Mention has already been made of the prejudice which the infantryman has against firing the first blank cartridge of the day. Since this is the case where the rifle is concerned, one may guess what the artilleryman's feelings are like when his gun has to fire the first shot, for the cleaning of a field-gun, even after firing blank ammunition, is no light matter. The bore of the gun has literally to be scrubbed out in order to remove the fouling, and the gunner's task is not an enviable one; the clothing of the first-year conscript, when the gun has been cleaned after firing, looks as if the man had been hauled up a chimney by his heels, and though men keep a special suit of fatigue clothes for use on this task, they like it none the more for that.
In addition to the ordinary manœuvre period in which cavalry and infantry participate, artillery units go every year to a practice camp which is a special area set apart for the firing of live shells, with a view to giving officers and men alike training in the realities of their work. The so-called smokeless powder—which in reality is not smokeless—used on these occasions, together with the passage of a shell through the rifling of the gun, renders the cleaning of the bore an even more messy business than that incurred in firing blank ammunition during tactical exercises. Drivers and gunners alike generally enjoy their time at practice camp, but the gunners use language over cleaning the guns, and with good cause too, when one considers the nature and difficulty of the task.
But, whether the occasion be that of practice camp for the artillery, or tactical exercise for the three arms, there is more to enjoy than to cavil at. Manœuvres come at the best period of the year, from the weather point of view; the days are warm, but not too warm, and the cool nights induce healthy sleep. There is plenty of food, generally a sufficiency of tobacco and cigarettes, and the canteen travels with the men. There is a pleasant uncertainty about the nature of the day's work and the length of time it will take; one may be out until late in the evening, or one may finish in the afternoon, and, after an inspection of arms, be at liberty to go to the canteen and discuss things in general with one's comrades, or with the men who, coming from other stations, have new stories to tell and new matters to discuss. One may, granted the necessary leave, walk over to a near-by town, where is certain to be at least a cinema hall, and restaurants outside which one may sit by a table at the pavement edge and view civilian life. Or there may be a night march to be accomplished, and, though this is a tiring business, it has a certain amount of interest as long as the weather holds good. The chief drawback to manœuvres is a rainy season, when the soldier has a particularly unenviable time of it. There are seldom sufficient fires at which to dry one's clothes; there is, perhaps, the business of pitching tents in the rain, and then the crowding of self, arms, and equipment into the canvas shelter, while outside the rain keeps on in a way which suggests that fine days are things of the past, never to be experienced again. The infantry go squelching out from camp in the morning; the cavalry pull up their wet lines and, getting mounted, splash out through mud puddles, while the artillery drivers harness up their horses with a knowledge that a hard day is in store for them, both on the road, where their horses will be overtaxed by the heavy going, and in camp, where the cleaning of wet saddlery and equipment and the grooming of muddy horses is enough to spoil temper at the end of the day's work. And the transport waggons, standing parked in the rain, look as if they were used for the carriage of materialised despair, and had been abandoned because the loads were too heavy. A wet town or village is a dreary sight, but a wet camp is the most depressing thing on earth.
Even in wet weather, however, the spirit of the conscript is usually proof against depression. There are compensations: for one thing, work is lightened as far as possible, and usually the operations of the manœuvres are modified in case of a continual spell of wet weather, for it is not only the men who suffer from adverse climatic conditions, and it is not the business of a period of manœuvres to impose too great a strain on the forces taking part therein. When the men are in their tents and the rain is driving down outside, the interminable songs of the army may be heard from the interiors of the tents. Even in a standing camp—that is to say, a camp located in one position for a period of several days—the men are made to undergo a certain number of parades in order to keep them in health, for continued idleness in camp almost certainly means disease, and, as has already been remarked, the authorities of the French Army are fully alive to the necessity for preserving the health of the men.
On the average, manœuvre days are fine days; a spell of wet weather is exceptional, for the season of the year is chosen, in some degree, with a view to imparting as much instruction to officers and men alike as is possible in the allotted period. Given fine weather, one has to work—but then, one has to work in barracks, and not in such congenial fashion as in this life of open air and comparative freedom.
As the end of the manœuvre period approaches, the second-year men get more and more excited, for your Frenchman, whether as conscript or civilian, is an excitable person, and not ashamed of showing his feelings as is the man west of the Channel. For these second-year men civilian life is getting very near. Pierre will go back to the farm, and Jacques will return to his place behind the counter, while Jean will once more polish the seat of the office stool for a stated period each day. But Jacques and Pierre and Jean will at times look back to the good days and the cheery comrades of the last manœuvres, and perhaps, although this is a conscript army, they will know a transient regret in that they will never again go out from the barrack gate as units of a column setting out on the long march.
WITH THE CAVALRY SCOUTS
The incidents related in this chapter took place a few years back during a certain manœuvre season, and for obvious reasons it is impossible to indicate the men, forces concerned, or locality more closely than that. The forces concerned were an army corps advancing from the south, and one advancing from the north, toward each other, with a view to trying conclusions under manœuvre conditions. The story concerns scouts of the blue force, advancing from the north—it was one of these scouts of the blue force who told the story. It must not be taken as a typical story of army life, for the circumstances under which these men were placed were exceptional, agreeably so; it is, however, sufficiently typical for relation, in that it embodies things actually accomplished by soldiers of the Army of the Republic. Like most things that happen both in manœuvres and in war, it could never happen again.