Chapter VII: Part 7

The fact that it was a war to resist invasion made it a holy war, differing intrinsically from a war of aggression, which would never have gained his whole-hearted support. The Great War awakened the old vehemence of the race, which first revealed its astounding power at the battle of Valmy, where the shoeless hosts of the Revolution shook the proudest might of Prussia. That was the birth of the National Army, which, a century and a quarter later, was to come to such extraordinary development. The nation coalesced in 1792 against the foreign tyrant, but that union lacked the complete union of 1914, though it made up in intensity of spirit what it needed in numbers. The Revolution fought for liberty against a caste system; then, as now, the peasant recognised that he was defending his own ground--not the privileges of feudal Europe--and the knowledge made him strong. A man is always formidable in defending his own. In the same way, the French patriot realised that militarism had forced the German to make war upon his peaceful neighbour. In the hospitals I have seen the soldier share with the sick German prisoner dainties that had been brought to him. "Poor devil, he was forced to fight against us," he would say, showing his realisation of the intimate differences of the two. In _his_ case it was a privilege to fight; he was defending his own fields against the hordes; in the other, a blind obedience to the State compelled him to take arm. One was a virtual volunteer in a sacred cause, the other the victim of German Imperialism. It was well to know what one was fighting for, and when one had realised the grandeur of the cause, then heat and cold, mud and rats, and even occasional shortness of rations became of small account. The issue was paramount.

The French soldier was actuated by a deep love of country. In his mortal breast beat the immortal heart of France. When the bugle sounded, as M. Charles Humbert, the Senator Editor has told us, there was a magnificent hastening to the frontier. The fighting souls of the people reappeared, the old memory of struggles was reawakened. "We dreamed of heroic encounters, of brilliant actions, of sublime gestures, of flags conquered in the sun. The reality, alas, was quite otherwise! Rapidly the war became a sad and protracted affair." It became an invisible, scientific, subterranean war of tenacity and endurance, though sometimes blazing into manoeuvre battles as at Verdun.

Life, none the less, was not altogether disagreeable behind the lines. There were compensations during the rest moments. Concerts and theatrical representations in which all the stars of the army appeared, men who had been renowned artists "in the civil," made the audience forget the dangers and discomforts of their actual life. And in these _entr'actes_ in the villages, the subject of the war was taboo by a sort of coquetry; one talked of anything else, and occupied one's leisure in acquiring relics from the ruined houses in the devastated villages, or sought, in other ways, to import some variety into the monotony of danger. The concerts revealed the singular talent of the French for improvisation and gave occasion to a latent gaiety, which flickered and flamed into pure joyousness. From the mind in those moments was banished dull care, and badinage became the current coin. Whilst the younger and more vigorous played games, the studious and literary engaged in intellectual exercises. Impressive in their reality are some of the books that have been written at the Front. There is a suggestion of actual experience about them, of _chases vecues_, which one does not feel in second-hand impressions.

Poems, too, flowed from the trenches--not poems, in general, concerned with war, but love and the softer passions. Where war was treated, it was as a mistress, stern and hard to woo. The Great War inspired something of the lyricism that succeeded the Napoleonic era, when de Musset, Hugo, Lamartine, and a pleiades of poets existed. Talent certainly flourished in the trenches. An opera was a proof of it--words and music of such startling excellence that the critics, before whom the work was played, expressed a deep enthusiasm for it. It was reserved for production at the Paris Opera House until the music of the trenches should have given place to the music of peace. Like many a hero in the fight, the author will remain anonymous until the war has ceased to be anything but an ugly remembrance, and then we shall taste the quality of the composition.

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 _litterateur_, 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 Francois Joseph are discovered talking. "My dear Francois 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 _Echo des Marmites_, the _Echo du grand Couronne_, and the _Echo 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 Felix Potiniere_. Every one who has kept house in Paris knows that "Felix 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 _metier_ 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 a 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.

Another "poilu," a very curious sort of fellow, comes from the Champagne district, and yet another from Verdun, smoking hot with battle. One can imagine the editor inditing his poems and dishing up his article--one can almost see him doing it--with an aerial torpedo sailing overhead and all sorts of death-dealing engines threatening his plant down in the deep-sunk chamber where the joyous little herald blows his blast of good hope and perseverance to the soldiers of its circulation. These are real examples of the indomitable will of France in the most tremendous episode of her existence, hardly excepting the Revolution--for the War of '70 sinks into utter insignificance before this vast and world-wide upheaval. There is no mistaking the gay insouciant character, though sometimes the effort to cheer may go a little beyond the strict requirements. Nevertheless, these little papers are barometers of the fighting spirit of France. It is not strange to find this fighting spirit so keenly developed in the first-line trenches, for here it was tuned to the highest pitch by reason of the stress of circumstances, by reason of the close proximity of danger, by the very intoxication of that danger, and by the common spirit of heroism that comes from close comradeship; but it is significant that the same spirit existed at the rear where men were awaiting their turn for battle--the sort of waiting that is the severest test for nerves; and it is as symbols of this splendid and invincible spirit that these charming little documents have their greatest psychological importance.

In glancing through the collection of M. de la Ronciere, Keeper of the Printed Books at the Bibliotheque Nationale of Paris, one is particularly impressed by the spirit of fraternity that pervades the trench newspaper, evidence of the thoroughly democratic army of France. No journal prides itself as being the organ of a "crack" regiment. There are, in fact, no _corps d'elite_--corps that are specially recruited. In the Republican model army each regiment is placed on a footing of equality, and the tendency in all records of achievements is to keep a strict balance and to give no more glory to one unit than another. None the less, certain regiments have perforce distinguished themselves in spite of this arrangement. They have distinguished themselves because they have been in the forefront of the fighting, because they have borne the brunt of dangerous enterprises, because they have persisted in keeping alive the old traditions of the corps, traditions which arose from the fact that the men forming it came from a certain district renowned for its hardy types, and capable of an endless energy of resistance. Such a regiment is the "Chasseurs a Pied," the most famous corps of the Home Army, and popularly known as the "Chasseurs Alpins." For although the Chasseurs were used all along the eastern frontier from Belfort to Luneville, the popular mind constantly associates them with the mountains--the little thick-set men in dark blue tunics and blue Tam-o'-Shanters, skimming over the snow upon skis. These are men of the Alps and the Vosges, sturdy of limb and sound of wind, real mountaineers, courageous, resourceful and capable of endless fatigue. No unit of the French Army has suffered as much as they in proportion to their numbers. They have been everywhere where the fighting was most severe, and at Verdun they took a foremost part in resisting the colossal attack of the Germans. Although there was a Chasseur regiment under the Empire, dressed very much as were the Grenadiers, with a high fur bonnet, in their present form the corps is of comparatively recent date, and has existed only three-quarters of a century; the regimental records, however, hold some well-known names. President Poincare performed his military service in this famous corps, Bar-le-Duc being his recruiting centre, and among its officers were both Canrobert and MacMahon, the one commanding the fifth and the other the eighth battalion.

The Great War effected changes in the traditional uniform of the Chasseurs. Though they kept their dark clothes out of pride of family whilst the rest of the army--except the Moroccans, who were in khaki--adopted the horizon blue, the famous blue _beret_ (Tam-o'-Shanter) embroidered with a golden bugle was sacrificed for the steel helmet, at least for service in the trenches--that valuable head-gear which has saved probably fifty per cent. of head wounds.

One of the most picturesque elements of the French army are the Zouaves, with their blue embroidered tunic and vest and the baggy red trousers reaching to the knee, the whole surmounted by the fez. Of this gorgeous uniform the only survival of the war, alas, was the fez. The blue tunic was changed to a khaki coat, the voluminous trousers copied from the old Turkish garb became merely baggy khaki breeches. _Sic transit gloria mundi_! But if the Zouaves were deprived of their brilliant plumage, they made up for it in glory of achievement. Largely employed in storming-parties, the Germans learnt to fear the Zouaves more than any other troops, so reckless were they in their bravery and their utter disregard of desperate odds. The corps dates from the early days of Algeria, and was created in 1831, when two battalions were formed, receiving the name of "Zouaves" from the Arab _Zouaoua_, a fierce and intractable tribe of Kabyle, the best fighters of Northern Africa. The Zouaves were recruited originally from the Kabyles and Arabs of Algeria and also, a curious feature, from the hot bloods of the Paris population--an element that was introduced, because it was thought advisable to dilute the number of natives by Europeans. The blend was admirable, and the new troops performed marvels of dash and daring in those days, just after the July Revolution of 1830, when France was not sure whether she wanted her new colonies or not, and left to the Algerian administration the onus of consolidating the nominal conquest and pacifying and developing the country. One of the early commanders of the corps was de Lamorciere, a bold and dashing officer, with more than a touch of eccentricity in his composition. He spoke all the Arabian dialects perfectly, and indeed was an ideal leader for such a corps of dare-devils.

The Zouaves hold many distinguished records in French history. Under Marshal MacMahon they fought at Malakoff and Sebastopol, and the Third Zouaves went into action under the eyes of Victor Emmanuel, taking a prominent part in the capture of the bridge at Palestro, marking the victory of the French and Piedmontese over the Austrians.

The formation of the Zouaves led to the establishment of other native or semi-native corps, notably the Tirailleurs Algeriens. Since that day the conquest of Morocco has added other elements to the native army; and, particularly in the early days of the war, the French populations in the region of the Front were interested to see the picturesque figures of the Spahis, or native Moroccan cavalry, in their robes and turbans, sitting superbly their swift and strong little horses.

Later, however, the native element (which could not overcome its fear and repugnance to cannon) was largely eliminated, and the Zouaves, greatly increased from their original numbers, were mainly composed of colonials of French parentage.

But perhaps the most interesting regiment from the psychological point of view--the regiment that teems with romance and holds thousands of secrets in its ranks--is the famous Foreign Legion. Under Napoleon I the Foreign Legion existed side by side with distinctly national regiments, such as the Portuguese, the Dutch, and even the German regiments. But under Louis Philippe the two regiments that were the original force became definitely formed into a Foreign Legion. The sphere of the Foreign Legion was mainly Africa, for owing to its mixed nationality, resulting in a large diversity of sympathy, it was deemed unsuitable for European warfare. True, it was actively employed in the Crimea, and also earlier against the Carlists in Spain; but during the Crimean War there was a certain amount of desertion by elements of the corps that had Slav sympathies. Hence the Foreign Legion was mainly employed in tribal warfare, and Africa was its recognised home. Strangely diverse were its ranks--the Paris hooligan, the swindling banker, unfrocked bishops, aristocrats who had dragged their names into the dust, the discredited politician. Of the Legionaries no questions are asked, and the pseudonyms they adopt often cover the once famous names of men who have "disappeared." Rumour credits the corps with many strange tales, but it is undoubtedly true that an authentic German princeling fought with the Legion until the opening of the war, when he crossed over to Germany and used his local knowledge to great effect against his quondam friends.

At the beginning of the war the ranks of the Foreign Legion were swelled to a vast extent by the stream of volunteers of all nationalities who loved France and rushed to her succour. There were Italians, Belgians, Greeks, English, Americans, who were anxious to take up arms for the invaded country. Poles, Russians, Croates, Slovanes, Serbs, Finns, Montenegrins, and Tcheques joined. Some came to France from the uttermost ends of the earth to offer their services: Peruvians, Swiss, Argentines, Norwegians. There were German Poles and Danes from Sleswig-Holstein, Spaniards, Galicians, and Italians from the Trentino, and ten thousand Alsatians, German subjects, who had escaped. There were thus available 35,000 men, a veritable army corps. This was the figure, in spite of the rejection of a great number by the recruiting board at the Invalides. They all left for their depots four days later. These volunteers were of all ages and of all nationalities--boys of eighteen, and mature men of fifty and even more; Polish miners from the north of France; Kabyle workmen from factories in the Seine et Oise; Russian artists, international boxers (including a negro champion), famous trick cyclists, and jockeys, who had often worn winning colours at Longchamp and Auteuil. Alec Carter the well-known jockey was killed. There were also young artists from various nations at the Ecole des Beaux Arts. Prominent writers and artists, a son of Maxime Gorki, and several quite well-known poets from Central America; the son of the Russian ambassador, M. Iswolsky, and a famous pelota player, Pablo Irraguerro.

The regiment has fought splendidly at the Front, partaking all the sufferings of the soldiers, all their danger and their glory too. The force has been employed in all the grand _coups de chien_. There was the spirited address of a Captain who read out the order of the General, and then said, "Mes Enfants, we have the honour of attacking the first. Pay no heed to those who fall. If I go down, leave me; push on without thinking of anything else." Some sang the _Marseillaise_ and others their national hymns. Their conduct on that great day was sublime. They rushed fearlessly forward under the storm of shell, bayonets glittering in the sunshine of an early May morning. Nothing stops the formidable advance. They swarm over the parapet; the course commences. Their orders were to carry Hill 140, and they fulfilled their instructions. The Polish Legion was extraordinarily brave, and it saw fall at its head, brandishing the colours, Ladislas de Szuynski, son of the celebrated Polish historian. Concerning the Polish Legion there is the pretty story of a Pole who, wishing to discover whether there were Poles among the enemy, crawled on his stomach in the night to the German trenches. Once arrived there, he sang, very quietly, an old Polish song. Surprised, the German Poles lifted their heads, observed the bold singer, and allowed themselves to forget the horrors of war. When he had finished the listeners began to talk about Poland, that the Prussian kept underfoot. A Pole surely should not fight against France, who fights for Poland, insinuated the emissary. There was another song, and then, under the enchantment of the old memories, the Poles allowed themselves to be persuaded and carried over to the French trenches.

One of the principal elements of the new Foreign Legion were the Garibaldians, who showed immense fervour. They formed a part of the 10th Division under General Gouraud in the Argonne, and with them were the six grandsons of Garibaldi. Their tactics were extraordinarily impetuous, and in a three-days' fight they lost 800 men. The special corps into which they were formed was disbanded on Italy's declaration against Austria, but their valour had been such that Joffre expressed his sense of honour in commanding them.

Wherever it has fought, whether to-day or yesterday, the Foreign Legion has always left a record of valour, daring and devilry. An amusing story is recalled from Crimean days, when Canrobert stopped in front of a Legionary and asked him what sort of shoes he was wearing? Strange shoes indeed! for he had blackened his feet, having sold his boots for _eau de vie_. But episodes such as this are ever typical of a corps that sells its shoes for a little brandy, and its life for a spice of glory.

The colonial troops of the French Army were called, until a few years ago, Marine Infantry, and were attached directly to the Navy. Nowadays the system adopted is that of some regiments in the British Army; that is to say, one battalion remains at home whilst the other battalions serve in the colonies. They wear a dark blue uniform with yellow epaulettes. During the course of the war their composition became very mixed, and negroes and tribesmen from the Soudan were embodied with them. In this case also the colonial troops are perhaps less adapted to European warfare than they are to their own special field of action in the colonies against insurrectionary tribes.

A very fine corps, which covered itself with glory at Dixmude, is the Marine Fusiliers. The force retreated to Dixmude when their original mission, which was to defend Antwerp, failed, owing to the collapse of the Belgian defence. Here they held their ground with the greatest heroism for over a month, though the original plan was that they should be relieved in a few hours, and at this spot a peculiarly tragic incident took place. A second in command, a naval captain, Janiaud, went up to take the surrender of two German companies of infantry, which were surrounded by the Marines. The Germans seized the captain and kept him prisoner. The Fusiliers then opened fire, which was briskly returned by the Germans, but during the short engagement which ended in the capitulation of the enemy force, the captain was shot dead by two German officers with their revolvers. After this act of treachery, which took place in November 1914, the Marine Fusiliers swore to take no further prisoners, a resolution to which they have rigorously held in their various engagements ever since.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*THE AIRMAN IN WAR*

"Ah, monsieur, you fly like a bird!" said an admirer one day to Pegoud.

"A bird!" was the famous reply, "Les oiseaux ne savent pas voler!" ("The birds don't know how to fly!") And indeed the bird-man, soaring at immense height and incredible speed, has left the little denizen of the air far behind. The wings of the machine are rigid, it is true, but also they are tireless; and the skill of the inventor and science of the mathematician have excelled the pulsing wings of flesh and feather. A few years back--ten years ago to be exact--the birds must have tittered as they watched at Bagatelle the fearsome efforts of the ugly ducklings of the early days of aviation. On November 13, 1906, a famous date in the history of flying, Santos Dumont flew 220 metres in twenty-one seconds, that is, at the rate of nearly thirty-eight kilometers an hour. He had won the prize of the Aero Club for a hundred meters in a straight line. The experiments began at ten in the morning, but the test was not accomplished until late in the afternoon. Two enormous birds spreading their white wings of canvas--the one belonging to Santos Dumont and the other to Bleriot--lay upon the green carpet of the ground. A crowd of enthusiasts, amongst whom were some of the great names in aeronautics, such as M. Archdeacon, the Marquis de Dion, Surcouf, Louis Renault and M. Besancon, were upon the ground surrounding the two pioneers and eagerly discussing the theories of lighter than air and heavier than air--that is, the bag filled with hydrogen that floated in air, or the aeroplane which flew by its own means of engine and wings. The machine of Santos Dumont was a weird-looking thing. Some compared it with an ibis or heron as it rose into the air with its long neck outstretched and its wings spread--a strange thing like an antediluvian bird. Its planes were formed of canvas frames divided into cubes, so that at one angle it looked like a flying cupboard. The square box-like head in front was the steering apparatus. The tail of the beast was represented by the screw continually lashing its way through the air. The pioneer sat in a little cage arrangement between the planes, so that his head and body emerged and he had the appearance of riding astride. The first starts were a little unpromising. The machine rose a few inches, and then a few yards, and came to earth abruptly in each case. In three separate attempts it flew one hundred and fifty yards in all, achieving, in the third attempt, eighty yards in seven seconds. But it was not until the light was failing that the machine really rose to any height. It then flew at six metres from the ground at a tremendous rate. The airman, however, was forced to descend for fear of an accident to the crowd, which was following his movements with impassioned interest. He had won the prize of the Aero Club for sustained flight, an advance, at any rate, upon the series of leaps in the air which had passed for flight before that. It was said that the Wright brothers had flown twenty-five miles; but that was in America, and, besides, the Parisians were not very sure about it; but here in France it was the first time that mortal man had flown over the heads of humanity by mechanical means. The Bleriot-Voisin machine, though very ingenious in its construction, did not succeed that day; Santos Dumont, the little plucky Brazilian, was the real conqueror: future laurels were being reserved for M. Bleriot. The French, indeed, have pioneered in the air. The brothers Montgolfier were the first to make ascents in their balloon; and the balloon originally appeared as a military engine for observation above the battle-field of Fleurus, where the Revolutionary General Jourdan vanquished the Austrians in 1794. The dirigible is also largely the product of French invention.

One of the amazing features of the war was the rapid development of aviation after the outbreak of hostilities. In a few months only the aeroplane emerged from its experimental stage and appeared as a highly finished and accurate instrument of war. An immense stride was attained when the machine was first adapted by the French to carry cannon, which enabled the attack upon another aeroplane to be made in the horizontal plane instead of vertically, as was necessary when one machine had to mount above another in order to drop bombs or _flechettes_--one of those refinements of cruelty which the present war has produced. Incidentally, there are some who say that the German _flechettes_, launched from the skies, were of such inferior steel that they buckled up when they touched a hard object. However that may be (and we have no reason to complain of such an arrangement), weight, whether in the form of cannon or other armaments, was constantly added to the aeroplane, and the problem then arose as to the maintenance of speed. In the aerial machine, speed is the first requisite, especially nowadays when it is necessary to mount and mount, perhaps, to six thousand yards to overfly the enemy craft, be he Zeppelin or fellow airman. And a few minutes make all the difference--the difference of kilometers--in the pursuit; thus speed must always be combined with those offensive properties that are being gradually added to the battle-plane.

And a third difficulty was that of starting the machine quickly in pursuit of an enemy travelling at the great heights that are now customary--and indeed obligatory--with the development of anti-aircraft artillery. Naturally the machine even of the speedier sort loses time as it mounts spirally or in a series of inclined planes to give battles to the Zeppelin or Fokker. Would it be possible to turn the observation balloon into a sort of perch for the airman, so that he would be suspended always midway between earth and sky ready instantly (if one may suppose him able to detach himself) to fly away in pursuit of the stranger? Yet in the present stage of development such a desideratum is difficult of realisation. The airman must start from the ground or return to it every time he wants to overhaul his engine or replenish his reservoirs. That is his touch with solid realities: otherwise one might suppose him flying for days, never setting foot to earth, the modern Guardian Angel, hovering eternally in the heavens.

The aeroplane has completely revolutionised warfare, inasmuch as it has deprived strategy of its chief weapon--surprise. As the eyes of the army the aeroplane played its most important role. A light and very speedy machine is the scout, and it is his duty to make reconnaissances, report upon gun emplacements, the numbers of the opposing troops, the movements of the enemy, and the disposition of his trenches. But the aeroplanes used in warfare are not all alike. The tendency is towards differentiation, and while the scout is swift and light, the battle-plane is extremely powerful and heavily armed with cannon or machine-guns, sometimes also carrying a spur for ramming enemy craft; and again there is a third type of machine armed also for defence, but adapted principally to range-finding, and fitted with signalling and photographic apparatus; it hovers continually over the enemy lines directing artillery fire. None of the offices of the aeroplane proved more valuable than that of giving the range of enemy positions to one's own artillery, and then registering the shots, marking where they fell too short, or overpassed the mark. This is one of the most dangerous as well as the most useful of the services rendered by the man-bird. It requires great nerve, judgment, and coolness on the part of the aviator, for he must hang over the enemy trenches and expose himself to the fire of their anti-aircraft guns, the efficacity of which made rapid strides as the war progressed. The German method of signalling to the opposing batteries by means of smoke bombs with different-coloured fuses was soon improved upon by the French, who used wireless telegraphy and the heliograph by day. But the role of the aeroplane is not confined even to these important services. It becomes at times the instrument of aerial bombardment for the destruction of fortified places, military stores, railway junctions, dirigible sheds, encampments, bridges, and roads used by the military. When war broke out, the French airmen received explicit instructions not to bombard any town for fear of inflicting harm upon civilians, but the Germans were not so scrupulous, and their defiance of the dictates of humanity forced a change in the policy of their Allies, if only in self-defence.

The aeroplane could be used also as a link for communicating with armies and their staffs, particularly in the case of a besieged army or town. And, finally, the man-bird is admirable in the capacity of aerial policeman; he can watch the clouds and he can prevent the passage of the enemy pilots. Not that it is possible to suppose that one force of aeroplanes, however numerous, can completely occupy the heavens, for the skies are broad; but bold aviators ever on the watch, patrolling the sky in constant relays (as was the case in the aerial defence of Paris against the Zeppelins), will generally succeed, whatever measures are taken against them, in overtopping the adversary; and the French aviator is remarkably good in that sort of warfare where native audacity and resource are in demand--that is why the Frenchman is so superb a performer in the air. None the less it is impossible quite to bar out the enemy. The clouds may always hide a foe; the fog is ever the possible lurking ground of the hostile airship. But although the barrage system (so successfully applied on solid earth in the _tir de barrage_) cannot absolutely prevent a Zeppelin attack upon a wide-spreading town, yet the aerial dam has given good results in the war of the air. The procedure is to institute a barrage of aeroplanes over against a certain locality--a certain restricted space. The enemy is marked down and prevented from passing. Undesirable visitors are invited to "move on," and they do not wait for a repetition of the request! I have heard of one hardy airman who, charged to watch the heavens against the passage of the adversary, so manoeuvred that the thick heavy clouds which hung in the sky were positively useful to him as a screen. Noting that at one point there was a clear space in the dense curtain of fog, he placed himself there and watched as a look-out might in the embrasure of a fort. None came to challenge his vigilance.

Again the barrage tactics are extremely useful in the prevention of secrets being divulged to the enemy. Certain important movements, such as the moving up of reinforcements, are taking place in a certain part of the line, and to keep the enemy from knowledge of the fact _squadrillas_ of battle-planes are sent up to bar the way to the enemy scouts, and nothing can penetrate the screen of the _avions_. Thus it has so happened that, thanks to the barrage system, the enemy has been without definite news of the Allies' movements during twenty-four hours. But let it be remembered that the aerial dam implies the mastery of the air, as important to the Allies as the mastery of the seas: indeed, one could establish a very close analogy between the two. The mastery of the air--the complete mastery--would have meant the finish of the war, the absolute victory for that side which possessed it. And the aerial fleet must consist of aeroplanes, not Zeppelins. For after all the Zeppelins failed miserably either in their bombardment of England or their assault upon French towns. True they have taken toll of a certain number of innocent lives in England, but an infinitesimal number in comparison with the holocaust caused by a terrestrial bombardment. Cumbersome, unwieldy, unable to operate except in a fog, the Zeppelin was comparatively ineffectual as an engine of war, and would not have been employed by the Germans except to prevent the public exposure of a mistaken policy. Six aeroplanes could effect more damage than one Zeppelin, whose radius of action is circumscribed by the fact that it has to carry vast weight for a long journey, that it is expensive to build, and consumes immense quantities of fuel _en route_; that it is almost as dangerous to itself as to the enemy on account of its vulnerability from cannon and from high winds, and moreover it is constantly exposed to attack from the upper strata of air by the aeroplane which swoops down upon it with the speed of the eagle, and against which the Zeppelin has no defence. No, it is the aeroplane that has come to stay, and a very prominent airman--a man who bears a household name in aeronautics--declared to me that the side which could furnish ten thousand aeroplanes with the airmen to mount them would win the war. For if aerial bombardment had, up to that moment, taken very little place in the hostilities it was because it was on so small a scale. Very little effect was to be obtained by sending half a dozen apparati over a town--it is true that in some of the French raids over German towns there were as many as thirty machines employed, but this was the great exception. It is easy to conjure up the effect of a gigantic bombardment--a shower of metal from the sky--rained everywhere upon the enemy troops on the march, upon the enemy convoys in the rear, upon his stores and magazines, upon his bridges and railways. Such a bombardment, if it could be continued systematically for long enough, would mean his forced surrender, for retreat would not save him. His aerial foes would be always quicker than he, even his quickest motor transport, and would bombard him from the skies. So that the mastery of the sky would ensure the victory for any army.

The development of the aeroplane is full of the most startling possibilities. Already it has far outflown the vision of its inventors, for, a very short time ago it seems, one of the Voisin _freres_ declared to me that the aeroplane would never be other than a rich man's hobby, of little use in war-time other than the dropping of a few explosives. My informant has since trodden the path of so many brave pilots, but had he lived he would have admitted to-day that the possibilities of the aeroplane seem limitless. The appearance of the Sikorski machine in Russia carrying five or six men in its cabin encourages the belief that the aerobus will soon be a practical reality, and the imagination is fired by the prospect of the air humming with giant aeroplanes, which, by the way, the Germans also attempted to use during the war. There is more than a possibility--so many surprising things have happened--that, in the future, commanders will have aerial motor lorries at their disposal for the rapid transport of their troops. Thus strategy and the physiognomy of the fight would be completely changed. It would effect a complete metamorphosis. The commander who possessed this aerial fleet would be able to carry the whole of his army with the speed and ease of the magic carpet of the _Arabian Nights_ to some distant point and descend even into the enemy country. Nevertheless, as M. Blanchon in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ suggests, the General who resorted to these aerial methods could not carry out normal military operations for the reason that his _materiel_ must go by road. But when the science of air-transport is sufficiently advanced to allow armies to pass in the sky, presumedly that army will know how to take care of its lines of communication.

These are dreams of the future, however, and their realisation is problematical. But the vision which is in no wise uncertain--the vision which will be realised in the near future, is that of vast armies of wings gathered in the sky. Nations will no longer possess fleets of hundreds of aeroplanes, but tens of thousands will lie in readiness to skim into enemy country and scatter terror and death over vast areas. The nations that plunge into war will no longer pledge only their fighting men; they will enter into battle knowing that their women and children must also endure the worst agony of horror, for modern science has destroyed civilised warfare, and modern man has joined hands with primitive man and wars upon the innocent and helpless.

But it must be conceded that superiority in the machines should be accompanied by superiority in pilots. In a conversation which I had at the time of writing this chapter with M. Louis Bleriot (who knows as much as any man living of the practical side of aviation and even its scientific side), the famous winner of the cross-Channel prize confessed that France had not sufficiently developed her rich treasure in expert and adventurous men--the very pick of the pilots of the world--though the English, too, were extraordinary for their _sang-froid_ and were remarkable airmen. For in the air as on the land, in the last resort, it is the personal element which tells. A school, urged Bleriot, was necessary to form such super-pilots as Garros and Pegoud, men renowned for ever for their prowess in the air.

For the conquest of the air is to the swift and strong and fearless. Prudence and sagacity, and the slow measured wisdom that comes with the years, play no part in so breathless a pursuit. It is a game for young gods, not for the pale _savant_; a sport for young eagles, for a man must be sharp of eye, strong of claw and sinews to cleave his way through the clouds, right into the face of day. These super-men who ride fearlessly amongst the stars must be the very pick of humanity, revelling in the sensations of supreme danger, glorying in the knowledge that in a few seconds an assailant may emerge from yonder cloud with whom he must come into death grapples, and well aware that the vanquished will crash down thousands of feet to earth. Youth: youth has been poured out with a lavish hand on the smoking, bloody altar of the war. Youth: there is no incense more precious to the gods. Alas! a monstrous sort of selection is exercised. The young are mowed down by Death with the scythe, leaving the least adventurous, the timid and calculating--those who are sure eventually to die of a cold in the head--to live on.

Very curious is the psychology of the airman. He is billeted so often in the midst of the world in some pleasant little town away behind the lines--it may be even Paris; sometimes also Fate sends him to a chateau where he lives like a prince amid ancestral halls and a sweeping park--until the day when duty calls him to mount the perilous stairway of the skies to give mortal combat to the enemy. In the trenches men welcome an attack as a relief from the deadly monotony of life in pits, but the airman leaves an easeful, agreeable, social life for the cold, austere atmosphere of the skies under the pure radiant dome of heaven. It requires a man of special temperament to withstand so lively a contrast--not to be softened or unnerved by it. Think of the solitude of the upper air, careering absolutely alone, perhaps. And there is no turning back. There is no such word as "funk" in the bright lexicon of the airman. He is up there because he is fearless, because he does not dread being solus in the wide heavens, because he is a man and no craven, because he has nerves of steel and whipcord. And he must be ready to fight with any weapons. Garros was equally expert in attacking and bringing down his man with machine-gun, carbine, rifle, or even revolver, and in ten days before he was captured he had "grassed" three German aeroplanes. One of the men who fell into his hands having asked him to announce his capture to the German lines, Garros started off in that spirit of chivalry common amongst airmen. There is this delightful about the new arm, it has given a touch of romance to the drab horror of the war. Whenever a man was captured or killed, airmen from the opposite camp dropped a letter informing the comrades of the victim, often with an added word of praise. "Even the Germans are gentlemen in the air," remarked a young pilot the other day. There is chivalry in the air. The man with his head near the stars, flying in immeasurable space, has no room for littlenesses. His heart is large and splendid like the splendour of his deeds--deeds that make the exploits of the old heroes pale into insignificance. They are the phenomenal fruit of a limitless audacity, of a glorious and spring-like youth, of the heyday of existence, when danger is the mad intoxicant, the heady draught that puts brightness into the eye, that gives a riotous pleasure to life, that is like song and wine to the hero clad in the shining and invincible armour of his own superlative freshness and illusions.

The bodies that crash down from the heavens and the souls that soar into the white radiance of Eternity have known no petty thought, have perpetrated no mean deed. Yes, there is chivalry in the Air.

*CHAPTER XX*

*THE POILU'S HOSPITAL*

There is this wonderful and alluring in France, that, recognising the faults in an administration or department of the public service, she sets to work immediately to effect reform. And it was clear enough that the _service de sante_, or hospital service, was grievously defective at the outbreak of the war. It was a question that had never been properly worked out. Those who had thought about the subject at all, never supposed that the demands upon the department would be so terrific. Probably they thought, as did most Frenchmen, that the war would be of quick duration and that--well--the inconveniences of the system would be but temporary, and one would do the best one could in so short a time. But the actual facts were to give the lie to this prevision as to many others. The war lasted long, the demands upon the hospital were not only terrific but protracted. But with the spirit of adaptability, of which the French have given so many proofs during the war, they set to work with the resolution to do the best possible. Little by little the gross defects of the earlier days were remedied; the number of doctors, which at the beginning had been hopelessly inadequate, was augmented, and immense improvements were made in the organisation of the hospital trains. Thereupon the evacuation of the wounded developed on scientifically humane lines, in spite of the difficulties of an unexpected kind, mainly brought about by the colossal character of the war. Thus the wounded rapidly received attention in the ambulances and were quickly sent away in trains and motor-cars, and reached the most distant parts of France not later than the morrow of the combat. I was at Biarritz when the Champagne offensive was taking place, and saw arrive at the station wounded men, still powdered with the dust of the trenches, who had been in the fight twenty-four hours before.

The hospitals, however, even the most modern in their equipment, did not equal the English, still less the American, but the reason was not far to seek: a lack of money. A great many "sanitary formations" (as they are called in France) suffered also from a want of motors; in fact the French, by the very nature of the circumstances, had not the immense resources that the English possess. English newspapers raised immense sums for the care of the sick. But if the French had not the money to devote to the niceties of hospital installation they did the best they could with the time and means at their disposal. And although, perhaps, the hospitals were not as clean as would satisfy English tastes, they served their purpose, which was to restore as many men as possible to the firing-line and alleviate suffering.

Eternally to their credit is the manner in which the French resolutely set their house in order after the failure of the system was revealed on the field of battle. It must be remembered that the long duration of battles nowadays prevents the wounded from being removed at once, and often they have to remain the whole of the day where they have fallen until the night comes and they can be transported. Naturally it is of high importance in the saving of life that the wounded should be got away as quickly as possible to avoid the setting in of gangrene.