Joffre and His Army

by Charles Dawbarn

JOFFRE AND HIS ARMY

BY

CHARLES DAWBARN

AUTHOR OF "FRANCE AT BAY," ETC.

MILLS & BOON, LIMITED
49 RUPERT STREET
LONDON, W.

Published 1916

IN MEMORY OF
GENERAL GALLIÉNI
TO WHOM THIS BOOK
WAS DEDICATED
(BY PERMISSION)

FOREWORD

This book is intended as a presentation card to the French army. It is a plain story for plain people, and there has been a deliberate avoidance of any technicalities. In it you will find references to the leading figures in the fighting organisation of France—Joffre and his most brilliant collaborators; and I have tried to render just homage to the "poilu," who is the French common soldier. Perhaps the most touching thought about that man, whose deeds of glory and pure heroism will inspire the poets for many a long year, is that he represents not the soldier of profession, but the soldier drawn from the most peaceful occupations. Practically the first great encounter of the French with the Germans in the battle of Charleroi, and the subsequent retreat, accounted for a large part of the regular army, and more or less placed hors de combat the greater number of its officers. That professional force was replaced by the Reserve and later supplemented by the youngest classes—men culled from the very heart of pacific France. They came to the trenches with all their civilian instincts—it was a peasant and bourgeois army—but in an amazingly short space of time they were vying with the old soldier in the brilliance of their exploits, in their ability to endure supreme hardship with the greatest gallantry, and without complaint: an extraordinary story of adaptability. And it came to pass in the process of time that there was the army at the front and the army in the rear: the army of the field and the army of the munition factory, recruited from different elements, for the men in the trenches were the peasants, the sons of agricultural France; and the army of the factories—the munition workers—was composed of the artisan and typical town dweller. And it is as well to remember, when the question of the future of France, after the war, arises, that the peasant supported to a great extent the physical sufferings of the war, the danger of death and mutilation, the exposure in the trenches, the cold and damp, whilst the townsman was harnessed to the intensive labour of producing shot and shell for infantry and guns. I do not insinuate that the townsman shirked the more bitter task. Each time a demand was made upon him, involving sacrifice of life, he also was ready to rise to any height of abnegation. And in the more mechanical branches of the war, such, for instance, as artillery and aviation, it was often a townsman who was the hero, and who gained, by some glowing deed, the precious symbol of the war cross and even, perhaps, the Legion of Honour. A pure Parisian was Guynemer, the sergeant pilot, who, on a monoplane where he was pilot and combatant, bore down six German machines in as many months, and won thus his stripes as sergeant, the military medal—the highest military award in France—the Legion of Honour and the War Cross with seven palms; and all this at the age of twenty-one. Indeed, in every enterprise that demanded skill and daring the townsman was to the fore. But it is not possible to differentiate in the heroism displayed by the French. The historian will never point to the bravery of one class and the timidity of another, for there has been bravery everywhere—bravery and heroism of the most sublime sort poured out with lavish hand to the eternal glory of France.

In these pages I have sought to give a glimpse of the "poilu" at work in the trenches, that one may peep a little through the shutters of his soul. For the mind of the "poilu" is strangely barred and curtained, more strictly than the windows in any English east-coast town. The outsider is not permitted to see the light within. Question him and he will proudly boast his vices; concerning his virtues he is silent, and quaintly ashamed; and to understand the mentality of the "poilu," to discover what manner of man he is, one must rub shoulders with him in everyday life. Upon some of these familiar visits I hope my readers will accompany me, at least in imagination, and will gather some insight into the character of the Soldier of France. I shall, indeed, have ill performed my task if I have failed to show how valiant he is in facing mortal danger, how uncomplaining in the midst of monotonous peril, and in the worst discomforts—waiting the order to attack without the least murmuring, with soldier-like acquiescence in the bitter cold of a winter's night or in the chill of early spring. He has forged in a surprisingly short time the âme militaire; he has exhibited an amazing adaptability. Some had supposed him ill-disciplined, incapable of the highest military virtues. "Is this a school treat?" exclaimed an outraged Britisher as a detachment of French soldiers slouched, singing and whistling down the road. Yes, a sloppy and disorderly lot they looked, their clothes dirty and ill-fitting, and hung around with their kit like travelling caravans. Surely such men were no soldiers! There was a large section of English opinion convinced that the Frenchmen would not fight; that, probably, was the German idea also. What, then, has effected the transformation? How has the "poilu" become inspired by the highest military courage, and for weeks and weeks, as at Verdun, sustained the most devastating bombardment? Ah! that is the secret of this war, that is the secret of the French temperament, that secluded soul, which is not always what it seems to be. It ever carries in it the seeds and possibilities of greatness: seeds that lay dormant until this war germinated them and they developed into the glorious flower of achievement. In an instant this quick and imaginative people awoke to the necessities of the war; they had every reason to realise its meaning; it was only too plain. There it was, written in blood and carnage in the invaded departments. England, of course, lacked that object-lesson. Merely the Zeppelins reminded her of the "reality" of the war, with their pitiable toll of innocent lives; and moreover, the attitude of the authorities, far from insisting upon the realisation of the war and its horror, tended to starve the imaginative side of the campaign. There were, of course, the scenes at the recruiting meetings, the posters and the rest: but that, after all, was undignified, a little pathetic, and sometimes even rang false; the great diapason of the Country's Call was but rarely sounded. "Your country needs you," said a theatrical-looking poster; but did it really need one? One had to be sure of that. And yet, in spite of these disadvantages, in spite of a despairing and exasperating silence about the achievements and daily heroisms of the army in the field—until one began to think that the only records other than the meagre communiqué, were the casualties—in spite, I say, of these drawbacks, in spite of the paucity of the appeal, the response of the young men to this voluntary call was stupefying in its splendour and spontaneity, so that the French were able to say—though they did not always say it with satisfying eloquence—again the fault of those who did not trouble to let them know precisely what the splendid English army and English organisation were doing—that never had the world given such a picture of sacrifice, of absolute, undiluted courage. The men of England were splendid, and only the Government, so ill-adapted to the exceptional, limped painfully, slowly and awkwardly, behind public opinion, instead of springing in front to direct it.