T

HE reason why, being English, I speak of the French is easily explained. I have resided in France for the past fifteen years. Since the war began, being too old to be a soldier, I have associated myself with work connected with the wounded. Among other things, I have been helping to direct a British ambulance section in the mountains of the Vosges on the French eastern frontier. Last April, when on a special mission, I was present during some of the fiercest fighting in that region, and I became familiar with several miles of the first-line trenches in the mountains. Physical conditions had been hard that winter, particularly for the wounded, who had to be dragged in sledges and carried in springless wagons for long distances.

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The French soldier has something in his blood and strain which uplifts him as fighting man and gives him the quality of chivalry. Peasant or bourgeois or of patrician stock, he has the manners of a gentle

man.

He knows, as well as any man, the joy of life, and he gives his life away with a generous and even reckless willingness. The French, however, have an instinctive dislike of killing. They take no pleasure in it. But as patriots they face the situation, and as Frenchmen they fight, and fight gallantly, for the defense of their country.

They show a sublime endurance of pain. In my section alone we carried twenty-eight thousand wounded men in eight months, and every one of them behaved with amazing courage. As a tribute to that courage let me quote from an open letter written by myself in French, for and with the approval of my comrades, to the Chasseurs Alpins:

Greetings to you, our French brothers, and these greetings contain our respect, and they come from our hearts.

Let us tell you that, when we thought of writing this little letter, it was with the intention of communicating with you to tell you . . . how much we admire you and that our lives are devoted to rendering you service. . . . The heroic manner in which you bear the worst pain makes us wish we could explain and tell you of our admiration.... Your courage is so spontaneous, so natural. We remain silent because we cannot express ourselves. . . . We try to lift your poor, broken bodies as gently as we can. We carry you away with all speed to a place where you will find peace, doing our best to avoid the

cruel shell-holes on the roads. We ourselves suffer from the shaking of the long journey because we think how intensely painful it is for you. What happiness, a few hours later, to know that you are installed in one of the improvised hospitals, where your wounds are dressed and where you can lie and rest upon a bed! . . . Our French friends, we bare our heads and we respectfully salute you.

It is an obvious fact that it is not to the Frenchman's temperament to occupy a narrow trench for months at a time, under a rain of shells, waiting for death. Yet he has submitted to it and held firm with a patience and endurance which no one would have believed possible until the proof was given.

I made particular note of the fact that nearly every French soldier I talked to had a settled conviction that he would die in battle sooner or later. Yet, withal, his courage is unimpaired and he retains his gift of gayety and his desire to fight. The French soldier has a gay, unbreakable spirit, the spirit of an unconquerable race. A sparkle of the eye, a ruddy glow of the cheek, a decided step, denote the man who faces death in the French trenches. When we look into the faces of the French soldiers, we invariably find an expression of intelligent good humor. the same time there is more than a suggestion of firm determination.

I quote from my journal of August 25, 1915:

Night before last, in an ambulance hut near the front, during a cannonade, I first saw a certain doctor. It was in a dimly lit dugout. man's figure lay on the operating-table, and an attendant held a candle to enable the doctor to

see.

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It was a grave operation and not a thing to talk about. The doctor was intent on his work. An earnest, black-bearded man with bare arms, his hands moved quickly and he gave an impression of concentrated energy. The usual surroundings were there, and a few rugged, dirty brancardiers [so called from the fact that they carry the brancards, the litters or stretchers] were standing by, ready to bear the patient away.

Last night, almost at the same hour, I was in the same dugout. The noise of the guns was deafening, and there had been many casualties. In the dugout there was again the man with the candle, lighting the surgeon at his work. But this time the surgeon was a clean-shaven man and the patient was the black-bearded doctor himself. He is dead now. . .

My black-bearded doctor friend, who, after performing his operation two nights before, had

clinked glasses with me as we drank to each other's health in bad lemonade, had been mortally wounded. That makes a total of nineteen doctors killed at this particular place.

The place was high up in the Vosges, amid masked batteries and hundreds of miles of zigzag gashes in the earth which serve as trenches. Thousands of men live for the most part underground there, just like rabbits, venturing forth at intervals, and then popping back into their warrens, out of the way of bursting shells.

The Chasseurs Alpins, who have already been mentioned, are especially notable-a fine, hardy lot of men drawn from the mountain regions of France, men accustomed to a hard life in the open air. They are dressed in a dark uniform, and wear a béret, which somewhat resembles a Scotch cap. They are mostly short, thick-set men, with square jaws; strong-featured men who talk but little. this high region it is apt to be very cold, and even under other conditions than the present life may be considered as strenuous.

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Upon a particular occasion which I have in mind it was just commencing to snow; large, feathery flakes covered the ground on the mountain-side, and we were enveloped as in a cloud. Close above our heads, hidden away beneath pine branches, many cannon were concealed. Despite the snow-storm the big guns were continually crashing forth their murderous shells. The earth trembled with concussion, and the terrific uproar never ceased hour after hour. The shells, which are classed in two categories-the départs, those from the masked batteries around us, and the arrivées, or those of the enemywhistled ominously over our heads, falling around us, and in their explosion bursting forth showers of keen-edged fragments of metal which sever the largest pine trees as easily as one would break a wooden match. After waiting weary hours a party of men approached, walking slowly and with great difficulty, covered with snow. They are brancardiers, and are carrying the poor shattered bodies of men just wounded by bursting shells.

In the only open space near by, without much method, they place their burdens on one side of an imaginary line. Nearest to us were the wounded, to be conveyed a distance of some twenty kilometers (121⁄2 miles) to the improvised hospitals in the nearest towns. Opposite to them are placed in a row, on the other side of the imaginary line, those of the wounded who

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have died while being carried. The snow continued to fall. As the daylight diminished there was nothing to distinguish the whereabouts of those poor bodies beyond a slight undulation on the surface of the snow.

I venture the opinion that the tenacity and patience of the French army are due in some measure to the peculiar quality of French discipline. We might call it paternal. discipline. It is a human system. It is peculiarly adapted to the present needs.

The French army is purely utilitarian, existing for the business of war, and is a really democratic national army, without class distinction. In it the soldiers are the children, the officers are their elder brothers, and the general is their father.

This is particularly noteworthy in the case of the general-in-chief or generalissimo. Joffre is respected and esteemed as the father of the army. He is not regarded with awe, but rather with a spirit of affection. The fact that he is a stout man denotes to the ordinary Frenchman the human side of a man with good digestion and general good physica health. His strong local accent also endear him to the people. Joffre is perfectly simple and natural, and so he is popular, because the French dislike, above all things, anything that is affected. He has retained the rustic simplicity of his early surroundings in the Pyrenees. The dominating impression which Joffre makes, however, is one of plain, simple, but extraordinary common sense. He shows it fearlessly in removing men who are not up to their job, just as he does in picking out the right men for his staff. He has around him, in striking contrast with his own origin, some of the patricians of France.

If the French army reminds one of the family, it is also because of the understanding that exists among soldiers of all ranks. There is no swaggering or haughty bearing among the officers. There is no official arrogance. In other armies it is generally evident that the officer is outwardly conscious of his rank, whereas with the French you are impressed by their simple equality. There is an excessive kindness on the part of every one, officials and men alike.

The Frenchman of to-day is, of course, the Frenchman of yesterday in many things, but in one quality he has changed enormously. The beginning of the change may be said to be coincident with the introduction of boxing

into France. Now boxing teaches a man that he must train; it teaches him the necessity of self-denial, of keeping early hours, and of the advantages of cold water. Carpentier, the European champion, has probably done more for his country than he is aware of. The Frenchman finds profit in the new sensation of being fit. While he is the same Frenchman as before, he has an improved physique; the stuff was there, of course, and it has now been developed.

Now as to the Frenchwoman. She is famed all over the world for her efficiency. Since the war began her fame has more than justified itself. While one can say with truth that this war has given women their opportunity in every country, in France the women have not only availed themselves of their opportunity, but they have triumphed beyond it. Their influence is beyond words. They are for the most part very diligent. But, above all, they understand, in the broad sense of the word. The man enjoys his home because his wife is a companion. The Frenchwoman is a wonder; her charm and grace and understanding distinguish her from the women of any other country.

As the children grow up they, too, regard the mother in the light of a companion, and consult her about everything. The mother exercises extraordinary influence over the whole family, even over the children who are married. As a rule, she is perfectly familiar with the affairs of the business which her husband conducts and which she helps to conduct, so that if her husband dies she is able to go on with it. There are instances, not only of shops and stores, but of big iron works in France being conducted by women. The family conclaves are also quite a feature-the weekly dinner, when all the family meet-and in these conclaves the mother is supreme.

The good in a country depends absolutely and entirely upon the character of the women. If they are self-indulgent, you cannot expect very much of the people. It is the home that makes the country.

In this war the Frenchwoman has shown not only her characteristics of efficiency; she has also shown a spiritual fervor, a fervor which permeates the sentiment of patriotism. It gives beauty to the tradition of nationality, which without such fervor becomes only a common, vulgar hatred of the enemy.

During the mobilization the stoicism of the

Frenchwomen was wonderful. They made no complaint. Even though they wept, they gave up their men bravely, with the resignation of religious women who offer their hearts to God.

They have had no illusions, these women; they knew the real, true meaning of war, as well as the vicissitudes of war, with its wholesale slaughter and destruction. They nerved themselves to endurance, finding in the very weakness of their womanhood a new-born courage.

Especially in nursing the wounded have they displayed an immense devotion. I recall an incident. It was urgent that a serious operation should be performed on a wounded soldier. The surgeon was in great distress, for he had no anæsthetic and the operation was a grave one. With quick intelligence, the nurse- -a French lady-leaned forward. kissed the wounded man, and placed her cheek caressingly next to his. A gratified smile came over his poor face and he submitted to the operation without a murmur.

When I lay helpless in the hospital, I heard the following conversation through my open door. It was about four o'clock in the morning. The nurse was addressing a woman who had just arrived.

"You are here already? You did not waste any time !"

Oh, no, madame-see-I still wear my apron. When they gave me your telegram saying my man was wounded, I picked up my baby and just came. I have been twelve hours in the train, and I have never traveled anywhere before."

She was taken to her husband. He lay in the next room to mine, his lungs perforated by shrapnel. I can still recall the soundsthe baby's plaintive cry, the poor woman's sobs, the man's vain struggle to breathe.

At Gérardmer, where we were billeted, there remained in the town but few civilians. All the hotels, the Casino-in fact, every building capable of accommodating a number of men-were used as hospitals. Each morning at dawn (often it was cold and wet) there occurred the same sad ceremony; the same line of stretcher-bearers, carrying to the cemetery the bodies of those who had died in the hospitals during the night. Sad enough it was; and rendered even more touching by the accompaniment of orphan children from Sœur Claire's orphanage near by, dressed in black hats and caps. Each morning at dawn they fulfilled this sad mission. "What could