Mr. Poilu; Notes And Sketches With The Fighting French [Illustrated Edition]

Herbert Ward

• Publisher: Lucknow Books
• Year: 2014
• eBook ISBN: 9781782893332
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military Biographies
• Index: History

Illustrated with 45 pictures and vignettes many in colour.
Herbert Ward was a patriotic and passionate Englishman at an unfortunate juncture in his life during the First World War, he was over 40 and would not be allowed to enlist in the British Army for service in the fields of Flanders under ordinary circumstances. However this was a minor issue when the Kaiser's German hordes advanced to within artillery range of his home in France; he at once gave over his large estate to the Red Cross and argued and created so much fuss that he was finally allowed to join the famous No. 3 Convoy of the British Ambulance Committee. He worked with at a furious rate and his work with the units, which was attached to the French army at the time, surely saved many lives of the "Poilus" that he so admired. Despite the huge burdens that work placed him under he set about recording the admirable bravery and courage of the Allied French soldiers fighting the common German foe.

 

CHAPTER I — MR. POILU

THE word Poil, [Il a du poil’ = He’s a plucky chap] in French military slang, conveys about the same meaning as our good English word pluck. It stands for courage, energy, and in fact all other manly attributes; hence, we trace a sequence of appropriate suggestions in the evolution of the word Poilu — the honourable nickname of the French soldier.

Our friend and comrade Mr. Poilu has all the qualities. we most appreciate. He is a merry soul; he has a nimble mind and a gaiety of spirit which never seems to fail. He is brimful of kindness and unselfishness. His emotions. are easily touched; but his tears are never shed except in sympathy for others. In adversity, he generally smiles; in the moment of the worst danger he will often utter a jest which brings forth instant peals of laughter from his comrades; then, when face to face with death, his last words are of his mother and of his country.

The typical Mr. Poilu has always a sparkle in his eye, a ruddy glow of health in his cheeks, and a general expression of bright, quick intelligence and good humour. There is apt to be a certain hardness and determination suggested by the lines around his mouth. He is invariably polite; one may truthfully say that the average French soldier has not alone the manner, but the instincts of a gentleman.

* * *

The Poilu who has tasted the intensity of life, and has faced death in the trenches, impresses me by his natural sense of philosophy. He cherishes a deep affection for his comrades; he has, sadly enough, bade farewell for ever to his folks at home; he has passed through that first great ordeal of fear, and is resigned to whatever may happen.

He feels proud of being a soldier; he is convinced beyond all argument that he is fighting in La Guerre du Droit. Fatalist he may be, but inasmuch as he surely believes that he himself will be killed, he is equally positive that France will be victorious.

* * *

Conversing with men in the trenches, I heard a never-ending abuse of the boches: that as enemies they were crafty and mean, that their cruel devilish acts would never be forgotten, that they were men with bad hearts, gross and common, that they were worse, far worse than savages, and that they were in fact the very scum of the earth and past redemption. Such wholesale condemnation of the enemy was justly based on solid foundations, for the French soldiers had all personally experienced so many aspects of the German’s ignoble warfare; yet those gallant Frenchmen never failed to pay a tribute to the physical courage of the enemy. The admission, which is perhaps a more suitable word, was generally qualified by the expressive terminal: ‘. . . les cochons.’

My conversations with Mr. Poilu always seemed to end in the same way. Accompanying the parting handshake he invariably used the same expression, ‘Nous les aurons,’ sometimes varied into ‘On les aura, coûte qui coûte.’ These words, spoken with a significant nod of the head, were uttered in a tone of such certainty and determination that one’s heart responded instantly in confirmation of their truth.

* * *

The Poilu of to-day is the Frenchman of yesterday. His physique has been improved by exercises such as boxing and football: he has found profit in training, and has recognised and welcomed the sensations and advantages of being fit. The European boxing champion, Carpentier, has proved a good model for the younger men; he is the perfect example of what force of will, steady training, and true sportsmanlike qualities can accomplish.

The devotion of the men to their officers, and the brotherly comradeship of all ranks are distinguishing features of the French army. I have known of many instances where the attachment was so strong that men have chosen to refuse the six days’ leave accorded to French soldiers of all ranks, because they feared that at the end of their leave they might be drafted to some other unit.

A similar spirit is shown in the manner in which orders are obeyed. The officers are in close human contact with their men, and the men instinctively understand and instinctively realise the necessity of their orders. The giving and obeying of orders is governed far more by the heart than by the sense of discipline.

I made particular note of the fact that every French soldier I talked with had a settled conviction that he would die in battle sooner or later, but his positive fatalism in no way impaired his keenness to fight, nor did it in any way suppress his exuberant spirits.

* * *

 The French army is first and last utilitarian; it exists exclusively for the purpose of war. It is a democratic national army, without any hindrances of class distinction.

The French army is based upon a human system. It reminds one of a family wherein the father ranks as the general, the elder brothers as officers, and the rest of the children are the soldiers. My reason for comparing the system of the French army with that of family life is the sympathetic understanding which exists among French soldiers of all ranks. One never sees any signs of swaggering or haughty bearing among the officers. There is no arrogance: everywhere there is simple equality. I feel that I am on safe ground when I affirm that the tenacity and patience of the French army, those very qualities that have gained the admiration of the whole world, are largely due to this paternal system. It is a system that is peculiarly adapted to the French temperament; it is in harmony with their intelligence, their love of liberty, and their high state of civilisation.

* * *

In describing Mr. Poilu as I know him, I feel that he would wish me to add an appreciative reference to his parents, who, by the way, are also my good friends. I know instinctively that Mr. Poilu would tell me to put it upon record that whatever reputation he has gained in the war is due to the care and devotion of his worthy mother and father, and it is more than likely that he would want me to bring in an allusion to an aunt or uncle who may have formed part of the family circle. He would ask me to write about the loving care that was bestowed upon him from his birth, an incident which, unknown to himself, may have heralded the complete union of family affection. He would surely tell me that his mother was the sweetest and cleverest and most devoted mother in France.

* * *

Mr. Poilu is a sportsman.

At Gérardmer, where we were billeted, we organised football matches between our English Ambulance Convoy, No. 3, and the French soldiers. The French teams were composed of men who were able to obtain leave, and they included officers and men. One incident alone will serve to support Mr. Poilu’s reputation as a sportsman. A soldier with a good record was allowed to come from the trenches; he left them at 3.30 A.M., tramped all day over the mountains, arriving on the ground at 2 P.M., just in time to play in the match. Immediately the game was over he started to tramp back to his trenches, a good ten hours’ journey. He was a private in the ‘Blue Devil Corps.’

* * *

In Alsace last year, close to our quarters, there occurred an incident which indicates clearly enough the French soldier’s temperament. Two Chasseurs Alpins were witnesses of the peculiarly revolting treatment of the body of one of their comrades, by the enemy. Both men solemnly vowed that when an occasion offered, they would give similar treatment to the first German they found. Some days later they discovered two Germans lying hidden in the ashes of a burnt-out hayrick. They pounced upon them; then they exchanged a glance which was understood to mean that the opportunity was at hand for the fulfilment of their vow. Finding, however, that both Germans were wounded, they first gave them a drink from their water-bottles and then carried them both back to their lines for medical treatment.

* * *

Walking along a forest path which led to a region of concealed batteries, I stepped aside as a platoon marched past. Just where I stood were the freshly-made graves of several men who had recently fallen. Wooden crosses had been erected upon each grave, bearing the fallen man’s name and number.

A sound of pain—half gasp, half groan—startled me. It had escaped the lips of one of the soldiers who had turned his head in my direction, and who had read, on one of the wooden crosses, the name of his brother. Without breaking his step, he merely bowed his head and plodded steadily forward with his comrades, and was soon lost to view. This incident only covered the space of a couple of minutes, yet it furnished enough anguish and tragedy to engrave itself deeply among the memories of a lifetime.

* * *

The better understanding of the French by the English dates from the commencement of this war. So many English people have been misled into thinking that Paris, with its holiday air of freedom and frivolity, is typical of French life. As a fact, Paris is the least typical of French cities. Paris is just—Paris: in a measure supported and patronised by foreigners of all types and descriptions, who are attracted periodically to the centre of art and fashion.

The French are simple people; well educated, refined, and without a particle of servility or grossness. They enjoy simple and natural pleasures, and they cannot understand any real enjoyment being derived from the mere spending of money. They are brilliantly witty, naturally intellectual, and their beautiful language is rightly regarded with national pride.

* * *

With the French there is a distinctly religious quality about their devotion to their country: a quality which underlies the sentiment of patriotism. It is love of country pure and simple, love of the ground of France.

Chant des Girondins: 1783:—

"Mourir pour la Patrie,

C’est le sort le plus beau,

Le plus digne d’envie.

The effect of this whole-hearted religious devotion is extremely elevating, and touches a far higher chord than the immediate hatred of the enemy. How many a dying Poilu has exclaimed:

‘Qu’importe la Mort, puisque c’est pour la France?

CHAPTER II — WITH THE BLUE DEVILS (CHASSEURS ALPINS)

My personal memories and impressions of the war are chiefly governed by the quality of dramatic contrast. Everywhere, I witnessed an ever-changing human drama. I felt conscious of a power which drew my heart in two opposite directions; at one time weighing it down in impotent sympathy with all the dark horrors of suffering and death; at another time uplifting it in raptures of vital admiration for man’s courage and woman’s noble devotion.

This quality of contrast extended even to natural surroundings. More than once I have listened to the singing of birds and the tinkling of village church bells, joyous music of peace, accompanied by the low rumbling of death-dealing heavy guns, the discordance of cruel war. I have watched cows quietly grazing in meadows which were bathed in glorious sunshine, whilst the horizon was quite hidden in the black smoke of burning villages and the earth literally trembled under the explosion of monster shells. After a long night’s work in the dark, among wounded and dying men, w...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• PREFACE
• INTRODUCTION
• MENTION IN DESPATCHES OF THE 27TH ARMY OCTOBER 22ND, 1915.
• CHAPTER I - MR. POILU
• CHAPTER II - WITH THE BLUE DEVILS (CHASSEURS ALPINS)
• CHAPTER III - S. S. A.-CONVOY NO. 3 (SECTION SANITAIRE ANGLAISE)
• CHAPTER IV - BEHIND THE CURTAIN
• CHAPTER V - THE WOMEN OF FRANCE
• REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER
• ILLUSTRATIONS