Part 2

The peasants as they point out the graves always add: "We of the people know that those men sacrificed their lives that our children might live. Those who have died in vain for an unjust cause may well envy the men of France who have poured out their blood for the benefit of humanity."

Looking on the crosses on the battlefield of the Marne, I realised to the fullest extent the sacrifices, borne with such bravery, of the women of France. I thought of the picture I had seen in Paris of a group of mothers standing at the foot of Calvary, looking out over the fields of small black crosses, lifting their hands to Heaven, with the words--"We also, God, have given our sons for the peace of the world."

At Montmirail the real activity of the war zone first became apparent. We drew the car to the side of the road and waited whilst a long procession of empty munition-wagons passed on the way back from the munition-parks near the fighting-line. There was a smile on the face of every one of the drivers. Each of them had the satisfaction of knowing that there was no chance of his returning with an empty wagon, as there is no lack of provisions to feed the hungriest of the "75's" or any of her larger sisters.

The fact that it is known that there is an ample supply of munitions plays an important part in the "moral" of the troops. The average poilu has no sympathy with the man who grumbles at the number of hours he may have to work. We heard the tale of a munition-worker who was complaining in a cafe at having to work so hard. A poilu who was en permission and who was sitting at the next table, turned to him, saying, "You have no right to grumble: you receive 10 to 12 francs a day for making shells, and we poor devils get 5 sous a day for stopping them!"

We lunched in the small but hospitable village of Sezanne, in company with a most charming invalided officer who informed us that he was the principal in that district of the S.D.R.D.R. (Service de Recherche des Rattiers) (the Principal Recruiting Officer for Rat-catchers). In other words, he is spending his time endeavouring to persuade suitable "bow-wows" to enlist in the service of their country. Likely dogs are trained until they do not bark, and become entirely accustomed to the sound of firing; they are then pronounced "Aptes a faire campagne," or "Fit for service," receive their livret militaire, or certificates--for not every chance dog is allowed in the trenches--and are dispatched to the trenches on a rat-hunting campaign.

From Sezanne we proceeded direct to the new camp for German prisoners at Cannantre. The prisoners were mostly men who had been taken in the recent fighting on the Somme or round Verdun. The camp was already excellently installed, and the prisoners were busy in groups gardening, making bread, or sitting before great heaps of potatoes, preparing them for the evening meal. The German sense of order was everywhere in evidence. In the long barracks where the men slept the beds were tidy, and above each bed was a small shelf, each shelf arranged in exactly the same order, the principal ornaments being a mug, fork, and spoon; and just as each bed resembled each other bed, so the fork and spoon were placed in their respective mugs at exactly the same angle. There were small partitioned apartments for the noncommissioned officers. The French Commander of the camp told us that the German love of holding some form of office was everywhere apparent. The French made no attempt to command the prisoners themselves, but always chose men from amongst the prisoners who were placed in authority over their comrades. The prisoners rejoiced exceedingly and promptly increased in self-importance and, alas! decreased in manners, if they were given the smallest position which raised them above the level of the rest of the men.

In the barrack where they were cutting up bread for the prisoners, we asked the men if they deeply regretted their captivity. They replied unanimously that they were "rather glad to be well fed," which seemed an answer in itself. They did not, however, appreciate the white bread and stated that they preferred their own black bread. The French officers commanding the camp treat the prisoners as naughty children who must be "kept in the corner" and punished for their own good. In all my travels through France I have never seen any bitterness shown towards the prisoners. I remember once at Nevers we passed a group of German prisoners, and amongst them was a wounded man who was lying in a small cart. A handbag had fallen across his leg, and none of his comrades attempted to remove it. A French woman, pushing her way between the guards, lifted it off and gave it to one of the Germans to carry. When the guards tried to remonstrate, she replied simply, "J'ai un fils prisonnier la-bas, faut esperer qu'une allemande ferait autant pour lui" ("I have a son who is a prisoner in their land, let us hope that some German woman will do as much for him").

On the battlefields the kindness of the French medical men to the German wounded has always been conspicuous. One of my neutral friends passing through Germany heard from one of the prominent German surgeons that they were well aware of this fact, and knew that their wounded received every attention. There is a story known throughout France of a French doctor who was attending a wounded German on the battlefield. The man, who was probably half delirious, snatched at a revolver which was lying near by and attempted to shoot the doctor. The doctor took the revolver from him, patted him on the head, and said, "Voyons, voyons, ne faites pas l'enfant" ("Now then, now then, don't be childish"), and went on dressing his wounds.

Everywhere you hear accounts of brotherly love and religious tolerance. I remember kneeling once by the side of a dying French soldier who was tenderly supported in the arms of a famous young Mohammedan surgeon, an Egyptian who had taken his degree in Edinburgh and was now attached to the French Red Cross. The man's mind was wandering, and seeing a woman beside him he commenced to talk to me as to his betrothed. "This war cannot last always, little one, and when it is over we will buy a pig and a cow and we will go to the cure, won't we, beloved?" Then in a lucid moment he realised that he was dying, and he commenced to pray, "Ave Maria, Ave Maria," but the poor tired brain could remember nothing more. He turned to me to continue, but I could no longer trust myself to speak, and it was the Mohammedan who took up the prayer and continued it whilst the soldier followed with his lips until his soul passed away into the valley of shadows. I think this story is only equalled in its broad tolerance by that of the Rabbi Bloch of Lyons, who was shot at the battle of the Aisne whilst holding a crucifix to the lips of a dying Christian soldier. The soldier-priests of France have earned the love and respect of even the most irreligious of the poilus. They never hesitate to risk their lives, and have displayed sublime courage and devotion to their duty as priests and as soldiers. Behind the first line of trenches a soldier-priest called suddenly to attend a dying comrade took a small dog he was nursing, and handing it to one of the men, simply remarked, "Take care of the little beast for me; I am going to a dangerous corner and I do not want it killed."

I have seen the Mass celebrated on a gun-carriage. Vases made of shell-cases were filled with flowers that the men had risked their lives to gather, in order to deck the improvised altar. A Red Cross ambulance drove up and stopped near by. The wounded begged to be taken out on their stretchers and laid at the foot of the altar in order that "they might receive the blessing of the good God" before starting on the long journey to the hospital behind the lines.

Outside the prison-camp of Cannantre stood a circle of French soldiers learning the bugle calls for the French Army. I wondered how the Germans cared to listen to the martial music of the men of France, one and all so sure of the ultimate victory of their country. Half a kilometre farther on, a series of mock trenches had been made where the men were practising the throwing of hand grenades. Every available inch of space behind the French lines is made to serve some useful purpose.

I never see a hand grenade without thinking how difficult it is just now to be a hero in France. Every man is really a hero, and the men who have medals are almost ashamed, since they know that nearly all their comrades merit them. It is especially difficult to be a hero in one's own family. One of the men in our hospital at Royaumont had been in the trenches during an attack. A grenade thrown by one of the French soldiers struck the parapet and rebounded amongst the men. With that rapidity of thought which is part of the French character, Jules sat on the grenade and extinguished it. For this act of bravery he was decorated by the French Government and wrote home to tell his wife. I found him sitting up in bed, gloomily reading her reply, and I inquired why he looked so glum. "Well, mademoiselle," he replied, "I wrote to my wife to tell her of my new honour; and see what she says: 'My dear Jules, we are not surprised you got a medal for sitting on a hand grenade; we have never known you to do anything else but sit down at home!'"

It was at Fere Champinoise that we passed through the first village which had been entirely destroyed by the retreating Germans. Only half the church was standing, but services are still held there every Sunday. Very little attempt has been made to rebuild the ruined houses. Were I one of the villagers, I would prefer to raze to the ground all that remained of the desecrated homesteads and build afresh new dwellings; happy in the knowledge that with the victory of the Allies would start a period of absolute security, prosperity, and peace.

It was on the same day that we had the privilege of beholding some of the 400-cm. guns of France, all prepared and ready to travel at a minute's notice along the railway lines to the section where they might be needed. Some idea of their size may be obtained from the fact that there were ten axles to the base on which they travel. They were all disguised by the system of camouflage employed by the French Army, and at a very short distance they blend with the landscape and become almost invisible. Each gun bears a different name, "Alsace," "Lorraine," etc., and with that strange irony and cynical wit of the French trooper, at the request of the men of one battery, one huge gun has been christened "Mosquito," "because it stings."

The French often use a bitter and biting humour in speaking of the enemy. For instance, amongst the many pets of the men, the strangest I saw was a small hawk sitting on the wrist of a soldier who had trained him. The bird was the personification of evil. If anyone approached, he snapped at them and endeavoured to bite them. I asked the man why he kept him, and he replied that they had quite good sport in the trenches when they allowed the hawk to hunt small birds and field-mice. Then, his expression changing from jovial good-humour to grimness, he added: "You know, I call him 'Zepp,' because he kills the little ones" ("parcequ'il tue les tous petits").

In one small cantonment where 200 poilus sang, shouted, ate, drank, and danced together to the strain of a wheezy gramophone, or in one word were "resting," I started to investigate the various kinds of pets owned by the troopers. Cats, dogs, and monkeys were common, whilst one poilu was the proud possessor of a parrot which he had purchased from a refugee obliged to fly from his home. He hastened to assure us that the bird had learned his "vocabulary" from his former proprietor. A study in black and white was a group of three or four white mice, nestling against the neck of a Senegalais.

The English Tommy is quite as devoted to animals as is his French brother. I remember crossing one bitter February day from Boulogne to Folkestone. Alongside the boat, on the quay at Boulogne, were lined up the men who had been granted leave. Arrayed in their shaggy fur coats, they resembled little the smart British Tommy of peace times. It was really wonderful how much the men managed to conceal under those fur coats, or else the eye of the officer inspecting them was intentionally not too keen.

Up the gangway trooped the men, and I noticed that two of them walked slowly and cautiously. The boat safely out of harbour, one of them produced from his chest a large tabby cat, whilst the other placed a fine cock on the deck. It was a cock with the true Gaelic spirit: before the cat had time to consider the situation it had sprung on its back. The cat beat a hasty retreat into the arms of its protector, who replaced it under his coat. Once in safety, it stuck out its head and swore at the cock, which, perched on a coil of rope, crowed victoriously.

Both animals had been the companions of the men whilst in the trenches, and they were bringing them home.

A soldier standing near me commenced to grumble because he had not been able to bring his pet with him. I inquired why he had left it behind, since the others had brought theirs away with them, and elicited the information that "his pet was a cow, and therefore somewhat difficult to transport." He seemed rather hurt that I should laugh, and assured me it was "a noble animal, brown with white spots, and had given himself and his comrades two quarts of milk a day." He looked disdainfully at the cock and cat. "They could have left them behind and no one would have pinched them, whereas I know I'll never see 'Sarah' again--she was far too useful."

Entering Vitry-le-Francois we had a splendid example of the typical "motto" of the French trooper, "Il ne faut pas s'en faire." One of the motor-cars had broken down, and the officer-occupants, who were evidently not on an urgent mission, had gone to sleep on the banks by the side of the road whilst the chauffeur was making the necessary repairs. We offered him assistance, but he was progressing quite well alone. Later on another officer related to me his experience when his car broke down at midnight some 20 km. from a village. The chauffeur was making slow headway with the repairs. The officer inquired whether he really understood the job, and received the reply, "Yes, mon lieutenant, I think I do; but I am rather a novice, as before the war I was a lion-tamer!" Apparently the gallant son of Gaul found it easier to tame lions than to repair motors.

We left Vitry-le-Francois at 6 o'clock next morning, and started "the hunt for generals." It is by no means easy to discover where the actual Q.G. (Headquarters) of the General of any particular secteur is situated.

We were not yet really on the "White Road" to Verdun, and there was still much to be seen that delighted the eyes. In one yellow cornfield there appeared to be enormous poppies. On approaching we discovered a detachment of Tirailleurs from Algiers, sitting in groups, and the "poppies" were the red fezes of the men--a gorgeous blending of crimson and gold. We threw a large box of cigarettes to them, and were greeted with shouts of joy and thanks. The Tirailleurs are the "enfants terribles" of the French Army. One noble son of Africa who was being treated in one of the hospitals once presented me with an aluminium ring made from a piece of German shell. I asked him to make one for one of my comrades who was working at home, and he informed me that nothing would have given him greater pleasure, but unfortunately he had no more aluminium. Later in the day, passing through the ward, I saw him surrounded by five or six Parisian ladies who were showering sweets, cigarettes, and flowers on him, whilst he was responding by presenting each of them with an aluminium ring. When they had left I went to him and told him, "Mahmud, that was not kind. I asked you for a ring and you said you had not got any more aluminium." He smiled, and his nurse, who was passing, added, "No, he had not got any more aluminium, but when he is better he will get forty-eight hours' punishment; he had been into the kitchen, stolen one of our best aluminium saucepans, and has been making souvenirs for the ladies." He made no attempt to justify his action beyond stating: "Moi, pas si mauvais; toi, pas faux souvenir" ("I am not so bad; I did not attempt to give you a fake souvenir").

Another of our chocolate-coloured patients found in the grounds of the hospital an old umbrella. Its ribs stuck out and it was full of holes, but it gave him the idea of royalty, and daily he sat up in bed in the ward with the umbrella unfurled whilst he laid down the law to his comrades. The nurses endeavoured to persuade him to hand it over at night. He obstinately refused, insisting that "he knew his comrades," and he feared that one of them would certainly steal the treasure, so he preferred to keep it in the bed with him.

At Villers-le-Sec we came upon the headquarters of the cooks for that section of the front. The cook is one of the most important men in a French regiment; he serves many ends. When carrying the food through the communicating trenches to the front-line trenches, he is always supposed to bring to the men the latest news, the latest tale which is going the round of the camp, and anything that may happen to interest them. If he has not got any news he must manufacture and produce some kind of story. It is really necessary for him to be not only a cook but also an author.

There is a tale going the round of the French Army how one section of the cooks, although unarmed, managed to take some twenty German prisoners. As they went on their way, they saw the Germans in the distance approaching them; the head cook quietly drew the field-kitchens behind a clump of trees and bushes, placed his men in a row, each with a cooking utensil in his hand, and as the Germans passed shouted to them to surrender. The sun fell on the handles of the saucepans, causing them to shine like bayonets, and the Germans, taken unawares, laid down their arms. The head cook then stepped out and one by one took the rifles from the enemy and handed them to his men. It was only when he had disarmed the Germans and armed his comrades that he gave the signal for them to step out, and the Germans saw that they had been taken by a ruse. One can imagine the joy of the French troops in the next village, when, with a soup-ladle in his hand, his assistants armed with German rifles, followed by the soup-kitchen and twenty prisoners, he marched in to report.

It is curious to note how near humour is to tragedy in war, and how quick-wittedness may serve a useful purpose and even save life. A young French medical student told me that he owed his life to the quick wit of the women of a village and the sense of humour of a Saxon officer. Whilst passing from one hospital to another, he was captured by a small German patrol, and in spite of his papers, proving that he was attached to the Red Cross Service, he was tried as a spy and condemned to be shot. At the opening of his trial the women had been interested spectators; towards the end all of them had vanished. He was placed against a barn door, the firing squad lined up, when from behind the hedge bordering a wood the women began to bombard the soldiers with eggs. The aim was excellent--not one man escaped; the German officer laughed at the plight of his men and, in the brief respite accorded, the young man dashed towards the hedge and vanished in the undergrowth. The Germans fired a few shots, but there was no organised attempt to follow him, probably because their own position was not too secure. He was loath to leave the women to face the music, but they insisted that it was "Pour la Patrie," and that they were quite capable of taking care of themselves. Later he again visited the village, and the women told him that beyond obliging them to clean the soldiers' clothes thoroughly, the German officer had inflicted no other punishment upon them.

A certain number of inhabitants are still living in the village of Revigny. You see everywhere placards announcing "Caves pour 25," "Caves pour 100," and each person knows to which cellar he is to go if a Taube should start bombing the village. I saw one cellar marked "120 persons, specially safe, reserved for the children." Children are one of the most valuable assets of France, and a good old Territorial Pe-pere (Daddy), as they are nicknamed, told me that it was his special but difficult duty to muster the children directly a Taube was signalled, and chase them down into the cellar. Mopping his brow, he assured me that it was not easy to catch the little beggars, who hid in the ruins, behind the army wagons, anywhere to escape the "parental" eye. It is needless to add they consider it a grave infringement of their personal liberty and think that they should be allowed to remain in the open and see all that goes on, just as the little Londoners beg and coax to be allowed to stay up "to see the Zepps."