A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS

June 1916

BY

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

AUTHOR OF

'THE GREAT BOER WAR'

PREFACE

In the course of May 1916, the Italian authorities expressed a desirethat some independent observer from Great Britain should visit theirlines and report his impressions. It was at the time when our brave andcapable allies had sustained a set-back in the Trentino owing to asudden concentration of the Austrians, supported by very heavyartillery. I was asked to undertake this mission. In order to carry itout properly, I stipulated that I should be allowed to visit theBritish lines first, so that I might have some standard of comparison. The War Office kindly assented to my request. Later I obtainedpermission to pay a visit to the French front as well. Thus it was mygreat good fortune, at the very crisis of the war, to visit the battleline of each of the three great Western allies. I only wish that it hadbeen within my power to complete my experiences in this seat of war byseeing the gallant little Belgian army which has done so remarkablywell upon the extreme left wing of the hosts of freedom. 

My experiences and impressions are here set down, and may have somesmall effect in counteracting those mischievous misunderstandings andmutual belittlements which are eagerly fomented by our cunning enemy. 

Arthur Conan Doyle. 

Crowborough, July 1916. 

CONTENTS

A GLIMPSE OF THE BRITISH ARMY. 

A GLIMPSE OF THE ITALIAN ARMY. 

A GLIMPSE OF THE FRENCH LINE. 

A GLIMPSE OF THE BRITISH ARMY

I

It is not an easy matter to write from the front. You know that thereare several courteous but inexorable gentlemen who may have a word inthe matter, and their presence 'imparts but small ease to the style. 'But above all you have the twin censors of your own conscience andcommon sense, which assure you that, if all other readers fail you, youwill certainly find a most attentive one in the neighbourhood of theHaupt-Quartier. An instructive story is still told of how a certainwell-meaning traveller recorded his satisfaction with the appearance ofthe big guns at the retiring and peaceful village of Jamais, and howthree days later, by an interesting coincidence, the village of Jamaispassed suddenly off the map and dematerialised into brickdust andsplinters. 

I have been with soldiers on the warpath before, but never have I had aday so crammed with experiences and impressions as yesterday. Some ofthem at least I can faintly convey to the reader, and if they everreach the eye of that gentleman at the Haupt-Quartier they will givehim little joy. For the crowning impression of all is the enormousimperturbable confidence of the Army and its extraordinary efficiencyin organisation, administration, material, and personnel. I met in oneday a sample of many types, an Army commander, a corps commander, twodivisional commanders, staff officers of many grades, and, above all, Imet repeatedly the two very great men whom Britain has produced, theprivate soldier and the regimental officer. Everywhere and on everyface one read the same spirit of cheerful bravery. Even the half-madcranks whose absurd consciences prevent them from barring the way tothe devil seemed to me to be turning into men under the prevailinginfluence. I saw a batch of them, neurotic and largely be-spectacled, but working with a will by the roadside. They will volunteer for thetrenches yet. 

 * * * * *

If there are pessimists among us they are not to be found among the menwho are doing the work. There is no foolish bravado, no under-rating ofa dour opponent, but there is a quick, alert, confident attention tothe job in hand which is an inspiration to the observer. These bravelads are guarding Britain in the present. See to it that Britain guardsthem in the future! We have a bad record in this matter. It must bechanged. They are the wards of the nation, both officers and men. Socialism has never had an attraction for me, but I should be aSocialist to-morrow if I thought that to ease a tax on wealth these menshould ever suffer for the time or health that they gave to the publiccause. 

'Get out of the car. Don't let it stay here. It may be hit. ' Thesewords from a staff officer give you the first idea that things aregoing to happen. Up to then you might have been driving through theblack country in the Walsall district with the population of Aldershotlet loose upon its dingy roads. 'Put on this shrapnel helmet. That hatof yours would infuriate the Boche'--this was an unkind allusion to theonly uniform which I have a right to wear. 'Take this gas helmet. Youwon't need it, but it is a standing order. Now come on!'

We cross a meadow and enter a trench. Here and there it comes to thesurface again where there is dead ground. At one such point an oldchurch stands, with an unexploded shell sticking out of the wall. Acentury hence folk will journey to see that shell. Then on againthrough an endless cutting. It is slippery clay below. I have no nailsin my boots, an iron pot on my head, and the sun above me. I willremember that walk. Ten telephone wires run down the side. Here andthere large thistles and other plants grow from the clay walls, soimmobile have been our lines. Occasionally there are patches ofuntidiness. 'Shells, ' says the officer laconically. There is a racketof guns before us and behind, especially behind, but danger seemsremote with all these Bairnfather groups of cheerful Tommies at workaround us. I pass one group of grimy, tattered boys. A glance at theirshoulders shows me that they are of a public school battalion. 'Ithought you fellows were all officers now, ' I remarked. 'No, sir, welike it better so. ' 'Well, it will be a great memory for you. We areall in your debt. '

They salute, and we squeeze past them. They had the fresh, brown facesof boy cricketers. But their comrades were men of a different type, with hard, strong, rugged features, and the eyes of men who have seenstrange sights. These are veterans, men of Mons, and their young palsof the public schools have something to live up to. 

 * * * * *

Up to this we have only had two clay walls to look at. But now ourinterminable and tropical walk is lightened by the sight of a Britishaeroplane sailing overhead. Numerous shrapnel bursts are all round it, but she floats on serenely, a thing of delicate beauty against the bluebackground. Now another passes--and yet another. All morning we sawthem circling and swooping, and never a sign of a Boche. They tell meit is nearly always so--that we hold the air, and that the Bocheintruder, save at early morning, is a rare bird. A visit to the linewould reassure Mr. Pemberton-Billing. 'We have never met a Britishaeroplane which was not ready to fight, ' said a captured German aviatorthe other day. There is a fine stern courtesy between the airmen oneither side, each dropping notes into the other's aerodromes to tellthe fate of missing officers. Had the whole war been fought by theGermans as their airmen have conducted it (I do not speak of course ofthe Zeppelin murderers), a peace would eventually have been more easilyarranged. As it is, if every frontier could be settled, it would be ahard thing to stop until all that is associated with the words Cavell, Zeppelin, Wittenberg, Lusitania, and Louvain has been brought to thebar of the world's Justice. 

And now we are there--in what is surely the most wonderful spot in theworld, the front firing trench, the outer breakwater which holds backthe German tide. How strange that this monstrous oscillation of giantforces, setting in from east to west, should find their equilibriumhere across this particular meadow of Flanders. 'How far?' I ask. '180yards, ' says my guide. 'Pop!' remarks a third person just in front. 'Asniper, ' says my guide; 'take a look through the periscope. ' I do so. There is some rusty wire before me, then a field sloping slightlyupwards with knee-deep grass, then rusty wire again, and a red line ofbroken earth. There is not a sign of movement, but sharp eyes arealways watching us, even as these crouching soldiers around me arewatching them. There are dead Germans in the grass before us. You neednot see them to know that they are there. A wounded soldier sits in acorner nursing his leg. Here and there men pop out like rabbits fromdug-outs and mine-shafts. Others sit on the fire-step or lean smokingagainst the clay wall. Who would dream to look at their bold, carelessfaces that this is a front line, and that at any moment it is possiblethat a grey wave may submerge them? With all their careless bearing Inotice that every man has his gas helmet and his rifle within easyreach. 

A mile of front trenches and then we are on our way back down thatweary walk. Then I am whisked off upon a ten mile drive. There is apause for lunch at Corps Headquarters, and after it we are taken to amedal presentation in a market square. Generals Munro, Haking andLandon, famous fighting soldiers all three, are the Britishrepresentatives. Munro with a ruddy face, and brain above all bulldogbelow; Haking, pale, distinguished, intellectual; Landon a pleasant, genial country squire. An elderly French General stands beside them. 

British infantry keep the ground. In front are about fifty Frenchmen incivil dress of every grade of life, workmen and gentlemen, in a doublerank. They are all so wounded that they are back in civil life, butto-day they are to have some solace for their wounds. They lean heavilyon sticks, their bodies are twisted and maimed, but their faces areshining with pride and joy. The French General draws his sword andaddresses them. One catches words like 'honneur' and 'patrie. ' Theylean forward on their crutches, hanging on every syllable which comeshissing and rasping from under that heavy white moustache. Then themedals are pinned on. One poor lad is terribly wounded and needs twosticks. A little girl runs out with some flowers. He leans forward andtries to kiss her, but the crutches slip and he nearly falls upon her. It was a pitiful but beautiful little scene. 

Now the British candidates march up one by one for their medals, hale, hearty men, brown and fit. There is a smart young officer of ScottishRifles; and then a selection of Worcesters, Welsh Fusiliers and ScotsFusiliers, with one funny little Highlander, a tiny figure with asoup-bowl helmet, a grinning boy's face beneath it, and a bedraggleduniform. 'Many acts of great bravery'--such was the record for which hewas decorated. Even the French wounded smiled at his quaint appearance, as they did at another Briton who had acquired the chewing-gum habit, and came up for his medal as if he had been called suddenly in themiddle of his dinner, which he was still endeavouring to bolt. Thencame the end, with the National Anthem. The British regiment formedfours and went past. To me that was the most impressive sight of any. They were the Queen's West Surreys, a veteran regiment of the greatYpres battle. What grand fellows! As the order came 'Eyes right, ' andall those fierce, dark faces flashed round about us, I felt the mightof the British infantry, the intense individuality which is notincompatible with the highest discipline. Much they had endured, but agreat spirit shone from their faces. I confess that as I looked atthose brave English lads, and thought of what we owe to them and totheir like who have passed on, I felt more emotional than befits aBriton in foreign parts. 

 * * * * *

Now the ceremony was ended, and once again we set out for the front. Itwas to an artillery observation post that we were bound, and once againmy description must be bounded by discretion. Suffice it, that in anhour I found myself, together with a razor-keen young artilleryobserver and an excellent old sportsman of a Russian prince, jammedinto a very small space, and staring through a slit at the Germanlines. In front of us lay a vast plain, scarred and slashed, with bareplaces at intervals, such as you see where gravel pits break a greencommon. Not a sign of life or movement, save some wheeling crows. Andyet down there, within a mile or so, is the population of a city. Faraway a single train is puffing at the back of the German lines. We arehere on a definite errand. Away to the right, nearly three miles off, is a small red house, dim to the eye but clear in the glasses, which issuspected as a German post. It is to go up this afternoon. The gun issome distance away, but I hear the telephone directions. '"Mother" willsoon do her in, ' remarks the gunner boy cheerfully. 'Mother' is thename of the gun. 'Give her five six three four, ' he cries through the'phone. 'Mother' utters a horrible bellow from somewhere on our right. An enormous spout of smoke rises ten seconds later from near the house. 'A little short, ' says our gunner. 'Two and a half minutes left, ' addsa little small voice, which represents another observer at a differentangle. 'Raise her seven five, ' says our boy encouragingly. 'Mother'roars more angrily than ever. 'How will that do?' she seems to say. 'One and a half right, ' says our invisible gossip. I wonder how thefolk in the house are feeling as the shells creep ever nearer. 'Gunlaid, sir, ' says the telephone. 'Fire!' I am looking through my glass. A flash of fire on the house, a huge pillar of dust and smoke--then itsettles, and an unbroken field is there. The German post has gone up. 'It's a dear little gun, ' says the officer boy. 'And her shells arereliable, ' remarked a senior behind us. 'They vary with differentcalibres, but "Mother" never goes wrong. ' The German line was veryquiet. 'Pourquoi ils ne répondent pas?' asked the Russian prince. 'Yes, they are quiet to-day, ' answered the senior. 'But we get it in the necksometimes. ' We are all led off to be introduced to 'Mother, ' who sits, squat and black, amid twenty of her grimy children who wait upon andfeed her. She is an important person is 'Mother, ' and her importancegrows. It gets clearer with every month that it is she, and only she, who can lead us to the Rhine. She can and she will if the factories ofBritain can beat those of the Hun. See to it, you working men and womenof Britain. Work now if you rest for ever after, for the fate of Europeand of all that is dear to us is in your hands. For 'Mother' is adainty eater, and needs good food and plenty. She is fond of strangelodgings, too, in which she prefers safety to dignity. But that is adangerous subject. 

 * * * * *

One more experience of this wonderful day--the most crowded withimpressions of my whole life. At night we take a car and drive north, and ever north, until at a late hour we halt and climb a hill in thedarkness. Below is a wonderful sight. Down on the flats, in a hugesemi-circle, lights are rising and falling. They are very brilliant, going up for a few seconds and then dying down. Sometimes a dozen arein the air at one time. There are the dull thuds of explosions and anoccasional rat-tat-tat. I have seen nothing like it, but the nearestcomparison would be an enormous ten-mile railway station in full swingat night, with signals winking, lamps waving, engines hissing andcarriages bumping. It is a terrible place down yonder, a place whichwill live as long as military history is written, for it is the YpresSalient. What a salient it is, too! A huge curve, as outlined by thelights, needing only a little more to be an encirclement. Somethingcaught the rope as it closed, and that something was the Britishsoldier. But it is a perilous place still by day and by night. Nevershall I forget the impression of ceaseless, malignant activity whichwas borne in upon me by the white, winking lights, the red suddenglares, and the horrible thudding noises in that place of death beneathme. 

II

In old days we had a great name as organisers. Then came a long periodwhen we deliberately adopted a policy of individuality and 'go as youplease. ' Now once again in our sore need we have called on all ourpower of administration and direction. But it has not deserted us. Westill have it in a supreme degree. Even in peace time we have shown itin that vast, well-oiled, swift-running, noiseless machine called theBritish Navy. But now our powers have risen with the need of them. Theexpansion of the Navy has been a miracle, the management of thetransport a greater one, the formation of the new Army the greatest ofall time. To get the men was the least of the difficulties. To put themhere, with everything down to the lid of the last field saucepan in itsplace, that is the marvel. The tools of the gunners, and of thesappers, to say nothing of the knowledge of how to use them, are inthemselves a huge problem. But it has all been met and mastered, andwill be to the end. But don't let us talk any more about the muddlingof the War Office. It has become just a little ridiculous. 

 * * * * *

I have told of my first day, when I visited the front trenches, saw thework of 'Mother, ' and finally that marvellous spectacle, the YpresSalient at night. I have passed the night at the headquarters of adivisional-general, Capper, who might truly be called one of the twofathers of the British flying force, for it was he, with Templer, wholaid the first foundations from which so great an organisation hasarisen. My morning was spent in visiting two fighting brigadiers, cheery weather-beaten soldiers, respectful, as all our soldiers are, ofthe prowess of the Hun, but serenely confident that we can beat him. Incompany with one of them I ascended a hill, the reverse slope of whichwas swarming with cheerful infantry in every stage of dishabille, forthey were cleaning up after the trenches. Once over the slope weadvanced with some care, and finally reached a certain spot from whichwe looked down upon the German line. It was the advanced observationpost, about a thousand yards from the German trenches, with our owntrenches between us. We could see the two lines, sometimes only a fewyards, as it seemed, apart, extending for miles on either side. Thesinister silence and solitude were strangely dramatic. Such vast crowdsof men, such intensity of feeling, and yet only that open rollingcountryside, with never a movement in its whole expanse. 

The afternoon saw us in the Square at Ypres. It is the city of a dream, this modern Pompeii, destroyed, deserted and desecrated, but with asad, proud dignity which made you involuntarily lower your voice as youpassed through the ruined streets. It is a more considerable place thanI had imagined, with many traces of ancient grandeur. No words candescribe the absolute splintered wreck that the Huns have made of it. The effect of some of the shells has been grotesque. One boiler-platedwater-tower, a thing forty or fifty feet high, was actually standing onits head like a great metal top. There is not a living soul in theplace save a few pickets of soldiers, and a number of cats which becomefierce and dangerous. Now and then a shell still falls, but the Hunsprobably know that the devastation is already complete. 

We stood in the lonely grass-grown Square, once the busy centre of thetown, and we marvelled at the beauty of the smashed cathedral and thetottering Cloth Hall beside it. Surely at their best they could nothave looked more wonderful than now. If they were preserved even so, and if a heaven-inspired artist were to model a statue of Belgium infront, Belgium with one hand pointing to the treaty by which Prussiaguaranteed her safety and the other to the sacrilege behind her, itwould make the most impressive group in the world. It was an evil dayfor Belgium when her frontier was violated, but it was a worse one forGermany. I venture to prophesy that it will be regarded by history asthe greatest military as well as political error that has ever beenmade. Had the great guns that destroyed Liége made their first breachat Verdun, what chance was there for Paris? Those few weeks of warningand preparation saved France, and left Germany as she now is, like aweary and furious bull, tethered fast in the place of trespass andwaiting for the inevitable pole-axe. 

We were glad to get out of the place, for the gloom of it lay as heavyupon our hearts as the shrapnel helmets did upon our heads. Both werelightened as we sped back past empty and shattered villas to where, just behind the danger line, the normal life of rural Flanders wascarrying on as usual. A merry sight helped to cheer us, for scuddingdown wind above our heads came a Boche aeroplane, with two British ather tail barking away with their machine guns, like two swift terriersafter a cat. They shot rat-tat-tatting across the sky until we lostsight of them in the heat haze over the German line. 

 * * * * *

The afternoon saw us on the Sharpenburg, from which many a million willgaze in days to come, for from no other point can so much be seen. Itis a spot forbid, but a special permit took us up, and the sentry onduty, having satisfied himself of our bona fides, proceeded to tell ustales of the war in a pure Hull dialect which might have been Chinesefor all that I could understand. That he was a 'terrier' and had ninechildren were the only facts I could lay hold of. But I wished to besilent and to think--even, perhaps, to pray. Here, just below my feet, were the spots which our dear lads, three of them my own kith, havesanctified with their blood. Here, fighting for the freedom of theworld, they cheerily gave their all. On that sloping meadow to the leftof the row of houses on the opposite ridge the London Scottish foughtto the death on that grim November morning when the Bavarians reeledback from their shot-torn line. That plain away on the other side ofYpres was the place where the three grand Canadian brigades, first ofall men, stood up to the damnable cowardly gases of the Hun. Downyonder is Hill 60, that blood-soaked kopje. The ridge over the fieldswas held by the cavalry against two army corps, and there where the sunstrikes the red roof among the trees I can just see Gheluveld, a namefor ever to be associated with Haig and the most vital battle of thewar. As I turn away I am faced by my Hull Territorial, who still saysincomprehensible things. I look at him with other eyes. He has foughton yonder plain. He has slain Huns, and he has nine children. Could anyone better epitomise the duties of a good citizen? I could have foundit in my heart to salute him had I not known that it would have shockedhim and made him unhappy. 

It has been a full day, and the next is even fuller, for it is myprivilege to lunch at Headquarters, and to make the acquaintance of theCommander-in-chief and of his staff. It would be an invasion of privatehospitality if I were to give the public the impressions which Icarried from that charming château. I am the more sorry, since theywere very vivid and strong. This much I will say--and any man who is aface reader will not need to have it said--that if the Army standsstill it is not by the will of its commander. There will, I swear, beno happier man in Europe when the day has come and the hour. It ishuman to err, but never possibly can some types err by being backward. We have a superb army in France. It needs the right leader to handleit. I came away happier and more confident than ever as to the future. 

Extraordinary are the contrasts of war. Within three hours of leavingthe quiet atmosphere of the Headquarters Château I was present at whatin any other war would have been looked upon as a brisk engagement. Asit was it would certainly figure in one of our desiccated reports as anactivity of the artillery. The noise as we struck the line at this newpoint showed that the matter was serious, and, indeed, we had chosenthe spot because it had been the storm centre of the last week. Themethod of approach chosen by our experienced guide was in itself atribute to the gravity of the affair. As one comes from the settledorder of Flanders into the actual scene of war, the first sign of it isone of the stationary, sausage-shaped balloons, a chain of which marksthe ring in which the great wrestlers are locked. We pass under this, ascend a hill, and find ourselves in a garden where for a year no feetsave those of wanderers like ourselves have stood. There is a wild, confused luxuriance of growth more beautiful to my eye than anythingwhich the care of man can produce. One old shell-hole of vast diameterhas filled itself with forget-me-nots, and appears as a graceful basinof light blue flowers, held up as an atonement to heaven for thebrutalities of man. Through the tangled bushes we creep, then across ayard--'Please stoop and run as you pass this point'--and finally to asmall opening in a wall, whence the battle lies not so much before asbeside us. For a moment we have a front seat at the great world-drama, God's own problem play, working surely to its magnificent end. Onefeels a sort of shame to crouch here in comfort, a useless spectator, while brave men down yonder are facing that pelting shower of iron. 

 * * * * *

There is a large field on our left rear, and the German gunners havethe idea that there is a concealed battery therein. They aresystematically searching for it. A great shell explodes in the topcorner, but gets nothing more solid than a few tons of clay. You canread the mind of Gunner Fritz. 'Try the lower corner!' says he, and upgoes the earth-cloud once again. 'Perhaps it's hid about the middle. I'll try. ' Earth again, and nothing more. 'I believe I was right thefirst time after all, ' says hopeful Fritz. So another shell comes intothe top corner. The field is as full of pits as a Gruyère cheese, butFritz gets nothing by his perseverance. Perhaps there never was abattery there at all. One effect he obviously did attain. He madeseveral other British batteries exceedingly angry. 'Stop that tickling, Fritz!' was the burden of their cry. Where they were we could no moresee than Fritz could, but their constant work was very clear along theGerman line. We appeared to be using more shrapnel and the Germans morehigh explosives, but that may have been just the chance of the day. TheVimy Ridge was on our right, and before us was the old French position, with the labyrinth of terrible memories and the long hill of Lorette. When, last year, the French, in a three weeks' battle, fought their wayup that hill, it was an exhibition of sustained courage which eventheir military annals can seldom have beaten. 

And so I turn from the British line. Another and more distant task liesbefore me. I come away with the deep sense of the difficult task whichlies before the Army, but with a deeper one of the ability of these mento do all that soldiers can ever be asked to perform. Let the gunsclear the way for the infantry, and the rest will follow. It all lieswith the guns. But the guns, in turn, depend upon our splendid workersat home, who, men and women, are doing so grandly. Let them not bejudged by a tiny minority, who are given, perhaps, too much attentionin our journals. We have all made sacrifices in the war, but when thefull story comes to be told, perhaps the greatest sacrifice of all isthat which Labour made when, with a sigh, she laid aside that which ithad taken so many weary years to build. 

A GLIMPSE OF THE ITALIAN ARMY

One meets with such extreme kindness and consideration among theItalians that there is a real danger lest one's personal feeling ofobligation should warp one's judgment or hamper one's expression. Making every possible allowance for this, I come away from them, aftera very wide if superficial view of all that they are doing, with a deepfeeling of admiration and a conviction that no army in the world couldhave made a braver attempt to advance under conditions of extraordinarydifficulty. 

First a word as to the Italian soldier. He is a type by himself whichdiffers from the earnest solidarity of the new French army, and fromthe businesslike alertness of the Briton, and yet has a very specialdash and fire of its own, covered over by a very pleasing andunassuming manner. London has not yet forgotten Durando of Marathonfame. He was just such another easy smiling youth as I now seeeverywhere around me. Yet there came a day when a hundred thousandLondoners hung upon his every movement--when strong men gasped andwomen wept at his invincible but unavailing spirit. When he had fallensenseless in that historic race on the very threshold of his goal, sohigh was the determination within him, that while he floundered on thetrack like a broken-backed horse, with the senses gone out of him, hislegs still continued to drum upon the cinder path. Then when by purewill power he staggered to his feet and drove his dazed body across theline, it was an exhibition of pluck which put the little sunburnedbaker straightway among London's heroes. Durando's spirit is aliveto-day, I see thousands of him all around me. A thousand such, led by afew young gentlemen of the type who occasionally give us object lessonsin how to ride at Olympia, make no mean battalion. It has been a warof most desperate ventures, but never once has there been a lack ofvolunteers. The Tyrolese are good men--too good to be fighting in sorotten a cause. But from first to last the Alpini have had theascendency in the hill fighting, as the line regiments have against theKaiserlics upon the plain. Caesar told how the big Germans used tolaugh at his little men until they had been at handgrips with them. TheAustrians could tell the same tale. The spirit in the ranks issomething marvellous. There have been occasions when every officer hasfallen and yet the men have pushed on, have taken a position and thenwaited for official directions. 

But if that is so, you will ask, why is it that they have not made moreimpression upon the enemy's position? The answer lies in thestrategical position of Italy, and it can be discussed without anytechnicalities. A child could understand it. The Alps form such a baracross the north that there are only two points where seriousoperations are possible. One is the Trentino Salient where Austria canalways threaten and invade Italy. She lies in the mountains with theplains beneath her. She can always invade the plain, but the Italianscannot seriously invade the mountains, since the passes would only leadto other mountains beyond. Therefore their only possible policy is tohold the Austrians back. This they have most successfully done, andthough the Austrians with the aid of a shattering heavy artillery haverecently made some advance, it is perfectly certain that they can neverreally carry out any serious invasion. The Italians then have done allthat could be done in this quarter. There remains the other front, theopening by the sea. Here the Italians had a chance to advance over afront of plain bounded by a river with hills beyond. They cleared theplain, they crossed the river, they fought a battle very like our ownbattle of the Aisne upon the slopes of the hills, taking 20, 000Austrian prisoners, and now they are faced by barbed wire, machineguns, cemented trenches, and every other device which has held them asit has held every one else. But remember what they have done for thecommon cause and be grateful for it. They have in a year occupied someforty Austrian divisions, and relieved our Russian allies to that veryappreciable extent. They have killed or wounded a quarter of a million, taken 40, 000, and drawn to themselves a large portion of the artillery. That is their record up to date. As to the future it is very easy toprophesy. They will continue to absorb large enemy armies. Neither sidecan advance far as matters stand. But if the Russians advance andAustria has to draw her men to the East, there will be a tiger springfor Trieste. If manhood can break the line, then I believe the Durandoswill do it. 

'Trieste o morte!' I saw chalked upon the walls all over North Italy. That is the Italian objective. 

And they are excellently led. Cadorna is an old Roman, a man cast inthe big simple mould of antiquity, frugal in his tastes, clear in hisaims, with no thought outside his duty. Every one loves and trusts him. Porro, the Chief of the Staff, who was good enough to explain thestrategical position to me, struck me as a man of great clearness ofvision, middle-sized, straight as a dart, with an eagle face grainedand coloured like an old walnut. The whole of the staff work is, asexperts assure me, moot excellently done. 

So much for the general situation. Let me descend for a moment to myown trivial adventures since leaving the British front. Of France Ihope to say more in the future, and so I will pass at a bound to Padua, where it appeared that the Austrian front had politely advanced to meetme, for I was wakened betimes in the morning by the dropping of bombs, the rattle of anti-aircraft guns, and the distant rat-tat-tat of amaxim high up in the air. I heard when I came down later that theintruder had been driven away and that little damage had been done. Thework of the Austrian aeroplanes is, however, very aggressive behind theItalian lines, for they have the great advantage that a row of finecities lies at their mercy, while the Italians can do nothing withoutinjuring their own kith and kin across the border. This dropping ofexplosives on the chance of hitting one soldier among fifty victimsseems to me the most monstrous development of the whole war, and theone which should be most sternly repressed in future internationallegislation--if such a thing as international law still exists. TheItalian headquarter town, which I will call Nemini, was a particularvictim of these murderous attacks. I speak with some feeling, as notonly was the ceiling of my bedroom shattered some days before myarrival, but a greasy patch with some black shreds upon it was stillvisible above my window which represented part of the remains of anunfortunate workman, who had been blown to pieces immediately in frontof the house. The air defence is very skilfully managed however, andthe Italians have the matter well in hand. 

My first experience of the Italian line was at the portion which I havecalled the gap by the sea, otherwise the Isonzo front. From a moundbehind the trenches an extraordinary fine view can be got of theAustrian position, the general curve of both lines being marked, as inFlanders, by the sausage balloons which float behind them. The Isonzo, which has been so bravely carried by the Italians, lay in front of me, a clear blue river, as broad as the Thames at Hampton Court. In ahollow to my left were the roofs of Gorizia, the town which theItalians are endeavouring to take. A long desolate ridge, the Carso, extends to the south of the town, and stretches down nearly to the sea. The crest is held by the Austrians and the Italian trenches have beenpushed within fifty yards of them. A lively bombardment was going onfrom either side, but so far as the infantry goes there is none of thatconstant malignant petty warfare with which we are familiar inFlanders. I was anxious to see the Italian trenches, in order tocompare them with our British methods, but save for the support andcommunication trenches I was courteously but firmly warned off. 

The story of trench attack and defence is no doubt very similar in allquarters, but I am convinced that close touch should be kept betweenthe Allies on the matter of new inventions. The quick Latin brain mayconceive and test an idea long before we do. At present there seems tobe very imperfect sympathy. As an example, when I was on the Britishlines they were dealing with a method of clearing barbed wire. Theexperiments were new and were causing great interest. But on theItalian front I found that the same system had been tested for manymonths. In the use of bullet proof jackets for engineers and other menwho have to do exposed work the Italians are also ahead of us. One oftheir engineers at our headquarters might give some valuable advice. Atpresent the Italians have, as I understand, no military representativewith our armies, while they receive a British General with a smallstaff. This seems very wrong not only from the point of view ofcourtesy and justice, but also because Italy has no direct means ofknowing the truth about our great development. When Germans state thatour new armies are made of paper, our Allies should have some officialassurance of their own that this is false. I can understand our keepingneutrals from our headquarters, but surely our Allies should be onanother footing. 

Having got this general view of the position I was anxious in theafternoon to visit Monfalcone, which is the small dockyard capturedfrom the Austrians on the Adriatic. My kind Italian officer guides didnot recommend the trip, as it was part of their great hospitality toshield their guest from any part of that danger which they were alwaysready to incur themselves. The only road to Monfalcone ran close to theAustrian position at the village of Ronchi, and afterwards keptparallel to it for some miles. I was told that it was only on odd daysthat the Austrian guns were active in this particular section, sodetermined to trust to luck that this might not be one of them. Itproved, however, to be one of the worst on record, and we were notdestined to see the dockyard to which we started. 

The civilian cuts a ridiculous figure when he enlarges upon smalladventures which may come his way--adventures which the soldier enduresin silence as part of his everyday life. On this occasion, however, theepisode was all our own, and had a sporting flavour in it which made itdramatic. I know now the feeling of tense expectation with which thedriven grouse whirrs onwards towards the butt. I have been behind thebutt before now, and it is only poetic justice that I should see thematter from the other point of view. As we approached Ronchi we couldsee shrapnel breaking over the road in front of us, but we had not yetrealised that it was precisely for vehicles that the Austrians werewaiting, and that they had the range marked out to a yard. We went downthe road all out at a steady fifty miles an hour. The village was near, and it seemed that we had got past the place of danger. We had in factjust reached it. At this moment there was a noise as if the whole fourtyres had gone simultaneously, a most terrific bang in our very ears, merging into a second sound like a reverberating blow upon an enormousgong. As I glanced up I saw three clouds immediately above my head, twoof them white and the other of a rusty red. The air was full of flyingmetal, and the road, as we were told afterwards by an observer, was allchurned up by it. The metal base of one of the shells was found plumbin the middle of the road just where our motor had been. There is nouse telling me Austrian gunners can't shoot. I know better. 

It was our pace that saved us. The motor was an open one, and the threeshells burst, according to one of my Italian companions who was himselfan artillery officer, about ten metres above our heads. They threwforward, however, and we travelling at so great a pace shot from under. Before they could get in another we had swung round the curve and underthe lee of a house. The good Colonel B. Wrung my hand in silence. Theywere both distressed, these good soldiers, under the impression thatthey had led me into danger. As a matter of fact it was I who owed theman apology, since they had enough risks in the way of business withouttaking others in order to gratify the whim of a joy-rider. Barbaricheand Clericetti, this record will convey to you my remorse. 

Our difficulties were by no means over. We found an ambulance lorry anda little group of infantry huddled under the same shelter with theexpression of people who had been caught in the rain. The road beyondwas under heavy fire as well as that by which we had come. Had theOstro-Boches dropped a high-explosive upon us they would have had agood mixed bag. But apparently they were only out for fancy shootingand disdained a sitter. Presently there came a lull and the lorry movedon, but we soon heard a burst of firing which showed that they wereafter it. My companions had decided that it was out of the question forus to finish our excursion. We waited for some time therefore and wereable finally to make our retreat on foot, being joined later by thecar. So ended my visit to Monfalcone, the place I did not reach. I hearthat two 10, 000-ton steamers were left on the stocks there by theAustrians, but were disabled before they retired. Their cabin basinsand other fittings are now adorning the Italian dug-outs. 

My second day was devoted to a view of the Italian mountain warfare inthe Carnic Alps. Besides the two great fronts, one of defence(Trentino) and one of offence (Isonzo), there are very many smallervalleys which have to be guarded. The total frontier line is over fourhundred miles, and it has all to be held against raids if notinvasions. It is a most picturesque business. Far up in the RoccolanaValley I found the Alpini outposts, backed by artillery which had beenbrought into the most wonderful positions. They have taken 8-inch gunswhere a tourist could hardly take his knapsack. Neither side can evermake serious progress, but there are continual duels, gun against gun, or Alpini against Jaeger. In a little wayside house was the brigadeheadquarters, and here I was entertained to lunch. It was a scene thatI shall remember. They drank to England. I raised my glass to Italiairredenta--might it soon be redenta. They all sprang to their feet andthe circle of dark faces flashed into flame. They keep their souls andemotions, these people. I trust that ours may not become atrophied byself-suppression. 

The Italians are a quick high-spirited race, and it is very necessarythat we should consider their feelings, and that we should show oursympathy with what they have done, instead of making querulous andunreasonable demands of them. In some ways they are in a difficultposition. The war is made by their splendid king--a man of whom everyone speaks with extraordinary reverence and love--and by the people. The people, with the deep instinct of a very old civilisation, understand that the liberty of the world and their own nationalexistence are really at stake. But there are several forces whichdivide the strength of the nation. There is the clerical, whichrepresents the old Guelph or German spirit, looking upon Austria as theeldest daughter of the Church--a daughter who is little credit to hermother. Then there is the old nobility. Finally, there are thecommercial people who through the great banks or other similar agencieshave got into the influence and employ of the Germans. When youconsider all this you will appreciate how necessary it is that Britainshould in every possible way, moral and material, sustain the nationalparty. Should by any evil chance the others gain the upper hand theremight be a very sudden and sinister change in the internationalsituation. Every man who does, says, or writes a thing which may in anyway alienate the Italians is really, whether he knows it or not, working for the King of Prussia. They are a grand people, striving mostefficiently for the common cause, with all the dreadful disabilitieswhich an absence of coal and iron entails. It is for us to show that weappreciate it. Justice as well as policy demands it. 

The last day spent upon the Italian front was in the Trentino. FromVerona a motor drive of about twenty-five miles takes one up the valleyof the Adige, and past a place of evil augury for the Austrians, thefield of Rivoli. As one passes up the valley one appreciates that ontheir left wing the Italians have position after position in the spursof the mountains before they could be driven into the plain. If theAustrians could reach the plain it would be to their own ruin, for theItalians have large reserves. There is no need for any anxiety aboutthe Trentino. 

The attitude of the people behind the firing line should give oneconfidence. I had heard that the Italians were a nervous people. Itdoes not apply to this part of Italy. As I approached the danger spot Isaw rows of large, fat gentlemen with long thin black cigars leaningagainst walls in the sunshine. The general atmosphere would havesteadied an epileptic. Italy is perfectly sure of herself in thisquarter. Finally, after a long drive of winding gradients, alwaysbeside the Adige, we reached Ala, where we interviewed the Commander ofthe Sector, a man who has done splendid work during the recentfighting. 'By all means you can see my front. But no motorcar, please. It draws fire and others may be hit beside you. ' We proceeded on foottherefore along a valley which branched at the end into two passes. Inboth very active fighting had been going on, and as we came up the gunswere baying merrily, waking up most extraordinary echoes in the hills. It was difficult to believe that it was not thunder. There was oneterrible voice that broke out from time to time in the mountains--theangry voice of the Holy Roman Empire. When it came all other soundsdied down into nothing. It was--so I was told--the master gun, the vast42 centimetre giant which brought down the pride of Liége and Namur. The Austrians have brought one or more from Innsbruck. The Italiansassure me, however, as we have ourselves discovered, that in trenchwork beyond a certain point the size of the gun makes little matter. 

We passed a burst dug-out by the roadside where a tragedy had occurredrecently, for eight medical officers were killed in it by a singleshell. There was no particular danger in the valley however, and theaimed fire was all going across us to the fighting lines in the twopasses above us. That to the right, the Valley of Buello, has seen someof the worst of the fighting. These two passes form the Italian leftwing which has held firm all through. So has the right wing. It is onlythe centre which has been pushed in by the concentrated fire. 

When we arrived at the spot where the two valleys forked we werehalted, and we were not permitted to advance to the advance trencheswhich lay upon the crests above us. There was about a thousand yardsbetween the adversaries. I have seen types of some of the Bosnian andCroatian prisoners, men of poor physique and intelligence, but theItalians speak with chivalrous praise of the bravery of the Hungariansand of the Austrian Jaeger. Some of their proceedings disgust themhowever, and especially the fact that they use Russian prisoners to digtrenches under fire. There is no doubt of this, as some of the men wererecaptured and were sent on to join their comrades in France. On thewhole, however, it may be said that in the Austro-Italian war there isnothing which corresponds with the extreme bitterness of our westernconflict. The presence or absence of the Hun makes all the difference. 

Nothing could be more cool or methodical than the Italian arrangementson the Trentino front. There are no troops who would not have beenforced back by the Austrian fire. It corresponded with the Frenchexperience at Verdun, or ours at the second battle of Ypres. It maywell occur again if the Austrians get their guns forward. But at such arate it would take them a long time to make any real impression. Onecannot look at the officers and men without seeing that their spiritand confidence are high. In answer to my inquiry they assure me thatthere is little difference between the troops of the northern provincesand those of the south. Even among the snows of the Alps they tell methat the Sicilians gave an excellent account of themselves. 

That night found me back at Verona, and next morning I was on my way toParis, where I hope to be privileged to have some experiences at thefront of our splendid Allies. I leave Italy with a deep feeling ofgratitude for the kindness shown to me, and of admiration for the wayin which they are playing their part in the world's fight for freedom. They have every possible disadvantage, economic and political. But inspite of it they have done splendidly. Three thousand square kilometresof the enemy's country are already in their possession. They relieve toa very great extent the pressure upon the Russians, who, in spite ofall their bravery, might have been overwhelmed last summer during the'durchbruch' had it not been for the diversion of so many Austriantroops. The time has come now when Russia by her advance on the Pripetis repaying her debt. But the debt is common to all the Allies. Letthem bear it in mind. There has been mischief done by slightingcriticism and by inconsiderate words. A warm sympathetic hand-grasp ofcongratulation is what Italy has deserved, and it is both justice andpolicy to give it. 

A GLIMPSE OF THE FRENCH LINE

I

The French soldiers are grand. They are grand. There is no other wordto express it. It is not merely their bravery. All races have shownbravery in this war. But it is their solidity, their patience, theirnobility. I could not conceive anything finer than the bearing of theirofficers. It is proud without being arrogant, stern without beingfierce, serious without being depressed. Such, too, are the men whomthey lead with such skill and devotion. Under the frightfulhammer-blows of circumstance, the national characters seem to have beenreversed. It is our British soldier who has become debonair, light-hearted and reckless, while the Frenchman has developed a solemnstolidity and dour patience which was once all our own. During a longday in the French trenches, I have never once heard the sound of musicor laughter, nor have I once seen a face that was not full of the mostgrim determination. 

Germany set out to bleed France white. Well, she has done so. France isfull of widows and orphans from end to end. Perhaps in proportion toher population she has suffered the most of all. But in carrying outher hellish mission Germany has bled herself white also. Her heavysword has done its work, but the keen French rapier has not lost itsskill. France will stand at last, weak and tottering, with her hugeenemy dead at her feet. But it is a fearsome business to see--such abusiness as the world never looked upon before. It is fearful for theFrench. It is fearful for the Germans. May God's curse rest upon thearrogant men and the unholy ambitions which let loose this horror uponhumanity! Seeing what they have done, and knowing that they have doneit, one would think that mortal brain would grow crazy under theweight. Perhaps the central brain of all was crazy from the first. Butwhat sort of government is it under which one crazy brain can wreckmankind!

If ever one wanders into the high places of mankind, the places whencethe guidance should come, it seems to me that one has to recall thedying words of the Swedish Chancellor who declared that the folly ofthose who governed was what had amazed him most in his experience oflife. Yesterday I met one of these men of power--M. Clemenceau, oncePrime Minister, now the destroyer of governments. He is by nature adestroyer, incapable of rebuilding what he has pulled down. With hispersonal force, his eloquence, his thundering voice, his bitter pen, hecould wreck any policy, but would not even trouble to suggest analternative. As he sat before me with his face of an old prizefighter(he is remarkably like Jim Mace as I can remember him in his laterdays), his angry grey eyes and his truculent, mischievous smile, heseemed to me a very dangerous man. His conversation, if a squirt on oneside and Niagara on the other can be called conversation, was directedfor the moment upon the iniquity of the English rate of exchange, whichseemed to me very much like railing against the barometer. Mycompanion, who has forgotten more economics than ever Clemenceau knew, was about to ask whether France was prepared to take the rouble at facevalue, but the roaring voice, like a strong gramophone with a bluntneedle, submerged all argument. We have our dangerous men, but we haveno one in the same class as Clemenceau. Such men enrage the people whoknow them, alarm the people who don't, set every one by the ears, actas a healthy irritant in days of peace, and are a public danger in daysof war. 

 * * * * *

But this is digression. I had set out to say something of a day'sexperience of the French front, though I shall write with a fuller penwhen I return from the Argonne. It was for Soissons that we made, passing on the way a part of the scene of our own early operations, including the battlefield of Villers Cotteret--just such a wood as Ihad imagined. My companion's nephew was one of those Guards' officerswhose bodies rest now in the village cemetery, with a little BritishJack still flying above them. They lie together, and their grave istended with pious care. Among the trees beside the road were othergraves of soldiers, buried where they had fallen. 'So look around--andchoose your ground--and take your rest. '

Soissons is a considerable wreck, though it is very far from being anYpres. But the cathedral would, and will, make many a patrioticFrenchman weep. These savages cannot keep their hands off a beautifulchurch. Here, absolutely unchanged through the ages, was the spot whereSt. Louis had dedicated himself to the Crusade. Every stone of it washoly. And now the lovely old stained glass strews the floor, and theroof lies in a huge heap across the central aisle. A dog was climbingover it as we entered. No wonder the French fight well. Such sightswould drive the mildest man to desperation. The abbé, a good priest, with a large humorous face, took us over his shattered domain. He wasfull of reminiscences of the German occupation of the place. One of hispersonal anecdotes was indeed marvellous. It was that a lady in thelocal ambulance had vowed to kiss the first French soldier whore-entered the town. She did so, and it proved to be her husband. Theabbé is a good, kind, truthful man--but he has a humorous face. 

A walk down a ruined street brings one to the opening of the trenches. There are marks upon the walls of the German occupation. 'Berlin--Paris, ' with an arrow of direction, adorns one corner. Atanother the 76th Regiment have commemorated the fact that they werethere in 1870 and again in 1914. If the Soissons folk are wise theywill keep these inscriptions as a reminder to the rising generation. Ican imagine, however, that their inclination will be to whitewash, fumigate, and forget. 

A sudden turn among some broken walls takes one into the communicationtrench. Our guide is a Commandant of the Staff, a tall, thin man withhard, grey eyes and a severe face. It is the more severe towards us asI gather that he has been deluded into the belief that about one out ofsix of our soldiers goes to the trenches. For the moment he is notfriends with the English. As we go along, however, we gradually getupon better terms, we discover a twinkle in the hard, grey eyes, andthe day ends with an exchange of walking-sticks and a renewal of theEntente. May my cane grow into a marshal's baton. 

 * * * * *

A charming young artillery subaltern is our guide in that maze oftrenches, and we walk and walk and walk, with a brisk exchange ofcompliments between the '75's' of the French and the '77's' of theGermans going on high over our heads. The trenches are boarded at thesides, and have a more permanent look than those of Flanders. Presentlywe meet a fine, brown-faced, upstanding boy, as keen as a razor, whocommands this particular section. A little further on a helmetedcaptain of infantry, who is an expert sniper, joins our little party. Now we are at the very front trench. I had expected to see primevalmen, bearded and shaggy. But the 'Poilus' have disappeared. The menaround me were clean and dapper to a remarkable degree. I gathered, however, that they had their internal difficulties. On one board I readan old inscription, 'He is a Boche, but he is the inseparable companionof a French soldier. ' Above was a rude drawing of a louse. 

I am led to a cunning loop-hole, and have a glimpse through it of alittle framed picture of French countryside. There are fields, a road, a sloping hill beyond with trees. Quite close, about thirty or fortyyards away, was a low, red-tiled house. 'They are there, ' said ourguide. 'That is their outpost. We can hear them cough. ' Only the gunswere coughing that morning, so we heard nothing, but it was certainlywonderful to be so near to the enemy and yet in such peace. I supposewondering visitors from Berlin are brought up also to hear the Frenchcough. Modern warfare has certainly some extraordinary sides. 

Now we are shown all the devices which a year of experience hassuggested to the quick brains of our Allies. It is ground upon whichone cannot talk with freedom. Every form of bomb, catapult, and trenchmortar was ready to hand. Every method of cross-fire had been thoughtout to an exact degree. There was something, however, about theirdisposition of a machine gun which disturbed the Commandant. He calledfor the officer of the gun. His thin lips got thinner and his grey eyesmore austere as we waited. Presently there emerged an extraordinarilyhandsome youth, dark as a Spaniard, from some rabbit hole. He faced theCommandant bravely, and answered back with respect but firmness. 'Pourquoi?' asked the Commandant, and yet again 'Pourquoi?' Adonis hadan answer for everything. Both sides appealed to the big Captain ofSnipers, who was clearly embarrassed. He stood on one leg and scratchedhis chin. Finally the Commandant turned away angrily in the midst ofone of Adonis' voluble sentences. His face showed that the matter wasnot ended. War is taken very seriously in the French army, and any sortof professional mistake is very quickly punished. I have been told howmany officers of high rank have been broken by the French during thewar. The figure was a very high one. There is no more forgiveness forthe beaten General than there was in the days of the Republic when thedelegate of the National Convention, with a patent portable guillotine, used to drop in at headquarters to support a more vigorous offensive. 

 * * * * *

As I write these lines there is a burst of bugles in the street, and Igo to my open window to see the 41st of the line march down into whatmay develop into a considerable battle. How I wish they could marchdown the Strand even as they are. How London would rise to them! Ladenlike donkeys, with a pile upon their backs and very often both handsfull as well, they still get a swing into their march which it is goodto see. They march in column of platoons, and the procession is a longone, for a French regiment is, of course, equal to three battalions. The men are shortish, very thick, burned brown in the sun, with never asmile among them--have I not said that they are going down to a grimsector?--but with faces of granite. There was a time when we talked ofstiffening the French army. I am prepared to believe that our firstexpeditionary force was capable of stiffening any conscript army, for Ido not think that a finer force ever went down to battle. But to talkabout stiffening these people now would be ludicrous. You might as wellstiffen the old Guard. There may be weak regiments somewhere, but Ihave never seen them. 

I think that an injustice has been done to the French army by theinsistence of artists and cinema operators upon the picturesqueColonial corps. One gets an idea that Arabs and negroes are pullingFrance out of the fire. It is absolutely false. Her own brave sons aredoing the work. The Colonial element is really a very small one--sosmall that I have not seen a single unit during all my Frenchwanderings. The Colonials are good men, but like our splendidHighlanders they catch the eye in a way which is sometimes a littlehard upon their neighbours. When there is hard work to be done it isthe good little French piou-piou who usually has to do it. There is nobetter man in Europe. If we are as good--and I believe we are--it issomething to be proud of. 

 * * * * *

But I have wandered far from the trenches of Soissons. It had come onto rain heavily, and we were forced to take refuge in the dugout of thesniper. Eight of us sat in the deep gloom huddled closely together. TheCommandant was still harping upon that ill-placed machine gun. He couldnot get over it. My imperfect ear for French could not follow all hiscomplaints, but some defence of the offender brought forth a 'Jamais!Jamais! Jamais!' which was rapped out as if it came from the gunitself. There were eight of us in an underground burrow, and some weresmoking. Better a deluge than such an atmosphere as that. But if thereis a thing upon earth which the French officer shies at it is rain andmud. The reason is that he is extraordinarily natty in his person. Hischarming blue uniform, his facings, his brown gaiters, boots and beltsare always just as smart as paint. He is the Dandy of the European war. I noticed officers in the trenches with their trousers carefullypressed. It is all to the good, I think. Wellington said that thedandies made his best officers. It is difficult for the men to getrattled or despondent when they see the debonair appearance of theirleaders. 

Among the many neat little marks upon the French uniforms whichindicate with precision but without obtrusion the rank and arm of thewearer, there was one which puzzled me. It was to be found on the leftsleeve of men of all ranks, from generals to privates, and it consistedof small gold chevrons, one, two, or more. No rule seemed to regulatethem, for the general might have none, and I have heard of the privatewho wore ten. Then I solved the mystery. They are the record of woundsreceived. What an admirable idea! Surely we should hasten to introduceit among our own soldiers. It costs little and it means much. If youcan allay the smart of a wound by the knowledge that it brings lastinghonour to the man among his fellows, then surely it should be done. Medals, too, are more freely distributed and with more public paradethan in our service. I am convinced that the effect is good. 

 * * * * *

The rain has now stopped, and we climb from our burrow. Again we areled down that endless line of communication trench, again we stumblethrough the ruins, again we emerge into the street where our cars areawaiting us. Above our heads the sharp artillery duel is going merrilyforward. The French are firing three or four to one, which has been myexperience at every point I have touched upon the Allied front. Thanksto the extraordinary zeal of the French workers, especially of theFrench women, and to the clever adaptation of machinery by theirengineers, their supplies are abundant. Even now they turn out moreshells a day than we do. That, however, excludes our supply for theFleet. But it is one of the miracles of the war that the French, withtheir coal and iron in the hands of the enemy, have been able to equalthe production of our great industrial centres. The steel, of course, is supplied by us. To that extent we can claim credit for the result. 

And so, after the ceremony of the walking-sticks, we bid adieu to thelines of Soissons. To-morrow we start for a longer tour to the moreformidable district of the Argonne, the neighbour of Verdun, and itselfthe scene of so much that is glorious and tragic. 

II. 

There is a couplet of Stevenson's which haunts me, 'There fell a war ina woody place--in a land beyond the sea. ' I have just come back fromspending three wonderful dream days in that woody place. It lies withthe open, bosky country of Verdun on its immediate right, and the chalkdowns of Champagne upon its left. If one could imagine the lines beingtaken right through our New Forest or the American Adirondacks it wouldgive some idea of the terrain, save that it is a very undulatingcountry of abrupt hills and dales. It is this peculiarity which hasmade the war on this front different to any other, more picturesque andmore secret. In front the fighting lines are half in the clay soil, half behind the shelter of fallen trunks. Between the two the main bulkof the soldiers live like animals of the woodlands, burrowing on thehillsides and among the roots of the trees. It is a war by itself, anda very wonderful one to see. At three different points I have visitedthe front in this broad region, wandering from the lines of one armycorps to that of another. In all three I found the same conditions, andin all three I found also the same pleasing fact which I had discoveredat Soissons, that the fire of the French was at least five, and veryoften ten shots to one of the Boche. It used not to be so. The Germansused to scrupulously return shot for shot. But whether they have movedtheir guns to the neighbouring Verdun, or whether, as is more likely, all the munitions are going there, it is certain that they were veryoutclassed upon the three days (June 10, 11, 12) which I allude to. There were signs that for some reason their spirits were at a low ebb. On the evening before our arrival the French had massed all their bandsat the front, and, in honour of the Russian victory, had played theMarseillaise and the Russian National hymn, winding up with generalshoutings and objurgations calculated to annoy. Failing to stir up theBoche, they had ended by a salute from a hundred shotted guns. Aftertrailing their coats up and down the line they had finally to give upthe attempt to draw the enemy. Want of food may possibly have caused adecline in the German spirit. There is some reason to believe that theyfeed up their fighting men at the places like Verdun or Hooge, wherethey need all their energy, at the expense of the men who are on thedefensive. If so, we may find it out when we attack. The Frenchofficers assured me that the prisoners and deserters made bittercomplaints of their scale of rations. And yet it is hard to believethat the fine efforts of our enemy at Verdun are the work ofhalf-starved men. 

 * * * * *

To return to my personal impressions, it was at Chalons that we leftthe Paris train--a town which was just touched by the most forwardripple of the first great German floodtide. A drive of some twentymiles took us to St. Menehould, and another ten brought us to the frontin the sector of Divisional-General H. A fine soldier this, and heavenhelp Germany if he and his division get within its borders, for he is, as one can see at a glance, a man of iron who has been goaded tofierceness by all that his beloved country has endured. He is a man ofmiddle size, swarthy, hawk-like, very abrupt in his movements, with twosteel grey eyes, which are the most searching that mine have ever met. His hospitality and courtesy to us were beyond all bounds, but there isanother side to him, and it is one which it is wiser not to provoke. Inperson he took us to his lines, passing through the usual shot-tornvillages behind them. Where the road dips down into the great forestthere is one particular spot which is visible to the German artilleryobservers. The General mentioned it at the time, but his remark seemedto have no personal interest. We understood it better on our return inthe evening. 

Now we found ourselves in the depths of the woods, primeval woods ofoak and beech in the deep clay soil that the great oak loves. There hadbeen rain and the forest paths were ankle deep in mire. Everywhere, toright and left, soldiers' faces, hard and rough from a year of openair, gazed up at us from their burrows in the ground. Presently analert, blue-clad figure stood in the path to greet us. It was theColonel of the sector. He was ridiculously like Cyrano de Bergerac asdepicted by the late M. Coquelin, save that his nose was of moremoderate proportion. The ruddy colouring, the bristling felinefull-ended moustache, the solidity of pose, the backward tilt of the head, the general suggestion of the bantam cock, were all there facing us ashe stood amid the leaves in the sunlight. Gauntlets and a longrapier--nothing else was wanting. Something had amused Cyrano. Hismoustache quivered with suppressed mirth, and his blue eyes weredemurely gleaming. Then the joke came out. He had spotted a Germanworking party, his guns had concentrated on it, and afterwards he hadseen the stretchers go forward. A grim joke, it may seem. But theFrench see this war from a different angle to us. If we had the Bochesitting on our heads for two years, and were not yet quite sure whetherwe could ever get him off again, we should get Cyrano's point of view. Those of us who have had our folk murdered by Zeppelins or tortured inGerman prisons have probably got it already. 

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We passed in a little procession among the French soldiers, and viewedtheir multifarious arrangements. For them we were a little break in amonotonous life, and they formed up in lines as we passed. My ownBritish uniform and the civilian dresses of my two companionsinterested them. As the General passed these groups, who formedthemselves up in perhaps a more familiar manner than would have beenusual in the British service, he glanced kindly at them with thosesingular eyes of his, and once or twice addressed them as 'Mesenfants. ' One might conceive that all was 'go as you please' among theFrench. So it is as long as you go in the right way. When you strayfrom it you know it. As we passed a group of men standing on a lowridge which overlooked us there was a sudden stop. I gazed round. TheGeneral's face was steel and cement. The eyes were cold and yet fiery, sunlight upon icicles. Something had happened. Cyrano had sprung to hisside. His reddish moustache had shot forward beyond his nose, and itbristled out like that of an angry cat. Both were looking up at thegroup above us. One wretched man detached himself from his comrades andsidled down the slope. No skipper and mate of a Yankee blood boat couldhave looked more ferociously at a mutineer. And yet it was all oversome minor breach of discipline which was summarily disposed of by twodays of confinement. Then in an instant the faces relaxed, there was ageneral buzz of relief and we were back at 'Mes enfants' again. Butdon't make any mistake as to discipline in the French army. 

Trenches are trenches, and the main specialty of these in the Argonneis that they are nearer to the enemy. In fact there are places wherethey interlock, and where the advanced posts lie cheek by jowl with agood steel plate to cover both cheek and jowl. We were brought to asap-head where the Germans were at the other side of a narrow forestroad. Had I leaned forward with extended hand and a Boche done the samewe could have touched. I looked across, but saw only a tangle of wireand sticks. Even whispering was not permitted in these forward posts. 

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When we emerged from these hushed places of danger Cyrano took us allto his dug-out, which was a tasty little cottage carved from the sideof a hill and faced with logs. He did the honours of the humble cabinwith the air of a seigneur in his château. There was little furniture, but from some broken mansion he had extracted an iron fire-back, whichadorned his grate. It was a fine, mediaeval bit of work, with Venus, inher traditional costume, in the centre of it. It seemed the last touchin the picture of the gallant, virile Cyrano. I only met him this once, nor shall I ever see him again, yet he stands a thing complete withinmy memory. Even now as I write these lines he walks the leafy paths ofthe Argonne, his fierce eyes ever searching for the Boche workers, hisred moustache bristling over their annihilation. He seems a figure outof the past of France. 

That night we dined with yet another type of the French soldier, General A. , who commands the corps of which my friend has one division. Each of these French generals has a striking individuality of his ownwhich I wish I could fix upon paper. Their only common point is thateach seems to be a rare good soldier. The corps general is Athos with atouch of d'Artagnan. He is well over six feet high, bluff, jovial, withhuge, up-curling moustache, and a voice that would rally a regiment. Itis a grand figure which should have been done by Van Dyck with lacecollar, hand on sword, and arm akimbo. Jovial and laughing was he, buta stern and hard soldier was lurking behind the smiles. His name mayappear in history, and so may Humbert's, who rules all the army ofwhich the other's corps is a unit. Humbert is a Lord Robert's figure, small, wiry, quick-stepping, all steel and elastic, with a short, sharp upturned moustache, which one could imagine as crackling withelectricity in moments of excitement like a cat's fur. What he does orsays is quick, abrupt, and to the point. He fires his remarks likepistol shots at this man or that. Once to my horror he fixed me withhis hard little eyes and demanded 'Sherlock Holmes, est ce qu'il est unsoldat dans l'armée Anglaise?' The whole table waited in an awful hush. 'Mais, mon general, ' I stammered, 'il est trop vieux pour service. 'There was general laughter, and I felt that I had scrambled out of anawkward place. 

And talking of awkward places, I had forgotten about that spot upon theroad whence the Boche observer could see our motor-cars. He hadactually laid a gun upon it, the rascal, and waited all the long dayfor our return. No sooner did we appear upon the slope than a shrapnelshell burst above us, but somewhat behind me, as well as to the left. Had it been straight the second car would have got it, and there mighthave been a vacancy in one of the chief editorial chairs in London. TheGeneral shouted to the driver to speed up, and we were soon safe fromthe German gunners. One gets perfectly immune to noises in thesescenes, for the guns which surround you make louder crashes than anyshell which bursts about you. It is only when you actually see thecloud over you that your thoughts come back to yourself, and that yourealise that in this wonderful drama you may be a useless super, butnone the less you are on the stage and not in the stalls. 

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Next morning we were down in the front trenches again at anotherportion of the line. Far away on our right, from a spot named theObservatory, we could see the extreme left of the Verdun position andshells bursting on the Fille Morte. To the north of us was a broadexpanse of sunny France, nestling villages, scattered châteaux, rusticchurches, and all as inaccessible as if it were the moon. It is aterrible thing this German bar--a thing unthinkable to Britons. Tostand on the edge of Yorkshire and look into Lancashire feeling that itis in other hands, that our fellow-countrymen are suffering there andwaiting, waiting, for help, and that we cannot, after two years, come ayard nearer to them--would it not break our hearts? Can I wonder thatthere is no smile upon the grim faces of these Frenchmen! But when thebar is broken, when the line sweeps forward, as most surely it will, when French bayonets gleam on yonder uplands and French flags breakfrom those village spires--ah, what a day that will be! Men will diethat day from the pure, delirious joy of it. We cannot think what itmeans to France, and the less so because she stands so nobly patientwaiting for her hour. 

Yet another type of French general takes us round this morning! He, too, is a man apart, an unforgettable man. Conceive a man with a largebroad good-humoured face, and two placid, dark seal's eyes which gazegently into yours. He is young and has pink cheeks and a soft voice. Such is one of the most redoubtable fighters of France, this General ofDivision D. His former staff officers told me something of the man. Heis a philosopher, a fatalist, impervious to fear, a dreamer of distantdreams amid the most furious bombardment. The weight of the Frenchassault upon the terrible labyrinth fell at one time upon the brigadewhich he then commanded. He led them day after day gathering up Germanswith the detached air of the man of science who is hunting forspecimens. In whatever shell-hole he might chance to lunch he had hiscloth spread and decorated with wild flowers plucked from the edge. Iffate be kind to him he will go far. Apart from his valour he isadmitted to be one of the most scientific soldiers of France. 

From the Observatory we saw the destruction of a German trench. Therehad been signs of work upon it, so it was decided to close it down. Itwas a very visible brown streak a thousand yards away. The word waspassed back to the '75's' in the rear. There was a 'tir rapide' overour heads. My word, the man who stands fast under a 'tir rapide, ' be heBoche, French or British, is a man of mettle! The mere passage of theshells was awe-inspiring, at first like the screaming of a wintry wind, and then thickening into the howling of a pack of wolves. The trenchwas a line of terrific explosions. Then the dust settled down and allwas still. Where were the ants who had made the nest? Were they buriedbeneath it? Or had they got from under? No one could say. 

There was one little gun which fascinated me, and I stood for some timewatching it. Its three gunners, enormous helmeted men, evidently lovedit, and touched it with a swift but tender touch in every movement. When it was fired it ran up an inclined plane to take off the recoil, rushing up and then turning and rattling down again upon the gunnerswho were used to its ways. The first time it did it, I was standingbehind it, and I don't know which moved quickest--the gun or I. 

French officers above a certain rank develop and show their ownindividuality. In the lower grades the conditions of service enforce acertain uniformity. The British officer is a British gentleman first, and an officer afterwards. The Frenchman is an officer first, thoughnone the less the gentleman stands behind it. One very strange type wemet, however, in these Argonne Woods. He was a French-Canadian who hadbeen a French soldier, had founded a homestead in far Alberta, and hadnow come back of his own will, though a naturalised Briton, to the oldflag. He spoke English of a kind, the quality and quantity beingequally extraordinary. It poured from him and was, so far as it wasintelligible, of the woolly Western variety. His views on the Germanswere the most emphatic we had met. 'These Godam sons of'--well, let ussay 'Canines!' he would shriek, shaking his fist at the woods to thenorth of him. A good man was our compatriot, for he had a very recentLegion of Honour pinned upon his breast. He had been put with a few menon Hill 285, a sort of volcano stuffed with mines, and was told totelephone when he needed relief. He refused to telephone and remainedthere for three weeks. 'We sit like a rabbit in his hall, ' heexplained. He had only one grievance. There were many wild boars in theforest, but the infantry were too busy to get them. 'The GodamArtillaree he get the wild pig!' Out of his pocket he pulled a pictureof a frame-house with snow round it, and a lady with two children onthe stoop. It was his homestead at Trochu, seventy miles north ofCalgary. 

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It was the evening of the third day that we turned our faces to Parisonce more. It was my last view of the French. The roar of their gunswent far with me upon my way. Soldiers of France, farewell! In your ownphrase I salute you! Many have seen you who had more knowledge by whichto judge your manifold virtues, many also who had more skill to drawyou as you are, but never one, I am sure, who admired you more than I. Great was the French soldier under Louis the Sun-King, great too underNapoleon, but never was he greater than to-day. 

And so it is back to England and to home. I feel sobered and solemnfrom all that I have seen. It is a blind vision which does not see morethan the men and the guns, which does not catch something of theterrific spiritual conflict which is at the heart of it. 

 Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord --He is trampling out the vineyard where the grapes of wrath are stored. 

We have found no inspired singer yet, like Julia Howe, to voice thedivine meaning of it all--that meaning which is more than numbers orguns upon the day of battle. But who can see the adult manhood ofEurope standing in a double line, waiting for a signal to throwthemselves upon each other, without knowing that he has looked upon themost terrific of all the dealings between the creature below and thatgreat force above, which works so strangely towards some distant butglorious end?

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.