“Sale Gouvernement!”
Coustic, who wore the Military Medal and the Croix de Guerre, humored the old rogue, knowing well the heart of iron behind the froth. But, as a poilu, he would have been a traitor to his kind not to grumble. For the poilu has a fixed attitude: everything is wrong, from top to bottom: the government, the leaders; the commissariat, especially; the civilians, always. And, always, the poilu, despite injustice, favoritism, neglect and inefficiency, is there to save the day! Valentin wagged his head wisely and swore that every word was gospel. Bompard alone remained mute, buried in his bread and cheese.
“Well, old grunter, what do you say to all this?” I said, addressing him.
“Me?” Bompard’s face is the purple of the grape; he has a long sweeping moustache and his eyes disappear behind shaggy eyebrows.
“Yes, you. What’ll you do if you have to go back?”
“Bah! What’s the use of words,” he said contemptuously; “if we have to go back, we’ll go. If we’ve got to fight, we’ll fight. That’s all there is to it. We’ll do our duty—the same as the others—perhaps, the same, perhaps, a little better. Que diable! Nous avons du sang français dans nos artères, et le sang français ne ment pas!”
The revolt died. Canache’s eyes flashed. He was back at the front, spitting Boches and swearing horribly. Coustic and Valentin, ashamed to have been caught in a cheap insincerity, sat up under the reproof, the good red blood of France mounting to their cheeks. Bompard had found the phrase. At that moment, had the hated little town major stuck his head through the postern and cried, “Volunteers, to go immediately to the front!” we would have risen, as one man, and cried:
“Ready!”
* * * * *
So our leaders talk to us who understand us. A phrase—something to fire the imagination—something to exalt the heart—something to throw defiantly from the lips in the cauldron of battle—a phrase to the poilu is worth an army or ten thousand cannon!