Fore-armed

It is as true now as it was in Napoleon’s heyday of triumph that the poilu carries a potential marshal’s baton in his haversack. This is the keystone of the French defense scheme. And by a curious paradox—for the project first emerged from the brain of a hyperautocrat—it has molded the soldiers of France into a completely democratic army. By way of parenthesis, my opinion is that our home-grown fighting force might be more representative if encouragement were freely given the American private soldier to aspire after a general’s stars.

To return to the French, their method, briefly sketched, is as follows: Service in the national—or, as it is called, metropolitan—army is compulsory for every French citizen, except such as show they are hopelessly unfit physically. No other exemptions are considered. From the age of twenty to forty-eight all Frenchmen are part of the army. The last law—1913—on the subject decreed service with the active force in the ranks, continued for three years—from the twentieth to the completed twenty-third year. For eleven more years the Frenchman was classed as a reserve, and after a seven years’ enlistment in the territorial force his liability to serve ended with seven years in the territorial reserve. Reservists for the active army turn out twice in the eleven years for maneuvers that last about four weeks for each period. The territorial army trains once for two weeks. The reserve of this force is never called for training.

Though the French army has certain points in common with the German, actually they are as wide apart as the poles. The two systems split on the rock of officer caste.

I shall never forget the shock all my preconceived military ideas sustained when first I saw the French army in action. It was in the early days of this war. I had literally been sitting down on the banks of the Meuse while two divisions of the Germans and French were fighting it out overhead for the possession of the bridge that crosses the river under the cliffs at Dinant. The night of the second day of the engagement, having a premonition of what was coming, I executed a strategic retirement to a nearby village.

It was a raw, rainy night. The village inn was a two-room shack. One room served as office, lounge and bar—principally bar. The other was the bedrooms. The plural is what I mean. When you made known your preferences it mattered not whether you wished a sunny southern exposure or a quiet corner on a court; you were shown to “the bedroom”—not all of it, just a straw-strewn section thereof.

Outside, what seemed to me to be the whole French army was rumbling past in boulevard motor busses. In the lounge-office-bar I made myself as inconspicuous as possible. Members of the divisional artillery staff, from general down, were the only officers present at the moment. A technical discussion was in progress. There was nothing odd in that, for of all the military species, the artilleryman is the most argumentative. But what opened my eyes to the popping point was the manner in which a major—a mere major!—talked back to the general.

What have since become the famous “75’s” were then being tried out. The point in dispute was purely professional and is outside my story. The astonishing part of the duologue was the vehement manner assumed by the major toward his superior. He strode up and down, gesticulating. He harangued “his” general—all superiors are addressed in the possessive in France—in the tone of a stump speaker. The discussion was largely technical, but I gathered enough to understand that the emphatic major would get the decision if the matter were left to an unprejudiced referee.

Frankly I expected the general to call for a couple of the largest and fiercest gendarmes in the vicinity and send the major back as far as Bordeaux in arrest for disrespect to a superior. Instead, Mon General mildly argued with his subordinate and held that the functions of the divisional artillery precluded the course of action advocated. That was all that happened. One or two of the other officers seemed slightly interested, but the rest took the affair as a matter of course.

Ten years in the Federal prison at Leavenworth would be about the court-martial sentence of that major if he disputed with a superior in our service. In Germany they would not even wait for dawn to shoot him.

Before the night was over I was to get another surprise. The rain came down as if a deluge scheduled for Philippine service had been switched into that part of Belgium. Now the Hotel Hut began to absorb blue-and-red soldiers as a sponge does water. Actually, the two rooms were sopping with privates. I remember the raindrops in the flickering lamplight glistening like diamonds on their rough blue coats.

Officers filtered in as well; one tall azure dragoon, with his helmet crowned with horse-hair, gave a striking touch to the bizarre scene. And all, from field officer to private, mingled in what from a professional viewpoint would be designated easy familiarity. With amazement I saw all ranks stand at the bar and swallow their bocks. For a United States officer to be seen at a bar where privates drink would bring swift reprimand, if not court-martial.

I reveled in the wonder of the scene—the “real thing” in that sudden cataclysm, the War of Europe; but all the time I kept questioning myself on the apparent passing up of discipline in the French army. The whole foundation was pushed out from under my army experience, and my military notions tumbled about me like a child’s house of blocks, when I went into the bedrooms. Spread over the floor, without distinction of rank or birth, were as many Frenchmen as the room could hold. Patrician and poilu all snored in happy accord. Lulled to sleep by the sonorific nasal chorus that lifted gently to the rafters, I concluded that, so far as the army was involved, the French ideals—Liberté! Fraternité! and Egalité!—were no idle dreams.

In that little low-ceilinged, lamp-lit room the secret of the French system was made clear to me. It was unconscious idealism. It was not the conventions of the service that knit those Frenchmen into the peculiar fabric of an army, where in time of stress the distinction of rank might be ignored without imperiling discipline. Back in the mind of every man in that room was the thought: “We are all fighting for France.” Even though it is the custom to bury the officers in separate graves, none knows better than the Frenchman that, certainly in death, president and private are equal.

France is a nation of paradoxes—the war has proved this statement; and from the soil of empire we get an equality that needs no violent assertion to prove its existence. Universal service in a large measure accounts for this phenomenon. America owes a great debt to France. Should it happen that we get a hint from the French which will help solve our defense problem, the debt will be doubled.

Since my first experience I have had many others showing this curious attitude of officer toward private in the French army. I am convinced that it is the mainspring of French strength today. Actually I believe General Joffre’s troops know more war lore this minute than any of their allies or opponents. The confidence existing between the captain and his company has brought this about.

For instance, there was a case where a French common soldier had an idea—no uncommon thing with Gallic common soldiers. The idea was concerned with an improvement in bomb throwers. He took the notion to his officer. “We’ll try him, mon vieux!” Imagine any other type of officer calling a private “Old Boy”!

Together they went to work with the enthusiasm of artists. Shortly the contraption was rigged. The whole company gathered in a corner of the trench to watch the début of the machine. All was ready. Then the muffled snap of a spring and fifty pounds of explosive were silently wafted into the midst of a startled band of Bosches. Such was the origin of the noiseless bomb-thrower, today one of the most important articles of furniture in any trench.

What economic effect army training has had in France is difficult to specify. You know the Socialists waged an unremitting war on the institution before the present crisis. The army was considered the foe of labor. In France that argument is forever closed. The instinct of self-defense is stronger than all minor economic considerations.

It is contended by some that the sporting revival in France is indirectly the result of universal training. Certainly the statistics show an advance in the national physical standard. How this training helps in all industrial effort has been dwelt on in describing the results in Switzerland and Germany. The same generalizations apply to France. But the real worth of the military work lies in the national spirit developed. The morale of the race, nursed in the camps and barracks, gives today what some glibly call a regenerated nation. If France is regenerated she has her army to thank for this birth of new life.

When you see the defenders of France in the trenches, where every element is fighting to break their spirits, and contemplate the insouciance with which they meet the dregs of discomfort, wounds, and death, you realize that her sons are citizen soldiers in the ideal distinctions of the term. Then another truth dawns on you: Out of solidarity of service France has found her soul.

The principle of conscription has long been accepted in France and it is of interest to trace the course of this method of raising armies in the nation that gave the republican idea to Europe.

At the outset of the Revolutionary period, voluntary enlistments rallied all necessary recruits to the republican flag. Later, it became necessary to impress upon the citizens the duty to serve the country. The convention that ruled France before the advent of Napoleon, first issued the fiat, “The service of the country is a civic and general duty.” Later, the revolutionary government of 1793 issued a decree which declared that until the enemies of the republic were driven from the territory of France, all Frenchmen were liable for military service. In the language of the document, “The young men will go to battle, the married men will forge weapons, and transport stores, the women will make tents and clothes, serve in the hospitals, while the children will prepare bandages.” Surely this was the true principle of the “nation in arms.” In the present war the divisions of the people fill the functions prescribed in the ancient document.

It was not necessary to take the number of men available, so the annual contingent was fixed according to the wastage. Recruits were drawn by lot and some came forward for voluntary enlistment.

This method was continued during the Napoleonic wars, but with the waning of the great Corsican’s fortunes it became more and more difficult to obtain the annual drafts.

After the fall of the Empire the principle of conscription was allowed to lapse. At the time of the Restoration it again came into force and continued for about twenty years. Once more the scheme went out of practice and was not resumed until just previous to the war of 1870. But it was too late to bring a sufficient force into being before the country was overrun by the enemy.

After the tragic lessons of that war, successive French governments tried to build up a national army on the old republican lines that every citizen owed service to the state. Originally the term of service was five years, then three, then two and finally just before the outbreak of hostilities in 1914, restored to three years again.

The present law not only lengthened the period of training with the active army, but established absolute equality for all citizens under the call to arms. Previous legislation had tampered with the principle of conscription and created a large class of privileged citizens who only served twelve months with the colors. In self-defense, the Third Republic went back to the old theory of universal service and forbade any exemptions, save for complete physical disability.

The peace strength of the French standing army in 1914 was 790,000. In organization it followed the usual lines with slight modifications. The reserve troops form divisions corresponding to those of the first line. Thus there is available in time of war what amounts to a second army of the same organization as the regular force. A similar plan is put into practice with the territorial army. It cannot be said that these third line troops are in any way as effective as the first or second. In actual conflict these forces would be of value only in holding lines of communications and remote depots of supplies.

The colonial army which forms a distinct part of the French defense line is an auxiliary force of high military value. It has proved itself in the European war. It is distinct from the metropolitan army and consists partly of white and partly of native troops. The colonials are recruited, for the most part, by voluntary enlistment, or by voluntary transfers from the metropolitan army, but in West Africa, compulsion can be called into effect if enough volunteers do not come forward. The famous foreign legion is a part of the colonial army.

The last peace budget put the cost of the French army per year at almost $250,000,000. This includes the expenses of the colonial army with certain sums spent upon armament. Actual upkeep of the standing forces would be $240,000,000 per annum.