CHAPTER III

THE LANDING OF THE FORCE

"_Shall not thou and I, between Saint Dennis and Saint George, compound a boy, half French, half English, that shall go to Constantinople, and take the Turk by the beard?_"

The dominant note in the reception which the French gave to the Force on landing was undoubtedly that of _relief_. Happy in showering little courtesies, surprised and delighted with everything British--all these, but it was relief which came uppermost in their minds. The feeling which the old pilot had expressed in his "comme ça va bien, maintenant."

And as transport after transport slid quietly to her berth alongside the broad Rouen quays, discharged her freight of men, horses, guns, stores, lorries, and the countless trappings of a modern army, and then as quickly and noiselessly vacated the berth for her successor, so increased the wonder and delight of the good Normandy folk.

That _les anglais_ should really have arrived was splendid enough, but that they should also bring with them their own food and cooking arrangements--"mais c'est tonnant! et quelle organisation!"

Everyone spoke in admiring comment about it. And how Rouen crowded down to the quays or out to the rest camps to watch _les anglais_ cooking their dinners! Army stores those few days were sadly depleted of tins of jam, biscuits and "grocery ration." How could one refuse the hungry look in the eye of a motherly matron as she espied a packet of the famous English tea?

And the children! We learned for the first time how hungry children could be when they saw biscuits and jam.

Make a fuss of the kiddies and you have won the mothers! And if you have won the mothers and women of France you have conquered "la belle France" herself. And _les anglais_ conquered France in those few days at the French ports. The happiest of victories, and one which augured well for the future.

Nothing pleased the French more than British courtesy and gentleness to women and children; and their kindness to and care of their horses. British love of personal cleanliness, and the unfailing cheeriness of the men, these have, of course, long since become proverbial. But then it was all new to France, almost to the world, and so one records these things as first impressions.

And the Scotties. Everyone knows how the lads from north of the Tweed made sad havoc among French hearts. Have they not always done so since Frenchmen and Scotsmen first clasped hands in alliance?

If a Scotsman was asked once a day whether he wore anything under his kilt he was asked a hundred times. And truth compels me to add that it was generally the ladies who put the question. What the answer was I never found out. I imagine that our lads were not sorry to hide their blushes in the troop trains which carried them forward to the frontier.

But all these little details have been so admirably recorded by Philip Gibbs in his masterly book, "The Soul of the War," that there is really not much more to tell. I shall have still a little to add in the next chapter, when it comes to trekking up country.

I had some little cause on the first day of landing to regret the exuberance of French hospitality. Half my men, they were mostly Special Reservists, suddenly disappeared into the unknown directly they set foot on shore. And they hadn't a week's pay in their pockets either.

Eventually I got them rounded up and next morning there were twenty-five prisoners, "caps off," for "office." To say they were surprised is to give a very poor indication of their feelings when they found varying degrees of punishment awarded to them.

But this was nothing to the ludicrous expressions of the men when all the remainder were paraded and informed what they had to expect on active service. It ran somewhat as follows:

"When a sentry, sleeping upon his post." Punishment--DEATH. "Leaving his C.O. to go in search of plunder." Punishment--DEATH. "Forcing a safeguard."--DEATH. "Quitting his guard without leave."--DEATH. "Disobeying the lawful command of his superior officer."--DEATH.

And so on, the lightest punishment being about fourteen years' Rigorous Imprisonment.

Their faces got longer and longer as the list proceeded, and it was a very meek detachment who turned to their dinners on the quay-side. And that was the beginning and end of any trouble with those good lads until the day when they, or the poor remnant who pulled through, crowded round to sing "Auld lang syne" and give me a farewell cheer. Fine work they did, and always as cheery and lovable as any unit in the Force.

Disembarkation was carried on with the same admirable efficiency which had characterised embarkation. A large number of British Staff officers had, I believe, crossed to France immediately upon mobilisation. There, in collaboration with French colleagues, every possible arrangement was made for the reception of the Force.

Rest camps were pitched or billets were allotted, branches of the Army Post Office were established, a field cashier was installed at the Banque de France and imprests in French notes for the men's pay could be obtained on demand.

Of course everybody had seized the few hours' holiday on board ship to write more or less lengthy letters home, hoping, in their innocence, that the ship's officers would post them on returning to England.

Alas! before ever the ship was berthed, an all-powerful bogy swarmed up the companion way and greedily snatched away the ship's correspondence. Calling for a brush and a barrel of black fluid, he gleefully set to work upon the letters and postcards. When he had finished with them (and it took him a good couple of hours on our ship) they looked like the slips of paper you use in the parlour round-game where the first player writes a line and leaves the next to continue the sentence.

We had all given the most vivid description of our adventures, filling page after page. When the precious documents ultimately reached their destination, our fond parents, or best girls, must have been gratified to find that their four-page letter had dwindled down to:

"MY DEAR FATHER,--

(Four pages of brush and fluid work.)

"Well, I think I have told you all the news now. My love to the Mater and, cheer-oh, we shall soon be home again.

"Your affect. son, "----"

It was very interesting to compare the way in which French and British temperaments expressed themselves; intensely interesting to note how each so quickly became the complement of the other.

One knew so well the attitude of disdain of anything foreign which invariably characterises the Briton abroad; an unfortunate attitude which has been encouraged, or so it would almost seem, by the invariable courtesy, under the most irritating conditions, of men and women of the Latin races.

Here were some seventy or eighty thousand men thrust headlong into a strange country. Probably at least two-thirds of that number had never been out of England before. Everyone knows the impression which your average Englishman of the middle and lower classes has of French men and French women. Certainly it has not been very complimentary. How would our men now bear themselves?

And if our attitude to the French has for the most part been one of cold disdain and amusement, the French would seem to have regarded us, as a race, with incredulity, tempered by such a degree of irritation as their native courtesy would permit. This, together with an under current of admiration.

"_Que j'aime la hardiesse anglaise!_" says Voltaire, "_que j'aime les gens qui disent ce qu'ils pensent._"

During those early August days before the Retreat there was little real opportunity to modify racial opinions. But if British disdain was not yet effaced, the overwhelming reception by the French went far to break it down. Soon it was to be washed clean away in the blood sacrament which united French and English in a closer tie than that of brothers-in-arms.

French methods and customs still amused our men, but the amusement became that light-hearted gaiety, in tackling and surmounting trifling difficulties in a foreign country, which is quite irresistible. Here the British soldier or sailor is always at his very best, and the anecdotes of his adventures in French villages and towns would fill a volume.

Wiseacres who try to invent some universal language should certainly base it upon that of Thomas A. in a strange country. He is equally at home in China, Peru, the wilds of Africa or Spain.

The fact which astonished him more than anything else about the French language was that all the children spoke it. He could understand grown-ups learning it in time; but how the kiddies were able to talk it with such amazing fluency, that was quite beyond him.

As for the French attitude of mind, I am inclined to think that their incredulity, admiration and irritation were all intensified; the last named, however, being even less in evidence than before.

The attitude of the French women is easier to define. It is literally true to remark that, from highest to lowest in the land, there were no half measures in their welcome. One can say this now because the fact has long since been recognised and openly discussed in France. This, however, is not the place in which to make more than passing reference to a subject which, apart from the purely human aspect, is more a matter for the student of physiology or psychology.

"Combien de coeurs vous avez ravagé dans un si petit délai que vous avez stationné ici," a French girl once remarked, "et cependant on ne devrait pas refuser aux anglais les baisers qu'ils nous demandent puisqu'ils se donnent pour nous."

And the last half of the sentence admirably sums up the French woman's point of view.

This landing of the portion of the Force at Rouen was typical of what happened at Boulogne or Havre. John Buchan, in his first volume of the "History of the War," has given a most interesting glimpse of incidents at the former port.

In no case did the troops remain at these bases for more than a couple of days. Nobody appeared to have the least idea of what was going on up at the frontiers, but time was obviously of importance.

No one knew where they were bound for; no one appeared to have the slightest presentiment of the tragedy, and the magnificence of the days which were so soon to crowd upon them. Still the cheery, light-hearted, end-of-term spirit. A summer holiday on the Continong! Cheer-oh!

And so they were merry parties of men which boarded the funny French trains; where you had to clamber up the sides of the carriages from platforms which didn't really exist, and where you were packed in like a Cup Tie crowd returning from the Crystal Palace.

How the horses hated those French trucks. Never before had they suffered such indignity. I would not have been a stableman on duty in one of those trucks for many a month's pay.

"Mais, quelles bêtes!" said the railway officials. And the porters would run and fetch the stationmaster and gesticulate at the Compagnie's trucks, which had begun to look like bundles of firewood long before the frontier was reached.

"Third return Clapham Junction, please," said the company wag.

"Wotto! Berlin! Not 'arf," shouted the rest....

And off the trains would steam, every compartment labelled "Berlin." It's rather pathetic how history repeats itself. This time the French were silent. They _knew_.

So, forward into the unknown!