The French Army from Within

by Anonymous

Shrouded in dust the column goes on. The grey-headed colonel is at the head, then comes the band, and then the men of the regiment follow, at ease, singing, smoking, chatting together. They pass through a village street in which is a simple monument to the men who fell in '70, and the colonel pulls his men up to attention while they pass through the street. Quietly, and with something ominous in the manner of their march, the men pass out to the open road again, where "at ease" is the order once more. But, when they march steadily at attention, these French infantrymen seem the embodiment of military strength and efficiency. The Army has taken them and made of them what it meant to make, and, Breton lad or Paris gamin, they are stamped with the mark of the Army—they are soldiers of the Republic, marching items which, apart from their personal characteristics, mean each a rifle and a bayonet for France when the hour shall strike. Over successive horizons they go, stopping every hour for their five minutes; they grow heedless of the band at the head of the column, and scarcely know whether it is playing or no; one or two fall out, perhaps, for the first days of the march throw out from the ranks all the unfit; there is a doctor at hand to see to those who fall out, and the column swings on. Some time, after what seems to the men very many hours, the band strikes up definitely and with an indefinable new note—and the men know they are marching into camp. Food and sleep are not far ahead; the column stiffens at the call from the grey-haired colonel, and swings on to the camping-ground apparently as fresh as when the men passed out from the barrack gate. It is a part of their pride that they should come in well, should end their march like soldiers and men, not like weaklings.

The cavalry also go out from the barracks with anticipations of good times ahead. Unlike the infantry, they have to keep formation when marching at ease as when marching at attention, for you cannot get a horse to rein back into the rank behind you or come up to the rank in front of you as easily as you yourself can drop back or go up, and, moreover, you cannot regain your place in the ranks at the call of "attention" as an infantryman can. But there are compensations. The "fours" of men divide into twos, of which each takes one side of the road; there is room in between the two inner men for the clouds of dust to roll about, and, although some of the stuff comes up, especially as regards the rear of the squadron, one is not so much down in it as the soldier on foot. One sees the country, too; the infantryman, keeping his place in his company, is just one of a crowd, and, in marching along and getting very tired—so the cavalryman says—he has no chance of looking about him and seeing what the country that he is marching through is like. One's horse does all the work, in the cavalry march, and one is merely a spectator, enjoying the fine day and the new scenery. It is good to be in the cavalry, and who would be an infantryman, when manœuvres start? Patrol duty, for instance, and the isolated tasks that take patrols of three and four men to farmhouses where the milk is good and one is invited—yes, invited!—to pick fruit from the trees—what infantryman knows anything of joys like these? Assuredly it is a good thing that one chose to serve in the cavalry.

Supposing it is the first time one has gone out on manœuvres, there are all sorts of pleasant speculations in which one can indulge. Guillaumette, the surly fellow, who when in barracks always occupies the next bed and snores so atrociously—he who is not always perfectly innocent of faire suisse, though he has the luck of a pig, and never gets caught at any of his mean tricks—Guillaumette will be going away when one returns to barracks at the end of the manœuvres, and who shall say what pleasant kind of a comrade may not come from among the new recruits to take his place? Jacques, for instance, who belongs to the third peloton has a first-year man in the next bed to him, one who is the son of a deputy, and has always plenty of money. When the deputy's son was for guard and was warned for duty so late that he could not possibly get ready in time, Jacques lent him kit and helped him to turn out, with the result that Jacques had five francs—five francs, think of it!—with which to go to the canteen. And, soon after one has got back off manœuvres, the new recruits will be coming in; one will be a second-year man, then, with perhaps a deputy's son to sleep in the next bed and dispense five francs at a time to one who knows all the little ways of soldiering and can be of use. The possibilities, both of the manœuvres themselves and of what comes after, are endless, and speculation on them is a pleasant business. Surly old Sergeant Lemaire, too, is almost sure to get promotion this year, and the peloton will get another sergeant to take charge of it—certainly not one with a worse temper, for that would be impossible.

And the long road slips behind, while the troopers conjecture with regard to their future, talk together of horses bad and good, sergeants and corporals bad and good, comrades also bad and good; they smoke as they ride, and talk yet more of horses, for any army of the world the cavalrymen never tire of talking of horses and their own riding abilities, while in the French Army boasting of one's own horsemanship, and all the rest of one's own good qualities, is even more common than it is among English soldiers. Not that the boasting among either is carried to a nauseous extent, but the soldier is so subject to discipline, so used to doing good work with only the official recognition by way of return, that, knowing the work is good, he talks about it himself since nobody is there to do the talking for him—and this is especially true of the cavalry.

Some time ago Conan Doyle created in "Brigadier Gerard" an excellent picture of a French cavalry officer of the old type, and to some extent the picture of Gerard—the most human and realistic figure Conan Doyle has ever penned, by the way—still holds good as regards both officers and men. One may find in both officers and men of the French cavalry to-day much of the absolute disregard of risks, rather than bravery as that is understood among the English, which characterises the brigadier. There is, too, much of Gerard's vanity in modern French cavalry officers and men, much of his susceptibility to influence, and all of his absolute loyalty to a superior. The French cavalryman will tell his comrades how he dislikes his squadron officer, but he will follow that squadron officer anywhere and into any danger—his loyalty is sufficient for any test that may be imposed on him. Like Gerard, he will brag of the things he has done, will devote much time to explaining exactly how he did them and how no other man could have done them just as well, until a British cavalryman, if he were listening, would tell the speaker to pass the salt and hire a trumpeter to blow for him. But, though the French cavalryman is true to the Gerard picture in that he boasts inordinately, it will be found, when one has got to close acquaintance with him, that he does not boast without reason. He has done a good thing—why not talk about it, for if he does not nobody else will? The British attitude toward a boaster is one of contempt, since the man who boasts generally does little, and exaggerates that little out of recognition. But the French cavalryman boasts—and acts too; like the Englishman, he does his work, and, unlike the Englishman, he talks about it. But it must always be remembered that he acts as well as talks.

The picture of Gerard, however, is not a faithful portrait of the French cavalry officer of to-day, for the modern French officer takes his work far more seriously than Gerard took his, and understands it more fully. For forty years or more French officers, in common with the rest of the nation, have known that there would come a life and death struggle with Germany; they have set themselves to the task of mastering the difficulties attendant on the crushing of the invaders and the avenging of Sedan—no matter to what arm of the service the French officer may belong, he is first a soldier, and after that a man. Gerard, on the other hand, was man first and officer afterwards. The difference has been brought about by the training which the Army of the Third Republic imposes on its officers, and since that Army is a conscript force, the difference is of itself a necessity.

And it should always be borne in mind, especially by those who deplore the training of the citizens of France into so huge an army, that the step has been vital to the life of the nation. With a far smaller population than Germany, France has been compelled, as a matter of self-preservation, to keep pace with Germany in the means adopted with regard to military training, has had to train and arm man for man, produce gun for gun—and when the hour of trial came it was found that the preparation had been none too great—there was not one trained man but was needed to cope with the national enemy, with Prussian militarism and Prussian greed of conquest. The conscript Army of the Third Republic, unlike that of its eastern neighbour and unlike the huge levies that Napoleon the First raised, has been intended as a means of defence only; the worst enemy of the Republic cannot accuse it of having maintained all its effective citizens as soldiers with a view to aggression in any direction. The Army is, because it must be for the safety of the nation, not because the nation desires territory or conquest.

And all this time the squadrons are marching along the straight roads that led over far horizons and to things unguessed, unseen by the first-year men.

They stop, at intervals along their marching line, to water their horses, loosen girths, and stretch themselves; they walk about the roads and look at each other's mounts; they share packets of cigarettes—those cigarettes made of black French tobacco that wither the back of the throat when first one inhales smoke from them. The lieutenant or sub-lieutenant comes round the troop to inspect the horses and see that all are fit, and the sergeant comes round too, probably to point out to the lieutenant some loose shoe or rubbing girth that the less experienced eye of the commissioned youngster has failed to detect. Then girths are tightened, the men mount again, and go on, dividing the road between them as before.

As camp draws near, the line of men grows silent, or at least more silent than at the setting out, and the horses take their work steadily rather than eagerly, for this is their first day out, and they are not yet hardened to long marches.