The American soldier in France finds new scenes, new conditions, new customs. Unconsciously he compares life back home with his new experiences, often to the latter’s disadvantage. He sees things he does not like, that he would change, that he could improve. But, what does appeal to him as perfect is the large number of small farms (53 per cent of Frenchmen are engaged in agriculture) with the little chateaux, built upon miniature estates, exquisitely tended, artistically designed, that give joy to the eye and food for the stomach. These beautiful homes encourage thrift, they show him, often, the better way.

Pride of possession makes the Frenchman patriotic, national. When the enemy struck France, they struck him. He rushed to the frontier to meet invaders who sought to subdue him and destroy his happy home. From a cheerful, mirth-loving man, he has become serious and morose. Not now does he sing or laugh any more. He has been treated unjustly. An overwhelming power tried to force on him something he will not have. He does not bluster—he waits. He does not scold—he works. When the time comes—he acts.

To the non-land-owning German industrial slaves, driven by the strong hand of Autocracy, he says,—“You shall not enslave us. If you have not the brains to free yourselves, we shall free you, whether you wish it or not.” To the robbers’ cry for peace (so they can legalize their stolen loot) the French soldier replies,—“Yes, when justice has been done, justice to the wronged, the oppressed, the raped. Justice is obtained by regular procedure in a criminal court, not by negotiation between equals. Arbitration is not possible between a crazy man and the woman he has assaulted. The mad man must be caught and properly judged. If insane, he should be confined, if not, he must be punished.”

As civilians become city broke, soldiers become army broke. Instead of walking in mobs, they move in rows. Near the front, from marching in companies, they advance in sections. These disintegrate, when an apparently stray shell comes along. Units become individuals of initiative and intelligence, adaptable to sudden, strange environment. Necessity supersedes the regular book of rules. Books are printed, orders given, to regulate ordinary conditions.

The soldier’s conditions under fire are neither ordinary nor regular. Instinct tells him when to brace, when to duck. He knows an order to stand up or lie down won’t stop that shell, put his cocoanut back, or reassemble his family tree. So, he does what he thinks best. He may obey or disobey the order, and save or lose his life. The man who gave the order may die because he did, or did not, obey.

A good soldier can generally kick off unnecessaries as fast as a poor officer can load them on. He runs light before the wind. Instead of wearing himself out as a hewer of wood and a hauler of water, he saves his strength for the enemy.

A luminous watch on the wrist, a compass in the pocket, a 2×6 box, with toilet necessaries, are his private stock in trade. The other sixty pounds are regular army. He always hangs onto his gun, cartridges, bombs, little shovel, and tin hat. He doesn’t want tight-fitting shoes, but prefers them a size or two large. He doesn’t buckle his belt regulation style. Instead of buckling his cartridge belt in front, he fastens it on the side, so he can slide the cartridge boxes around, where they won’t gouge into his body when he sleeps. He covers his rifle with oil. He wipes out his mess tin with dry bread crumbs. He does not gormandize before a long march, or fill up on cold water. He keeps his feet in good condition. He covers up his head when asleep, so the rats won’t disturb him. He keeps his rifle within reach, and is always ready to move at a moment’s notice.

One day, he may have eaten up the regulation hand-book of rules, for breakfast, dined comfortably on regimental orders, and, going to sleep, with taps blowing in his dome, dreamed sets of fours and double time. Next day, he wakes up, to find by actual experience that, while plans are made and ordered, everything is actually gained by opportunity, individuality, initiative.

He may pass years in peaceful climes, going like a side-walk comedian, through the empty mummeries of a Broadway spectacular production. Put under shot and shell, he just knows he is a soldier, who must keep his feet warm and his head cool.

The Poilu is first, first on outpost, first at the enemy, first in his home, first in the affection of his country. From the ranks of the poilu the officers are drawn. He is the Foundation. He honors France, France honors him.

When, in 1914, he, with the original Tommy Atkins, turned at the Marne, attacked fifty-two army corps of well-equipped, well-drilled, rapidly advancing, victorious Huns, outnumbering him 8 to 5, and drove them back with his bayonet (for some regiments had no cartridges), he saved not only France, but England, America and civilization.

During the terrible year of 1915, it was the bare breast and naked bayonet of the poilu and the little French 75 that halted superior forces of the enemy, flanked and aided by longer-ranged, heavy artillery, Zeppelins, liquid flame and aeroplanes.

Remember, German casualties, the first year of the war, were 3,500,000 men.

For eight continuous months, he was adamant, behind Verdun. One million men (600,000 Germans and 400,000 French) were incapacitated within the three square mile tract that guards the entrance to that historic town, where, a century before, Napoleon kept his English prisoners. Here, the poilu sent the German lambs to glory as fast as their Crown Prince could lead them to the slaughter.

With face of leather, his forehead a mass of wrinkles, which hurt neither the face nor his feelings—a man as careless of dress as the French poilu, naturally, doesn’t care whether his clothes fit him or not,—he goes his fine, proud way. His once happy countenance, now saddened by suffering, will yet light up in appreciation. A little kindness makes him eloquent. Strong in the righteousness of his cause, he does not bow his head in sorrow, or bend in weakness. He stands upright, four-square to the world. He has lived down discomfort. He cares nothing for exposure or starvation. He has seen what the brutes have done in the reconquered villages he passed through. He is determined they shall not do it in his home, or, if his home is in the invaded territory, he declares they shall pay for the damage. Animated by the spirit of justice, ennobled by the example of St. Genevieve, of Jeanne d’Arc, of Napoleon, inspired by the courage and devotion of the wonderful women of France, supported by a united country, he knows he is fighting for self-preservation and a world’s freedom.

He closed, locked, barred the door at the Marne. Now he guards the gate. He makes no complaint and asks no favors. With almost certainty of death in front, trouble in his heart, body racked by fatigue, with dark forebodings of the future, bled white by repeated onslaughts, he remains at his post and does his duty, without a murmur.

French officers are real, improved property, not vacant lots. They are leaders, not followers. Ordinary people see what goes on before their eyes. The French officer is not an ordinary person. Anything that is happening, or has happened, his quick mind connects with something else a mile away—not yet arrived. When it comes along, it has already been met; and he is waiting for the next move. His special study is the German Military Manual, his specialties concentration and initiative.

He will grasp another man’s opportunity, tie a double knot in it, and have it safely stowed away, before the bungler misses it. He discounts the future, beats the other man to it and arrives with both feet when not expected—just before the other is quite ready. Endowed with foresight, farsight, secondsight and hindsight, he sees all about and far away in front. Every isolated movement is noticed. He connects it up with some future possible development, eventuality or danger.

Men of other nations may have delusions about German organization and system, but the French officer has none. He has beaten Fritz, time after time. He knows he can do it again; and, if there is any one thing he especially delights in, it is to throw a wrench into that ponderous, martial machinery and break Kultur’s plans. Germans are lost with no rule to follow, and their head-piece won’t work. They are at the mercy of the man who makes precedents, but who does not bother to follow them.

Many a soldier has an aversion to saluting officers—it looks like servility. We do it with pleasure in France, as a token of respect. The French officers at the front do not insist upon it, and often shake hands after the return salute. Mon Capitaine is the father of his company, the soldiers are mes enfants (my children). They go to the captain when they have a grievance, not as a favor, but because it is their right; and he grants their request—or gives them four days in prison, as the case demands, with a smile. Soldiers accept his decision without question. The French officer does not mistake snobbishness for gentility or braggadocio for bravery. In the attack, he takes the lead. In the trench warfare he shares dangers and discomforts with his men.

It is a great honor to be an active French officer. He is there because his achievements forced him upward. He has climbed over obstacles, and been promoted on account of merit, not through influence. He holds the front, while the inefficient, the aged, or crippled, are relegated to the rear.

The soldier pays with his hide for the civilian’s comforts. The civilian, in turn, apes the soldier, presents a military bearing, in khaki coat, with swagger stick, a camera, a haversack and Joiners’ decorations. While the citizen works (or shirks) to sustain the soldier, he is either using his strength on the front, or building it up in the hospital.

An enthusiastic, spirited volunteervolunteer, gradually becomes a silent, sober, calculating veteran. His days have been troubled. His nights knew no peace. Recognizing discipline as the first principle of organization, that it is necessary to have individual obedience, for a group to act harmoniously, he submits. On the front, he finds—himself.

Half a dozen men are taking comfort in the shelter of a dugout. The next instant, five are one hundred feet in air, snuffed out, torn into atoms. But one is left, staring, mouth open. The others, swift arrivals at Kingdom Come, went so quickly into the great Beyond, they never knew or felt the shock.

So with the rum ration low and the water high, the morning bright in sunlight, surroundings dark with death, one’s thoughts spring from the mind. Words fill the mouth. One grasps his pencil to catch burning impressions that flood his brain. He might as well try to tell his grandmother how to raise babies as to think straight! He reaches out and connects up, apparently isolated, strings of thought. He links a chain of circumstance bearing on destruction’s delirious delusions that now rocks the foundations of the world, which reacts on and affects every civilization, person, and individual on earth.

He looks at things from an angle different from that of the civilian. He has a new conception of life. He is not the same person he was before the war. No longer does he smell the flowers, eat the fruit, or dwell in the home of civilization. He has lived, like a beast, in a hole in the ground, and slept in a seeping dugout with the rats and the lice. He has seen his companion go over the top, killed off, like germs, changed from a human comrade into a clod. He has lived long between two earthen walls, the blue sky above, a comrade on each side, with Fritz across the way.

It was a narrow prospect. His point of view was limited; but he knew, that while apparently alone, he and his comrades were links in that strong, continuous chain of men who keep back the enemies of Freedom. Behind that chain are others, bracing, reinforcing,—artillery, infantry, aviators, reserves, money, provisions and ammunition, flocking to his aid from America, from Great Britain, from the uttermost parts.

Those larger operations in the rear affect him but indirectly. The details in front are of vital interest. They mean life or death. Every alteration in the landscape demands closest investigation. Boys do not play, nor old women gabble, in No-Man’s-Land. Nothing is done without a reason, and, for every change, there is a cause. An unusual piece of cloth or paper is scrutinized by a hundred men, while a suspicious movement empties their guns.

The soldier acquires the habit of noticing little things. He sees a small, starved flower, struggling for sunshine and strength, alongside the trench. He wonders why it chose such an inhospitable home. Next day, there is no flower, no trench—just an immense, gaping hole in the torn ground.

He watches the rats. Why are they so impudent and important? He grows so accustomed to them, he does not even squirm, when they run across him in the darkness at night. He knows they have enough camp offal and dead men’s bodies—they do not eat the living. He watches the cat with interest. She is an old timer and has seen regiments come and go. Her owners are in exile—they have no home—the Germans took it. So, pussy, a lady of sense and good taste, dwells with the French soldiers. He looks at her long, lanky frame and wishes for some milk to give her, to counteract the poison of the rat food. A shell comes along. Pussy runs into the dugout, but comes out again to be petted. Another shell, again she scurries away. Kitty does not like shells any more than do humans.

War is the great leveler. Deplored as pitiless destroyer, it more than equalizes, a creator of good. It annihilates property, kings and thrones; but it produces men. It taps hitherto unseen springs of sympathy and mutual helpfulness, where thrived formerly but the barren waste of self-sufficiency. It unmasks the humbug and reveals the humanitarian. It teaches individual self-lessness. The cruelties of the oppressor are overcome by love for the oppressed. The dominance of wickedness is brought low by sweet charity for its victims.