Heroism belongs to no class; it is present in the simple as in the learned, in the rude as in the polished. One of the comforting reflections of the war is that civilisation, in whose name it was waged, is often justified by her children. Civilised man proved his superiority over the savage, and the untutored child of desert and jungle was less master of himself in the dread hour than the finished product of the study and laboratory. That, at least, contains a certain solace more satisfying to human pride than the diabolical inventions of the Germans. Brains triumphed in the direction of battles, and they triumphed in the trenches, where the most cultivated showed the ascendancy of mind over matter. Though the savant and the peasant might be on equal terms of courage, yet it is true that character is the basis of it. And where there were defections from the common bravery, the explanation was in moral failure. A division which broke in the early days of the campaign and retreated some kilometres from the fight, was composed of southern regiments containing, it was said, a large percentage of the flotsam and jetsam of society. And this, it seems, proved that only those can wear the crown of heroism who have borne themselves uprightly.
The schoolmaster has contributed to the spirit of the trenches by his glorious example on the battlefield, if not by his teaching, which was often in a sense opposed to what we term Patriotism. Was he not the arch-antimilitarist? But his intelligence was awakened; he realised what was at stake, and so he strove to make good that civilisation in the name of which he had taught his beautiful but impracticable theories. All honour to his rapid realisation; all honour to his pupils in the trenches.
CHAPTER XVIII
TRENCH JOURNALS AND THEIR READERS
There is no better indication of the gaiety and good humour prevailing at the Front than the journals that are circulating in the trenches. I know one charming periodical which was printed within a hundred yards of the German lines, deep down in the earth, in one of those subterranean forts that one imagined impregnable until it was discovered that the Germans, by employing their great guns, could force their way through the soil and attain these defences. The best of the journals that the war has produced on the French side is probably Rigolboche, an extremely clever little paper, and yet unpretentious withal, being hand-written and reproduced by a duplicating machine. The letterpress and sketches are really charming, and convey in the most eloquent manner the good temper and high spirits maintained during this protracted war. Even the deadly monotony of the fighting did not damp the artistic ardour of its contributors. Indeed, the pages of many of these jovial little publications prove how indigenous to the soil of France are wit and talent. The wide mobilisation gathers every one into the fold—artist and littérateur, artisan and peasant; but the last named, notwithstanding his lack of letters, has qualities of his own, qualities of soul, and even if he is unable to contribute directly to the trench journal, the little newspaper sparkles with wit which he inspires.
Rigolboche has a characteristic sketch. The Kaiser and François Joseph are discovered talking. "My dear François Joseph," remarks the Kaiser, "I think the moment has come to kill the Gallic cock; it is fat and in good condition." He draws his knife, but the cock flies full at his face; at the same time, the British bull-dog gets his teeth into his leg, and the Russian bull, charging up, bears him away on his back.
The "poilu" has given his name to many publications. There is, for instance, the "Poilu et Marie-Louise," a title a little obscure, no doubt, to the British reader; but the adjunction of "Marie-Louise" signifies that it is associated with officers who left the famous school of St. Cyr in a year when the anniversary of Marie-Louise, Napoleon's Imperial wife, gave its name to the academic year. This organ appears in all the glory of print; but the majority cannot afford this luxury. The Argonaut explains its origin, of course, distinctly enough. It is produced in the Argonne. It contains illustrations and letter-press copied by the duplicator. Another has the suggestive name of La Saucisse—the popular name of the observation balloon, which directs the fire of the guns. The Souvenir, especially to French ears, has a serious sound. Before the war it had a definite military meaning. To-day, as applied to this particular journal, it means an effort to keep green the memory of those who have fallen in the field. Whereas the majority of trench publications give an amusing view of life at the Front, the Souvenir strikes the grave note. Its articles are devoted to cherishing the memory of brave deeds, and of the heroes who performed them—lest we forget. The editor, in an article of considerable charm, quotes the remark of a mutilated soldier to a sympathetic civilian. "Yes, I am the hero to-day," says the victim of the war, "but a hopeless cripple to-morrow." A glorious deed may be the work of a moment, but crutches have no apparent glory and endure for a lifetime. There is no halo round the head with sightless eyes; no monument over the little green grave, and society, on the morrow of victory, forgets. And so the poetic and heroic pages of the Souvenir are full of the recital of deeds of valour either actual in their happenings or symbolical.
Le Ver luisant ("The Glow-worm ") represents quite a different conception of the duty of a trench journal, as does La Voix du 75 ("The Voice of the 75"). The Bellica, the Boum Voila, the Boyau, the Canard Poilu, the Clarion Territorial, the Cri de Guerre, the Diable au Cor (the organ of the 3rd Brigade of the Chasseurs Alpins), the Écho des Marmites, the Écho du grand Couronné, and the Écho du 75 are other titles. Cheery productions they are, full of light touches—humour that is not always very refined perhaps, but still humour, among the bursting shells and the agony of death. "Bocheries" is the title of an amusing column in the picturesquely named Marmite (the name given to heavy shells), and there is sometimes a light fantastic column of fashions—such, for instance, as the correct way of wearing the respirator, or the chic angle to tilt the steel helmet.
The British trench newspapers have also their particular charm—intermingling Tommy's robust cheerfulness with the shy pathos of homesick islanders, but printed on fine paper, in good type, they lack a little the winsome appeal of those tiny hand-written sheets, sometimes no bigger than a sheet of foolscap, that are produced in the very atmosphere of war, and which are nearly always dainty, and represent in some subtle way the aroma of France: the wit and tenderness, the heroism, the grand virtues of the fighting man, and yet his simplicity of soul. Obviously, they have been born in war, and yet unaffected by the crash of metal, the horrid jar and thud of falling earth, the ruin of defences, the crashing, crazy effects of heavy fire.
Here is another paper bearing the title of La Félix Potinière. Every one who has kept house in Paris knows that "Félix Potin" is the name of a large provision stores; but the word potin is the slang term for a piece of gossip, and gossipy indeed are the contents of this amusing little sheet. What tranquillity of mind is revealed by these jokes and jeux d'esprit; one would imagine the Boches were many miles off instead of just round the corner! and, moreover, these stimulators to gaiety have the professional touch: the cuisine is perfect; the man of the métier has been at work, and "news," with its accompanying comment, is served up with sauce piquante. La Guerre Joviale does not belie its excellent title; it shows us war under its most agreeable aspect; at least it is heartening if not strictly true. And L'Indiscret des Poilus, the Lapin à plume ("The Feathered Rabbit") and Notre Rire (the organ of the artillery) are brimful of laughter and the joy of living, even though sometimes, in their surroundings, there is little laughter, a festival of Death rather than of Life.