France at War | Page 6

directness, simplicity,
and the supreme gift of "occasionality." She is equal to everything on
the spur of the moment. One sees and studies the few appliances which
make her do what she does, and one feels that any one could have
invented her.
FAMOUS FRENCH 75's
"As a matter of fact," says a commandant, "anybody--or, rather,
everybody did. The general idea is after such-and-such system, the
patent of which had expired, and we improved it; the breech action,
with slight modification, is somebody else's; the sighting is perhaps a
little special; and so is the traversing, but, at bottom, it is only an
assembly of variations and arrangements."
That, of course, is all that Shakespeare ever got out of the alphabet. The
French Artillery make their own guns as he made his plays. It is just as
simple as that.
"There is nothing going on for the moment; it's too misty," said the
Commandant. (I fancy that the Boche, being, as a rule methodical,
amateurs are introduced to batteries in the Boche's intervals. At least,
there are hours healthy and unhealthy which vary with each position.)
"But," the Commandant reflected a moment, "there is a place--and a
distance. Let us say . . . " He gave a range.
The gun-servers stood back with the bored contempt of the professional
for the layman who intrudes on his mysteries. Other civilians had come
that way before--had seen, and grinned, and complimented and gone
their way, leaving the gunners high up on the bleak hillside to grill or
mildew or freeze for weeks and months. Then she spoke. Her voice was
higher pitched, it seemed, than ours--with a more shrewish tang to the
speeding shell. Her recoil was as swift and as graceful as the shrug of a
French-woman's shoulders; the empty case leaped forth and clanged

against the trail; the tops of two or three pines fifty yards away nodded
knowingly to each other, though there was no wind.
"They'll be bothered down below to know the meaning of our single
shot. We don't give them one dose at a time as a rule," somebody
laughed.
We waited in the fragrant silence. Nothing came back from the mist
that clogged the lower grounds, though no shell of this war was ever
launched with more earnest prayers that it might do hurt.
Then they talked about the lives of guns; what number of rounds some
will stand and others will not; how soon one can make two good guns
out of three spoilt ones, and what crazy luck sometimes goes with a
single shot or a blind salvo.
LESSON FROM THE "BOCHE"
A shell must fall somewhere, and by the law of averages occasionally
lights straight as a homing pigeon on the one spot where it can wreck
most. Then earth opens for yards around, and men must be dug
out,--some merely breathless, who shake their ears, swear, and carry on,
and others whose souls have gone loose among terrors. These have to
be dealt with as their psychology demands, and the French officer is a
good psychologist. One of them said: "Our national psychology has
changed. I do not recognize it myself."
"What made the change?"
"The Boche. If he had been quiet for another twenty years the world
must have been his--rotten, but all his. Now he is saving the world."
"How?"
"Because he has shown us what Evil is. We--you and I, England and
the rest--had begun to doubt the existence of Evil. The Boche is saving
us."

Then we had another look at the animal in its trench--a little nearer this
time than before, and quieter on account of the mist. Pick up the chain
anywhere you please, you shall find the same observation-post, table,
map, observer, and telephonist; the same always-hidden, always-ready
guns; and same vexed foreshore of trenches, smoking and shaking from
Switzerland to the sea. The handling of the war varies with the nature
of the country, but the tools are unaltered. One looks upon them at last
with the same weariness of wonder as the eye receives from endless
repetitions of Egyptian hieroglyphics. A long, low profile, with a lump
to one side, means the field-gun and its attendant ammunition-case; a
circle and slot stand for an observation-post; the trench is a bent line,
studded with vertical plumes of explosion; the great guns of position,
coming and going on their motors, repeat themselves as scarabs; and
man himself is a small blue smudge, no larger than a foresight,
crawling and creeping or watching and running among all these terrific
symbols.
TRAGEDY OF RHEIMS
But there is no hieroglyphic for Rheims, no blunting of the mind at the
abominations committed on the cathedral there. The thing peers upward,
maimed and blinded, from out of the utter wreckage