Part 14
Some have compared their existence with the cloistered life. True, they took no vows of celibacy, nor was continence the necessary attribute of their association, but they had sworn to serve in a deathless constancy. They slept and lived hard, exposed to inclemency; passed days in a narrow semi-darkness, and at night slept in the roughest shelters or in grottoes deep in the ground. Yet there was an essential difference in their state and that of those bound to the Church, for their thoughts were of earth rather than of Heaven--of some distant spot whereon stood a little white house surrounded with trees, with green fields beyond, where cattle grazed, children played, and geese cackled. Tender memories accompanied their vigils, and such human sentiments removed them from the category of the saints, who are not supposed to listen to the heart, and from the old professional class of soldier, the _grognards_ of Napoleon's day. For between waiting France and fighting France there passed hourly a warm current of correspondence, ascending and descending, informed with honest passion, homely and kindly virtues, which softened and humanised the soldier's solitude and heartened the civilian. It was the "poilu" who, going to the war, comforted those who remained behind, and the strange thing was that pessimism more readily took root in security, far from the lines, than at the Front itself. And the soldier's courage was as much seen in his letters as in his conduct in the field--wonderful tribute to its depth and sincerity. For there were moments in the interminable war to try the nerves of the hardened campaigner, much more those of the young man but lately broken to its severities.
Yet there was never a tremor in the living wall encircling _la patrie_, no touch of despair in the letters that Dupont pencilled home in the intervals of bombardment. His natural gaiety found an expression there, as well as his courage and his calm. Letters from only sons, out of reach for the first time of maternal solicitude, manifested an almost disconcerting enjoyment of danger and the independent life. And those women who had feared hitherto for the health of their darlings now seemed to rejoice in new proofs of their courage and contempt of death. Lads, apparently the most deeply wedded to the soft and unheroic existence of towns, found an unexpected satisfaction in the strenuous routine of camps. The influence of the _milieu_, the daily contact with the hard practices and risks of the _metier_, riveted armour about the soul and bound the brows with brass. Men, whose habit in civil life led none to suspect the martial temperament, proved lions in the fight. And I knew a timid soul, a little delicate, much given to study and reflection who, after a few months' actual experience of the trenches, became utterly changed. No longer apologising for existence as in the old days, he bore himself proudly in the field, and performed acts of exceptional bravery. Of his civilian friends he asked with strange calm: "Do you know how many Boches I've killed since the war began?" And in the surprised silence which followed, he gave a tally, which was staggeringly significant.
Apart from the professional pride which dictated an air of gaiety, when a visitor arrived, the occupant of the trench did not in his off moments assume the mien of the troubadour. On the contrary, he looked grave and serious, and often austere. It was remarkable that when he went to Paris for a few days' relief from the monotony of danger, he found little enjoyment in the old-time pleasures. And those who had been distinguished for a high thoughtlessness, for an abandonment to the Red Gods, proved hardy and virile warriors in the new life, with a speed that astonished all who had not realised the French adaptability. Frivolous in the days before the war, they now adopted an attitude of disapproval and even of positive disgust towards some outward symptoms of the "light heart."
There was not necessarily opposition between "poilu" and "pekin" (as the civilian is amusingly called by the army), but there was, nevertheless, a gulf fixed between the two: the one had seen visions and experienced realities which were denied the other in his peaceful civilian path. It made all the difference in the world. Whatever his sympathy, the civilian brother had not suffered as had the "poilu"; he had been immune from the hourly risk, he had not endured cold and hunger; he had not lain out in the frosty moonlight, in the No Man's Land of the trenches, terribly wounded by one of the murderous engines of war; he had not known the anguish of mind in hospital, the doubt whether the limb could be saved or not, or whether he must go through life halt and maimed. No, for all his sympathy and moral suffering, the civilian had not reached the experiences of the other.
Reflections of this sort no doubt obtruded on the mind of the soldier in his hours of lonely watch. Sometimes, when echoes of the old life were wafted back to him in the trenches, or when he saw the report in newspapers of some futile discussion in the Chamber, a smile of disdain crossed his lips. Frankly, he was a little tired of this sort of thing. "If the Deputies were here, they would not talk quite so loudly," he reflected with bitterness. And then the headings of another column caught his eye: "Great scandal, a contractor charged with fraud! Huge and hidden profits." "Ah!" he exclaims, and his lips purse again. This time his comments are far severer than against the Parliamentarians. "After all," he says, "those Deputies are paid to talk; it is their business; but the blackguards who make money out of us, out of our lives and limbs----" The phrase is never finished, but the intonation leaves you in no doubt as to the fate of the offenders if they had fallen into his hands. On the following day, perhaps, he sees another scandal of the sort, and now his anger knows no bounds. "What--again? Then they are all at it!" he exclaims. In his excited imagination a considerable part of civilian France is engaged in plundering military France. Happily, there was great exaggeration in his sweeping assumptions. Certainly there were scandals in France during the Great War, as there were scandals elsewhere; but they were few and far between--so few that their rarity magnified their importance.
The soldier's sufferings in the trenches had warped a little his judgment. He was rather hard on others, disregarding their sacrifices and their griefs, none the less real because they had not been exposed to sudden death. The hard work of munition workers turning out shot and shell with ceaseless activity often escaped him, and if, as might happen, he was deceived in his most intimate affections, and a moral catastrophe awaited him at home, then his cup of bitterness was filled, and in his wrath he declared that all women were faithless and all men perjurers and conspirators against his honour or security. And these were the people for whom he was risking his life and sacrificing his professional prospects!
The close union of every day with men engaged in the strong-hearted and ruthless profession of war was bound to have a reaction upon thoughts and ways of life. In the rude existence of camps, something of the veneer of drawing-rooms disappeared and man returned to primitive directness and simplicity of thought and speech. He became impatient of subtlety and complicated ways, which seemed to him duplicity and the enemy of plain-dealing. A thing must be frank and clear to appeal to him. He had the soldier's disgust of those who whispered in secret in the warmth and shelter whilst he was exposed to the blast. A new temperament was forged in the out-of-doors born of the sun and wind and rain. And the thoughts of those who struggle with the elements and the incredible difficulties of a man-made warfare often take on the rugged character of their surroundings.
Directness of manner and speech are hardly looked for in the traditional French, but war as it is to-day, is no school of politeness, but of vigour and energy. A new _naivete_ accompanied the new strength of soul, and one of its manifestations was an art, which at other moments would have astonished by its crudity and garishness. It was visible in the shop-windows, where cards showed the soldier in the trench. Above him, in a luminous break in filmy clouds, appeared the vision of the wife and children gathered about the evening lamp. They were thinking obviously of the absent "papa." Maudlin and mawkish though it was, it appealed to the simple soul. Exile from the social round, from the life of affairs, from the frequentation of cafes and theatres in the small country towns, had affected the mentality of the countryman. This incredible existence of the trenches, with its hairbreadth escapes and daily incidents in which life and death played a tragic game of hide-and-seek, developed such essential manliness and such rough and hearty heroism that the mechanism of the mind reverted to the simplest expression. Before the great and serious question of to be or not to be, the minor aspects of life ceased to have importance. A man dying of hunger does not discuss ortolans or peacocks' tongues, nor do the subtleties of sauce appeal to the meatless. And the soldier of France, divorced from his usual pleasures, and being in no mind to complicate existence, turns to the readiest and simplest forms of literary or pictorial expression to satisfy his emotions: it might be the cinematograph behind the lines, it might be the _feuilleton_ in the halfpenny paper.
No doubt the mass became infected with the peasant spirit, for peasants formed the bulk of the army, especially when the townsman became the munition-worker. The peasant's mind is both childlike and suspicious, slow to anger, secretive, inclined to deep reflection. He attaches himself slowly, and only after long proof, to those who win his reluctant confidence, and deeply tenacious are his purposes. He will defend his land to the death; he loves it as he loves liberty. He insists on his independence as he insists upon equality, and only upon that principle will he submit to discipline. Injustice arouses his intense resentment, and General Gallieni's crusade against the shirker found its deepest roots and efficacy in his tacit recognition.
The fact that it was a war to resist invasion made it a holy war, differing intrinsically from a war of aggression, which would never have gained his whole-hearted support. The Great War awakened the old vehemence of the race, which first revealed its astounding power at the battle of Valmy, where the shoeless hosts of the Revolution shook the proudest might of Prussia. That was the birth of the National Army, which, a century and a quarter later, was to come to such extraordinary development. The nation coalesced in 1792 against the foreign tyrant, but that union lacked the complete union of 1914, though it made up in intensity of spirit what it needed in numbers. The Revolution fought for liberty against a caste system; then, as now, the peasant recognised that he was defending his own ground--not the privileges of feudal Europe--and the knowledge made him strong. A man is always formidable in defending his own. In the same way, the French patriot realised that militarism had forced the German to make war upon his peaceful neighbour. In the hospitals I have seen the soldier share with the sick German prisoner dainties that had been brought to him. "Poor devil, he was forced to fight against us," he would say, showing his realisation of the intimate differences of the two. In _his_ case it was a privilege to fight; he was defending his own fields against the hordes; in the other, a blind obedience to the State compelled him to take arm. One was a virtual volunteer in a sacred cause, the other the victim of German Imperialism. It was well to know what one was fighting for, and when one had realised the grandeur of the cause, then heat and cold, mud and rats, and even occasional shortness of rations became of small account. The issue was paramount.
The French soldier was actuated by a deep love of country. In his mortal breast beat the immortal heart of France. When the bugle sounded, as M. Charles Humbert, the Senator Editor has told us, there was a magnificent hastening to the frontier. The fighting souls of the people reappeared, the old memory of struggles was reawakened. "We dreamed of heroic encounters, of brilliant actions, of sublime gestures, of flags conquered in the sun. The reality, alas, was quite otherwise! Rapidly the war became a sad and protracted affair." It became an invisible, scientific, subterranean war of tenacity and endurance, though sometimes blazing into manoeuvre battles as at Verdun.
Life, none the less, was not altogether disagreeable behind the lines. There were compensations during the rest moments. Concerts and theatrical representations in which all the stars of the army appeared, men who had been renowned artists "in the civil," made the audience forget the dangers and discomforts of their actual life. And in these _entr'actes_ in the villages, the subject of the war was taboo by a sort of coquetry; one talked of anything else, and occupied one's leisure in acquiring relics from the ruined houses in the devastated villages, or sought, in other ways, to import some variety into the monotony of danger. The concerts revealed the singular talent of the French for improvisation and gave occasion to a latent gaiety, which flickered and flamed into pure joyousness. From the mind in those moments was banished dull care, and badinage became the current coin. Whilst the younger and more vigorous played games, the studious and literary engaged in intellectual exercises. Impressive in their reality are some of the books that have been written at the Front. There is a suggestion of actual experience about them, of _chases vecues_, which one does not feel in second-hand impressions.
Poems, too, flowed from the trenches--not poems, in general, concerned with war, but love and the softer passions. Where war was treated, it was as a mistress, stern and hard to woo. The Great War inspired something of the lyricism that succeeded the Napoleonic era, when de Musset, Hugo, Lamartine, and a pleiades of poets existed. Talent certainly flourished in the trenches. An opera was a proof of it--words and music of such startling excellence that the critics, before whom the work was played, expressed a deep enthusiasm for it. It was reserved for production at the Paris Opera House until the music of the trenches should have given place to the music of peace. Like many a hero in the fight, the author will remain anonymous until the war has ceased to be anything but an ugly remembrance, and then we shall taste the quality of the composition.
Heroism belongs to no class; it is present in the simple as in the learned, in the rude as in the polished. One of the comforting reflections of the war is that civilisation, in whose name it was waged, is often justified by her children. Civilised man proved his superiority over the savage, and the untutored child of desert and jungle was less master of himself in the dread hour than the finished product of the study and laboratory. That, at least, contains a certain solace more satisfying to human pride than the diabolical inventions of the Germans. Brains triumphed in the direction of battles, and they triumphed in the trenches, where the most cultivated showed the ascendancy of mind over matter. Though the savant and the peasant might be on equal terms of courage, yet it is true that character is the basis of it. And where there were defections from the common bravery, the explanation was in moral failure. A division which broke in the early days of the campaign and retreated some kilometres from the fight, was composed of southern regiments containing, it was said, a large percentage of the flotsam and jetsam of society. And this, it seems, proved that only those can wear the crown of heroism who have borne themselves uprightly.
The schoolmaster has contributed to the spirit of the trenches by his glorious example on the battlefield, if not by his teaching, which was often in a sense opposed to what we term Patriotism. Was he not the arch-antimilitarist? But his intelligence was awakened; he realised what was at stake, and so he strove to make good that civilisation in the name of which he had taught his beautiful but impracticable theories. All honour to his rapid realisation; all honour to his pupils in the trenches.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*TRENCH JOURNALS AND THEIR READERS*
There is no better indication of the gaiety and good humour prevailing at the Front than the journals that are circulating in the trenches. I know one charming periodical which was printed within a hundred yards of the German lines, deep down in the earth, in one of those subterranean forts that one imagined impregnable until it was discovered that the Germans, by employing their great guns, could force their way through the soil and attain these defences. The best of the journals that the war has produced on the French side is probably _Rigolboche_, an extremely clever little paper, and yet unpretentious withal, being hand-written and reproduced by a duplicating machine. The letterpress and sketches are really charming, and convey in the most eloquent manner the good temper and high spirits maintained during this protracted war. Even the deadly monotony of the fighting did not damp the artistic ardour of its contributors. Indeed, the pages of many of these jovial little publications prove how indigenous to the soil of France are wit and talent. The wide mobilisation gathers every one into the fold--artist and _litterateur_, artisan and peasant; but the last named, notwithstanding his lack of letters, has qualities of his own, qualities of soul, and even if he is unable to contribute directly to the trench journal, the little newspaper sparkles with wit which he inspires.
_Rigolboche_ has a characteristic sketch. The Kaiser and Francois Joseph are discovered talking. "My dear Francois Joseph," remarks the Kaiser, "I think the moment has come to kill the Gallic cock; it is fat and in good condition." He draws his knife, but the cock flies full at his face; at the same time, the British bull-dog gets his teeth into his leg, and the Russian bull, charging up, bears him away on his back.
The "poilu" has given his name to many publications. There is, for instance, the "Poilu et Marie-Louise," a title a little obscure, no doubt, to the British reader; but the adjunction of "Marie-Louise" signifies that it is associated with officers who left the famous school of St. Cyr in a year when the anniversary of Marie-Louise, Napoleon's Imperial wife, gave its name to the academic year. This organ appears in all the glory of print; but the majority cannot afford this luxury. The _Argonaut_ explains its origin, of course, distinctly enough. It is produced in the Argonne. It contains illustrations and letter-press copied by the duplicator. Another has the suggestive name of _La Saucisse_--the popular name of the observation balloon, which directs the fire of the guns. The _Souvenir_, especially to French ears, has a serious sound. Before the war it had a definite military meaning. To-day, as applied to this particular journal, it means an effort to keep green the memory of those who have fallen in the field. Whereas the majority of trench publications give an amusing view of life at the Front, the _Souvenir_ strikes the grave note. Its articles are devoted to cherishing the memory of brave deeds, and of the heroes who performed them--lest we forget. The editor, in an article of considerable charm, quotes the remark of a mutilated soldier to a sympathetic civilian. "Yes, I am the hero to-day," says the victim of the war, "but a hopeless cripple to-morrow." A glorious deed may be the work of a moment, but crutches have no apparent glory and endure for a lifetime. There is no halo round the head with sightless eyes; no monument over the little green grave, and society, on the morrow of victory, forgets. And so the poetic and heroic pages of the _Souvenir_ are full of the recital of deeds of valour either actual in their happenings or symbolical.
_Le Ver luisant_ ("The Glow-worm ") represents quite a different conception of the duty of a trench journal, as does _La Voix du 75_ ("The Voice of the 75"). The _Bellica_, the _Boum Voila_, the _Boyau_, the _Canard Poilu_, the _Clarion Territorial_, the _Cri de Guerre_, the _Diable au Cor_ (the organ of the 3rd Brigade of the Chasseurs Alpins), the _Echo des Marmites_, the _Echo du grand Couronne_, and the _Echo du 75_ are other titles. Cheery productions they are, full of light touches--humour that is not always very refined perhaps, but still humour, among the bursting shells and the agony of death. "Bocheries" is the title of an amusing column in the picturesquely named _Marmite_ (the name given to heavy shells), and there is sometimes a light fantastic column of fashions--such, for instance, as the correct way of wearing the respirator, or the chic angle to tilt the steel helmet.
The British trench newspapers have also their particular charm--intermingling Tommy's robust cheerfulness with the shy pathos of homesick islanders, but printed on fine paper, in good type, they lack a little the winsome appeal of those tiny hand-written sheets, sometimes no bigger than a sheet of foolscap, that are produced in the very atmosphere of war, and which are nearly always dainty, and represent in some subtle way the aroma of France: the wit and tenderness, the heroism, the grand virtues of the fighting man, and yet his simplicity of soul. Obviously, they have been born in war, and yet unaffected by the crash of metal, the horrid jar and thud of falling earth, the ruin of defences, the crashing, crazy effects of heavy fire.
Here is another paper bearing the title of _La Felix Potiniere_. Every one who has kept house in Paris knows that "Felix Potin" is the name of a large provision stores; but the word _potin_ is the slang term for a piece of gossip, and gossipy indeed are the contents of this amusing little sheet. What tranquillity of mind is revealed by these jokes and _jeux d'esprit_; one would imagine the Boches were many miles off instead of just round the corner! and, moreover, these stimulators to gaiety have the professional touch: the cuisine is perfect; the man of the _metier_ has been at work, and "news," with its accompanying comment, is served up with _sauce piquante_. _La Guerre Joviale_ does not belie its excellent title; it shows us war under its most agreeable aspect; at least it is heartening if not strictly true. And _L'Indiscret des Poilus_, the _Lapin a plume_ ("The Feathered Rabbit") and _Notre Rire_ (the organ of the artillery) are brimful of laughter and the joy of living, even though sometimes, in their surroundings, there is little laughter, a festival of Death rather than of Life.