Altogether, artillery service is not a light business in the French Army—it is not in any army, for that matter. Both gunners and drivers must take themselves seriously, and officers of the artillery must take themselves most seriously of all, with the possible exception of engineer officers. The modern rifle is a complicated weapon when compared with the musket of a hundred years ago; but in comparison with the rifle, the big gun of the Army of to-day has advanced in construction and power to an enormously greater extent. The character of the projectile has changed altogether from the old-fashioned round shot to a missile which is in itself a gun, carrying its own exploding charge and small projectiles within itself. The range of the modern gun is limited only by the necessity to make the gun mobile in the field, and by the range of human sight or power to judge the position of the target. The gunners of to-day, and the officers who command them, must be skilled workmen, possessed of no little mechanical ability in addition to their military qualities. They must be not only soldiers, but artificers, mechanics, engineers, mathematicians—skilled men in every way. The efficiency of the French artillery to-day is largely due to the French turn of mind, which is eminently suited to the solving of those mathematical problems with which the work of those who control the big guns abounds.
IN CAMP AND ON THE MARCH
Manœuvres fall at the end of the military year in the French Army, being so arranged in order that the second-year conscripts shall pass out from the Army and back to their ordinary civilian avocations as soon as they return to barracks and have time to hand in their equipment and arms. For the majority of these men, it is two years since they have had time to see their friends, save for a stray day or two of leave here and there for the man whose people live within a short distance of the training-place to which he has been drafted, or a stray visitor who brings news from home to one or other at infrequent intervals. Thus manœuvres mean a good deal to the conscript; even the first-year men catch the infection from their fellows with regard to the approaching time for going away, and there is as well the sense for these juniors that, when they return to barracks, they will no longer be first-year men, but able to advise and instruct such raw recruits as they themselves were just a year ago. Added to this, again, is the sense of freedom that comes from knowing of the days of marching, billeting, and sight of fresh places and people from day to day, and it will be seen that the change from barrack life with its perpetual round of work to the constantly varying scenes of manœuvres is one which is anticipated with pleasure by all.
About a week, or perhaps more, before the time has come for the army corps concerned—or the cavalry or other divisions concerned—to set out on its march to the manœuvre area, the cavalry and artillery send out their patrols to gather up the horses which have been boarded out at farms for the summer, and the men of these patrols are almost invariably billeted on the inhabitants of the districts round which they have to ride on their errand. It is a pleasant task, this; the year is at its best, and summer just so far advanced that the early rising, the riding through the day, and the evening tasks are alike easy. The weather is good, the life is not too hard, and the party too small to admit of strict discipline being maintained; the men know that their picnic-time is due to their having been specially chosen as reliable for such work, and consequently they do not abuse their freedom.
And the horses come in from grass to train for what a horse can never understand, though it is in the knowledge of all that a horse comes to know his place in the ranks of the cavalry or in the traces of the gun team, and would gladly go back to that place after he has been cast out from the service to drudgery between the two shafts of a cart or cab. Perhaps the horses have their own thoughts about going on manœuvres, and the change from stable life—such of them as have been kept in stables while the troops are in barracks—to the open air existence which is theirs in camp.
It is a great day for the conscript when the regiment marches out from barracks. Farewell for a time, and in the case of the second-year men farewell for good, to the barrack routine. They leave in barracks the things they will not require on field service, the materials for what the British soldier knows as "spit and polish soldiering," and the conscript starts out with his field kit and equipment, prepared to have a good time.
The infantry swing out through the barrack gates, a long column of marching men; they talk among themselves of what they will do when manœuvres are over; the second-year men talk of going away, back to their homes, and of turning their backs on military service; they have done the duty their country asked of them, and now are at liberty to think of a good time—almost a holiday, in spite of the hard work and marching involved, with which they will end their service—to last them through the coming weeks, after which they will resume civilian attire and work. It has been a hard business, this conscript period, but France asked it, and ma foi, but we are men now! The stern strictness of the instructors, the unending discipline imposed by sergeants and corporals, the everlasting watchfulness of the adjutant over buttons and boots and the correct method of saluting—proper perspective, rapidly growing in the mind of the man nearing the end of his second year, assures him that these things are needs of a good army. And then, he is going out on manœuvres, among the apple orchards or the hill villages; he is going to show the country what its soldiers are like, and almost, but not quite, he regrets that the end of his period of military service is nearly in sight. The time to which he looks forward colours his view of all things; the barracks are behind, and before him is the open road—that long, straight road which, in so many districts of France, goes on and on across bare plains, to human sight a thread laid right across the fabric of the world without bend or divergence. A road of white dust which, as soon as the barracks are left behind, rises from the many footsteps of the marching men and envelops the column. The band in front goes free of the dust, and well it is that the throats of the bandsmen are not choked and dried with the insidious stuff, for one marches better, far better, with the music.
Somebody starts a song, for the regiment is marching at ease. A squad takes it up, and it spreads through the company—the company in rear has already started its own song, a different one. Interminably that song goes on, and the miles slip behind. At the end of every hour the column halts, and its men fall out for five minutes' rest—a good custom, this, for one can get rid of some of the dust, and often get a drink of water from a wayside spring—or Jean, who always gets enough money from home to satisfy the desires of his heart, has brought a bottle. It would be in the last degree injudicious to incur the accusation of faire suisse on this first day of the march, and Jean has long since learned wisdom over such points of etiquette. Jean wants to keep the bottle till the next halt, but it is pointed out to him that the morning is already warm, and to carry a bottle for another hour when one might empty it—with assistance—and be saved the labour of transporting it further, is very bad judgment. Jean needs little persuasion—but it is time to fall in and resume the march: the bottle gets emptied while the column is marching, and Jean is voted un brave garçon—as undoubtedly he is, in other things beside this.