Personally, I do not think there was much love lost between the two nations for some time after the war started. The bond of mutual admiration and respect, and I hope of affection, was forged in the Battle of the Somme and in the heroic defence of Verdun. This bond has been strengthened since on many a stricken field. The clouds of mutual mistrust and jealousy have been largely dispelled. We have learnt much about the French since the early days of the war, and they much about us; otherwise it would have been impossible for a French General to be in supreme command of the campaign.
I have often come in contact with the French civilian in town and country, but only rarely with French troops. Also I have come to know and like a series of French interpreters attached to battalions or brigade. The deeds of the French Army speak for themselves, and their Staff work has been often beyond praise. When we remember the cruel fate that befell the north-eastern corner of France and its unhappy citizens, we may sympathise with the fury of the French nation against their old oppressors. No one living in England can realise the hideous wounds inflicted on this fair country-side. It may explain to some extent at least the heroic resistance of the French for over four years—a resistance that could scarcely have been predicted before the war.
In considering our relations with the French at different times, it is well to have a deep sympathy for the cruel wrongs she has suffered. Thus they must have regarded with very mixed feelings their harbours, railways, and towns being taken over by an alien though friendly people.
All things considered the Frenchman may well have said at the first, 'These English, they are everywhere!' At least, this I noticed when I arrived in Le Havre in January 1916, there was no enthusiasm for us there. There was no rudeness, it is true, but the atmosphere of the place was rather chilly and aloof. The country folk about Meteren seemed pleased to see us; I think they had got used to the ways of the British soldier and found him not such a bad fellow after all. It was pleasant to see the country folks round here after our stay in Flanders, comely and straight, members of a thoroughbred race. The contrast was rather forcible perhaps.
The Brigade Interpreter in 1916, Monsieur Bunge, a native of Le Havre, was a pleasant, lively sort of person, always ready for a joke and an admirer of the British. With him I got on very well; and I learnt one or two things of the French from him. One of them was how sensitive they are in small matters of conversation. If in your heavy English way you did not respond at once with animation to his remarks, M. Bunge thought he had offended you.
They are a very sensitive race, especially in matters of courtesy. The colder manner and bearing of the British must have been a sore trial to them till they got to understand them—especially if they were laying themselves out to be friendly. It is worth while to let yourself go a bit in the matter of speech and bearing when talking to them. And, above all things, if you want to please them, try to talk to them in French, however badly, for they all take it as a great compliment. Another thing I discovered was the unwillingness of the French officers to take the initiative in saluting; yet they would never fail to return such a courtesy. Perhaps their earlier experiences in this little matter had been discouraging. It is much the same with the poilus and farmer folk. If you wish them 'Bonjour' they would invariably respond and also salute.
Later on I had a day or two in Amiens which provided some impressions of the French soldiers. The officers there contrasted rather forcibly with our own, I remember. They were very smartly dressed in home-parade uniforms, wore their medals, and carried themselves with an admirable pride and spirit. Our officers, on the other hand, dressed in the homely khaki, often the worse for wear, had generally an air of war-weariness. No doubt most of our men had come almost straight from the battle-field and were enjoying only a few hours' relaxation in this fine city. Still it made one reflect that the French are indeed a nation of soldiers which we are not. We obviously have not the same pride in the paraphernalia of war, and that shows which way the wind blows. I also saw a number of poilus going on leave and returning to the line. They looked very quiet and patient, but without a great deal of enthusiasm showing on the surface. Later on I saw French soldiers on the march several times. They get over the ground very fast; but it is more go as you please with them than with us. I have often noticed how grave these poilus look, even after the war was over. Nothing of the reckless fun and explosive good humour of the British soldier. If the latter is not having a rotten time he is wonderfully cheerful and often light-hearted.
I have also seen the French soldiers holding the line in a quiet part; and indeed we 'took over' from them there. They do not expose themselves nearly so much as we do near the trenches. Everything seemed to be done with scientific method and every one seemed to know exactly what to do on all occasions. They hold their front line thinly, trusting in case of accidents to recover it by a counter-attack. And if the French are not fighting a battle they generally keep their front as quiet as they can. This of course is all very different from our own system. If we had a quiet part of the line, it was generally because we had silenced the enemy's guns and trench-mortars by fighting.
I had one great chance of studying the French officer at home in these trenches. Shortly before taking over the French Regimental Commander in the line asked our Brigadier, Brigade-Major, and 'one other officer' to visit the trenches, but to be sure and call in at Regimental H.Q. before proceeding up the line. This was really an invitation of goodwill and ceremony rather than an invitation to examine the line. But as this was not quite understood at the time I was included in the party as Brigade Bombing Officer, rather than the Staff-Captain or Machine-Gun Officer, either of whom should have gone in my place. So on a terribly cold day at the end of January 1917 we set off, and after a long ride from Dernancourt to Fontaine-les-Cappy in a motor-car, we arrived near Regimental H.Q. and proceeded there on foot. The Brigadier was a fair French linguist, I had about two words of French, and the Brigade-Major had none. So it was just as well that the junior État-Major happened to be a fluent English speaker. Indeed, he had spent a good time in Newcastle and knew not only England but the north. We were welcomed by the French Brigadier with every mark of courtesy and goodwill. It is the custom for a French officer to salute his superior and then to shake hands with him. The salute is given even if you do not happen to be wearing a cap.
These worthy and hospitable warriors were in charge of a regiment (or as we should say a brigade) from the south of France about Bordeaux. I believe they had won for themselves a good reputation as fighting men. They knew, however, as well how to take care of themselves; and I fancy they had a first-class chef amongst their servants. It was a great affair, that meal, which had been prepared to do us honour, especially considering that it was served actually in the trenches. Quite a number of dishes succeeded one another, and were washed down with some excellent red wine. These were followed by several sweets and a glass of sweet champagne—the latter to drink to our good luck in the new trenches—glasses were solemnly clinked at this stage of the proceedings; afterwards cognac, coffee and cigars. The French officers expressed considerable interest in the Territorial 'T.'s' on my tunic, asking what they stood for. The French 'Territorial' is of course a different type to ours, being in the nature of the last reserve, elderly men not used as 'storm' or 'shock' troops. The meal passed pleasantly indeed; and at the end, a photograph must be taken as a souvenir of the meeting, and that was duly done in the winter sunlight outside. The French soldiers use small cameras in the trenches, a privilege denied to us. I have never before or since been in such elaborate trenches as these that we took over from the French. Vast communication trenches, six to ten feet deep, ran back for miles behind the front line. The same with the forward area, the number of deep trenches was simply extraordinary. Their idea may have been to make so many trenches that the enemy would not know which to shell. Unfortunately the trenches were not revetted, and when the frost broke we came to think less of them and travelled as much as possible across the open. The inside of the trenches was very clean—not a tin or a scrap of paper to be seen. The refuse was all dumped just over the parapet or in the shell-holes outside. The French are accustomed to an easy system of sanitation. During the day few French soldiers are seen outside their dugouts, except parties cleaning the trenches. In the front line only a few sentries were kept on duty, and they were relieved every two hours. The French speak with great confidence of their field artillery, the terrible 75's. A battery of these guns handled by French gunners can fire almost like a machine-gun, and the noise is deafening.