And then consider the continuity of tradition in the English regiments: they bear on their standards the names of the old victories, and their history and achievements can be traced for hundreds of years. Not so with the French regiments. Their identity has been lost in the shifting sands of the Revolution. To quote one instance: the Regiment of Piedmont, which existed in the time of Henry VIII, became a departmental regiment, then the Third of the Line, and then the Seventh—it is impossible to keep pace with its changes. Practically the history of regiments in France stops at the Revolution. That was the moment of great changes when everything was swept away and new principles established. England the immutable, France the fluid, enthusiastic, passionate, artistic, wildly given over to new ideas what singular destiny has brought the two together as comrades and allies on the field of battle in a union much closer than in the Crimea, where, however, Canrobert came to the same conclusion as Foch, who repeated the eulogium, at an interval of sixty years, to General Delannes, a former chief of staff: "Once the British Army has agreed to do something, the thing is done." The unchanging spirit, then, the bull-dog tenacity, that tremendous grip that never lets go—these British qualities blend and render powerful the Latin temperament, with its quickness of comprehension and adaptability. Slow to see a new fact, still slower to excite himself, John Bull is the ideal character to play the waiting game, that game of exhaustion of the war. The more wonderful, then, in the eyes of the French that he should have made so prodigious a military effort.
Eminent French military critics have dealt with all the phases of the movement for raising men, first by the old traditional system of voluntaryism, then by graduated processes of compulsion. The result was an army whose peer the world had never seen, either for the high training of the men or the quality of the equipment. Already in the Spring of 1916 the English artillery was more numerous than the French, especially in heavy guns. It is true that the shooting of those pieces was not as good as that of our Allies, and that the French sent instructors to coach the English in their own methods; but one need not be surprised that we had not immediately acquired the full science of artillery usage upon which the French have specialised for many years. In the strict co-operation of two armies of differing nationalities working together in the field there must be necessarily certain difficulties and differences, and it is certain that the French did not always comprehend our methods of fighting. The English "stick it out" is often opposed to their own notion of a judicious retreat. For instance, the "marmites" are falling fast upon the front-line trench; there is a danger of the trench caving in and burying its occupants. Realising the situation, the French withdraw their men to the second line—perhaps three hundred yards behind the other. The British, however, will not countenance this strategic move; they remain; their own flank is exposed. Two rival principles are here in play. Say the British: "Better remain in the trench, because, on the morrow, you must win it back again by a counter-attack which is a wasteful process." "No," say the French, "retreat in time and save your men; you can get it back at a less cost than if you stayed and ran the risk of being decimated by the big shells."
You may see, no doubt, much of the same spirit in the question of guarding or abandoning sections of the line which are difficult to keep. For instance, the French probably would have given up long ago the salient at Ypres, which the English maintained at a considerable cost, mainly for sentimental, at least, for moral reasons, whereas the French would have urged that there was a line behind that would have given a better and easier frontier to defend. None, however, can estimate the moral value to the French of the mere presence at their side of their old rivals and antagonists; and the effect of contingents arriving in France from far-off Canada and Australia, New Zealand and the Cape, has been quite extraordinary. Almost inconceivable, also, has been the material help that Britain has extended to her Allies. To France alone we have advanced £500,000,000, a wonderful achievement in itself, and we have also supplied unending stores of coals, steel, boots, clothing—material of all sorts.
Of the "poilu," too, I shall often speak, but you will never realise how big he is—this sometimes unlikely-looking man, hung about with pots and pans and cumbered with all sorts of strange impedimenta. And he is often a poet as well as a hero. I wish you could read the letters from him I have been privileged to see, written under the hail of bullets and in the thunder of the big guns. His courage and undying spirit shine through these tender communications which lose so much in the translation, which are untranslatable, in fact—for one cannot translate a perfume or a colour, nor can you put upon cold paper the complexion of a kiss. The "poilu" is peculiarly French in the mood and manner of his life, in his apparent slackness, in the speed with which he braces up at the proper moment, his disgust and objection to mere unintelligent parade, his amused disdain of the "panache," his admiration for and whole-hearted devotion to a man capable of understanding and drawing him out, able to appeal to the particular form of his patriotism, and to fire him with a holy zeal for a holy cause—to a man, in fact, who combines a species of apostolic fervour, a winsomeness and appeal, with the sterling qualities of a real leader of men. Of such men I shall presently speak—men who inspire devotion like Mahomet over his followers, men who bring out the spirituality of war—if so be that one is allowed to speak of its spiritual side. For amidst the awful wreck of war—the sufferings it entails, its thousand miseries, the break-up of the home, the desolation of hearths, and the abominations practised upon civilians by the drunken or cynical soldiers of the Kaiser—there are incidents, as great and as sublime as ever immortalised the saints and martyrs dying for their religion, suffering nameless tortures that, in their quivering flesh, they might represent, for ever, the sustaining power of God. Of such heroism, of such priceless sacrifice this war is full—so full, that one knows not where to begin, and certainly would not know where to end, in a recital of deeds of valour and of splendour, irradiating poor human nature with a glow of glory whose beams will reach Eternity. Yet this war, despite its horror, despite the fact that it has filled the streets of every big town in France with a melancholy line of cripples, of men hopelessly maimed, who must go through the remainder of their existence on this earth with diminished vigour, has taught lessons and inculcated warnings which must continue through the years to bear their fruit and point the way to the right road as well as constituting a danger-signal to national shortcomings.
"Quit yourselves like men." The war will not have been in vain if this lesson is laid to heart. Let us have no more cant; no more false sentiment; no more idle dreams and castles built upon the foundations of a civilisation that does not exist. If, after nearly 2000 years of Christianity, we have not learnt to love one another, let us not, at least, pretend we do—until we are awakened by a Hymn of Hate. The Peace of the future is to the strong, to the country that is alive to the menace of war, to the nation constantly vigilant, to a people standing to arms. France, with her woman's soul, clung to a belief in civilisation that should make war unthinkable. But the nations that emerge from this war will have lost their illusions; they will have grown old and wise, and perhaps a little hard. Yet, at least, they will have learnt to face facts; they will not cry Peace when there is no peace. No, the policy of the nations will be directed by hard facts; the horrors of the camp of Wittenberg are seared into our souls. Dreams and idealism must have no place in our national affairs; such pleasant pastimes bring too rude an awakening.
CHAPTER II
THE THREE-YEARS LAW
During the Summer of 1913, it became evident that France had to change her military law to enable her to cope with the new forces Germany had arrayed against her. The growth of the Imperial effectives was quite remarkable. They had been increased by new legislation to 876,000; the cover troops, that is, those placed along the frontier in readiness for immediate service, were reinforced by 60,000 men and 500 pieces of artillery. To these numbers must be added the enormous total of the reserve: 4,370,000. Such masses were quite unknown to Europe and inspired legitimate alarm, not only in France, but amongst the other nations. The French Army numbered 567,000 of the active, and 3,980,000 of the reserve, namely, 700,000 fewer than the Germans. Again, of this number, 50,000 were employed in Northern Africa, and the infantry mass was further depleted by the creation of artillery regiments, machine-gun sections and aerial squadrons. It was time, therefore, to act.
When the German Emperor went to Tangiers in 1905, few French people ignored the significance of the step. And when, in 1911, the Panther anchored off Agadir, each one realised that it was a new menace, a new challenge to the right of France to Morocco, notwithstanding that "scrap of paper," the Algeciras Conference. The presence of the cruiser was a protest against the settlement by France of the Moroccan Railway question and against the march of French columns on Fez, which was the symbol of French possession. On both occasions, Parliament went hurriedly to work to vote extra credits, realising the state of unpreparedness, and then sank into its habitual indifference to these matters. But now it was no longer possible to postpone the question of effectives. The German advance was so real that France was forced to take note of it on pain of being relegated, definitely, to an inferior position. It was soon apparent that if the discussion revealed some of the vices of the French Parliamentary system, it also demonstrated that Parliament could rise, on occasion, above party and give an example of enlightened patriotism. The Government of the Republic, indeed, was more alive to its duty than the Imperial Government, which, forty-five years before, had not had the courage to support Marshal Niel's motion for universal service. It was on the eve of the elections and it had its own policy to pursue. It was again the eve of the elections in 1913, but the spirit of the country had changed; temporisation was no longer possible. "Let the Chamber tell me the sum it will place at my disposal and I will say in what measure I can organise the National Mobile Guard," cried Marshal Leboeuf, in the discussion under the Second Empire. It was a preposterous attitude to adopt, quite in consonance, however, with the lack of seriousness of the period. On the very brink of the war, the Government actually proposed to reduce the annual contingent!
The discussion in 1913 was remarkable for several things. One was its great length: it lasted three months; another was the prolixity and poverty of the speeches; hardly one contained the germ of a great idea. The striking contributions in this mad welter of talk could be counted on the fingers of one hand. The majority of deputies, until convinced of the error of their ways, persisted in treating the question as if it were political rather than patriotic. Day by day they mounted to the tribune and delivered orations as empty as air. An exception was the great speech of M. André Lefèvre, who had been Under Secretary of State for Finance, some years before, and had resigned "because he had not enough to do." This novel reason proved his originality; nor was it belied by his methods in the rostrum. He was not eloquent in an ordinary sense; there was no attempt at phrase-making; his facts spoke for themselves. His rather homely appearance gave instinctive force to his unadorned style, but his manifestly deep concern for his subject obviated all need of rhetoric. Thus his sentences were sharp and telling, and free from all pose or attempts at persuasion; and, perhaps, because of that, they carried a double conviction. Facts and figures were so downright in their character that none could dispute them.