X Brothers in Arms
There is a fine fraternity between the British and the French soldiers. They don’t understand very much of each other’s speech, but they “muddle through,” as Atkins puts it, with “any old lingo.” The French call out, “Bravo, Tommee!” and share cigarettes with him: and Atkins, not very sure of his new comrades’ military Christian name, replies with a cheery “Right, Oh!” Then turning to his own fellows he shouts, “Are we downhearted?” and the clamorous “No!” always brings forth a rousing French cheer.
Having seen each other in action since they first met on the way to battle they have grown to respect each other more and more. There is not much interchange of compliments in the letters from the trenches, but such as there is clearly establishes the belief of Atkins that he is fighting side by side with a brave and generous ally.
“We always knew,” writes one soldier, “that the French were swift and dangerous in attack, but we know now that they can fight on the stubbornly defensive.” One of the South Lancashires is loud in his praise of their behavior under fire. “Especially the artillery,” Sergeant J. Baker adds; “the French seem to like the noise, and aren’t happy unless it’s there.”
One of The Times correspondents mentions that the German guns have a heavy sound “boum,” and the French a sharper one, “bing”; but neither of them is very pleasant to the ear, and it requires a cultured military taste like that of the French to enjoy the full harmony of the music when the British “bang” is added to the general cannonading. The French artillery is admitted to be fine, the deadly accuracy of the gunners being highly praised by all who have watched the havoc wrought in the German lines.
For the French soldier, however, the path of greatest glory lies in the charge. Dash and fire are what he possesses in the highest degree. His highly-strung temperament chafes under delays and disappointments. He hasn’t the solid, bull-dog courage that enables the British soldier to take hard knocks, even severe punishment, and come up smiling again to renew the battle that he will only allow to end in one way, and that way victory.
In the advance, as one writer describes it, the French dash forward in spasmodic movements, making immediately for cover. After a brief breathing space they bound into the open again, and again seek any available shelter. And so they proceed till the charge is sounded, when with gleaming bayonets and a cry of “pour la gloire” upon their lips they sweep down upon the enemy at a tremendous pace. The whole thing is exhilarating to watch, and to the men engaged it is almost intoxicating. They see red and the only thing that can stop them is the sheer dead weight of the columns in front. To the French the exploit of the 9th Lancers, already described in this volume, is the greatest thing in the war. They would have died to have accomplished it themselves. The fine heroics of such an exploit gives them a crazy delight. Then there are the forlorn hopes, the bearing of messages across a zone of withering fire, the fights for the colors. One incident which closely resembles the exploit of the Royal Irish Fusiliers is recorded. A message had to be borne to another regiment and volunteers sprang forward eagerly to the call. The enemy’s fire was particularly deadly at this point, and it seemed impossible for a messenger to get through, but no man hesitated. The first fell dead before he had traveled many yards, the second had a leg shot off, the third by amazing luck got through without a scratch. Deeds of this kind have endeared the French soldier to Tommy Atkins more than all his extravagant acts of kindness, and the sympathetic bond of valor has linked them together in the close companionship of brothers-in-arms.
Having shown what the British soldier thinks of the French as fighting men, it is pleasant to turn to our Ally’s opinion of Tommy Atkins. Here the letters deal in superlatives. M. Duchene, French master at Archbishop Holgate’s School, York, who was wounded with his regiment at Verdun, writes in glowing terms of his comrades’ praise. “Ah, those English soldiers!” he says. “In my regiment you only hear such expressions as ‘Ils sont magnifiques,’ ‘Ils sont superbs,’ ‘Quels soldats!’ No better tribute could be given.” Another Frenchman with the army of the Republic is stirred into this eulogy in a letter to a friend in England: “How fine they are, how splendidly they behave, these English soldiers! In their discipline and their respect for their officers they are magnificent, and you will never know how much we have applauded them.”
Another Frenchman, acting as interpreter with a Scottish regiment, relates with amazement how the Highlanders go into action, “as if they were going to a picnic, with laughing eyes and, whenever possible, with a cigarette between their lips. Their courage is a mixture of imperturbability and tenacity. One must have seen their immovable calm, their heroic sang-froid, under the rain of bullets to do it justice.” Then he goes on to describe how a handful of Scots were selected to hold back a large body of Germans in a village to enable the main body of the British to retire in good order. They took up a position in the first house they came to and fired away at the invaders, who rained bullets on the building. Some of the gallant little party fell, but the others kept up the fight. Then there came a pause in the attack, the German fire ceased, the enemy was seeking a more sheltered position. During this brief respite the sergeant in command of the Scots surveyed the building they had entered. It was a small grocer’s shop, and on an upper shelf he found a few packets of chocolate. “Here, lads,” he shouted, “whoever kills his man gets a bit o’ this.” The firing began again, and as each marksman succeeded, the imperturbable Scot shouted “Got him,” and handed over the prize amid roars of laughter. “Alas,” comments the narrator, “there were few prize-winners who lived to taste their reward.”
The same eulogist, whose narrative was obtained by Reuter’s correspondent, also speaks of the fastidious Scot’s preoccupations. He has two—to be able to shave and to have tea. “No danger,” the Frenchman declares, “deters them from their allegiance to the razor and the teapot. At ——, in the department of the Nord, I heard a British officer of high rank declare with delicious calm between two attacks on the town: ‘Gentlemen, it was nothing. Let’s go and have tea.’ Meanwhile his men took advantage of the brief respite to crowd round the pump, where, producing soap and strop, they proceeded to shave minutely and conscientiously with little bits of broken glass serving as mirrors.”
The same sense of order and method also struck another Frenchman, who speaks of the “amazing Englishmen,” who carry everything with them, and are never in want of anything, not even of sleep!
Certainly there is much truth in these tributes to the British military organization, but that is another story and for another chapter. The opinion of an English cavalry officer, however, may be quoted as to the relative merits of the French and English horses. “The French horses,” he writes, “are awful. They look after them so badly. They all say, ‘What lovely horses you have,’ to us, and they do look fine beside theirs, but we look after ours so well. We always dismount and feed them on all occasions with hay and wheat found on the farms and in stacks in the fields, also clover. The French never do.”
As a result of these observations the French appear to have been applying themselves to the study of the British fighting force. “I know for a fact,” says Trooper G. Douglas, “that French officers have been moving amongst us studying our methods. The French Tommies try to copy us a lot, and they like, when they have time, to stroll into our lines for a chat or a game; but it’s precious little time there is for that now.”
But it is in character and temperament that the chief differences of the allies lie. “Brigadier” Mary Murray, who went to the front with other members of the Salvation Army, records a conversation she had with a French soldier over a cup of coffee. “Ah,” he said, “we lose heavily, we French. We haven’t the patience of the English. They are fine and can wait: we must rush!” And yet Tommy Atkins can do a bit of rushing too. Private R. Duffy, of the Rifle Brigade, sends home a lively account of the defense of the Marne in which a mixed force of British and French was engaged. The object to be achieved was to drive back the Germans who were attempting to cross the river. “About half a mile from the banks,” writes Duffy, “we came out from a wood to find a French infantry battalion going across in the same direction. We didn’t want to be behind, so we put our best foot forward, and one of the most exciting races you ever saw followed. We got in first by a head, as you might say, and we were just in time to tackle a mob of Germans heading for the crossing in disorder. We went at them with the bayonet, but they didn’t seem to have the least heart for fighting. Some of them flung themselves in the stream and tried to swim to safety, but they were heavily accoutered and worn out so they didn’t go very far. Of about three hundred men who tried this not more than half a dozen succeeded in reaching the other bank.”
In spite of all the hatreds the war has engendered—and one of the Royal Lancasters declares that the sign manual of friendship between the French and the English soldier is “a cross on the throat indicating their wish to the Kaiser”—there is still room for passages of fine sympathy and chivalry. One young French lieutenant distinguished himself by carrying a wounded Uhlan to a place of safety under a heavy German fire, English soldiers have shown equal generosity and kindness to injured captives, and the tributes to heroic and patient nurses shine forth in letters of gold upon the dark pages of this tragic history. Here is a touching letter from one of the King’s Own Royal Lancasters. “In one hospital, which was a church,” he writes, “there was a young French girl helping to bandage us up. How she stood it I don’t know. There were some awful sights, but she never quailed—just a sad sweet smile for every one. If ever any one deserved a front seat in Heaven this young angel did. God bless her! She has the prayers and all the love the remnants of the Fourth Division can give her.”
And another pretty little tribute is paid to the kindness of a French lady to four English soldiers billeted at her house. “She was wondrous kind,” writes one of the grateful soldiers, “and when we left for the front Madame and her mother sobbed and wept as if we had been their own sons.”