and celerity he assembled troops and with what mastery he played upon the railway keyboard. Napoleon had won his battles with the legs of his soldiers, Joffre was going to win them with his railways.

It is not possible, of course, to repair defects of forty years in two or three years even of unremitting labour; but knowing, as he did, the tone and temper of the men he had to command and the miraculous capacities of their nervous energy he did not doubt for a moment the final triumph, and a species of sublime confidence radiated from him whether at the Ministry or in the field. It was with his friend and companion-in-arms, General Pau, that he began to work at the problems belonging to his position, and the first of them was the effectives. When the intentions of Germany could be no longer disguised, Joffre resolved upon the only course compatible with his responsibilities. He urged the Government to augment the army pari passu with the increased numbers on the other side of the Vosges, and, happily, he found in M. Barthou, the Premier, a political leader as strongly impressed as he with the high necessity of action. This admirable statesman became, therefore, one of his collaborators in the national defence. A Deputy at twenty-seven and a Minister at thirty-three, this lawyer and journalist found full scope for his activities only in the wide region of national politics. His quickness of comprehension astonished the experts, and perhaps confirmed their uneasy suspicions that a lawyer knows everything; but M. Barthou's enthusiasm and deep conviction were beyond all question. Some reproached him for being a man of letters, guilty of writing an excellent history of Mirabeau, but he sacrificed ruthlessly his intellectual leisure and his love of reading on the altar of duty. It would seem as if the figure of the Revolutionary aristocrat, which glows from the pages of his book, had communicated his fire to his accomplished and versatile biographer. So M. Barthou rose grandly to the situation and became, with Generals Joffre and Pau, organiser of the new military plan to save France from her disparity with the German Army.