All this obscenity of song and speech spoils the heroic picture a little, and yet does not mean very much in spite of its outrageous heights and depths.  It belongs to the character of men who have faced all the facts of life with frank eyes, and find laughter in the grossest humours without losing altogether the finer sentiments of the heart and little delicacies of mind which seem untarnished by the rank weeds which grow in human nature.  Laughter is one of the great needs of the French soldier.  In war he must laugh or lose all courage.  So if there is a clown in the company he may be as coarse as one of Shakespeare’s jesters as long as he be funny, and it is with the boldness of one of Shakespeare’s heroes—­like Benedick—­that a young Frenchman, however noble in his blood, seizes the ball of wit and tosses it higher.  Like D’Artagnan, he is not squeamish, though a very gallant gentleman.

11

The spirit of D’Artagnan is not dead.  Along many roads of France I have met gay fellows whose courage has the laughing quality of that Musketeer, and his Gascon audacity which makes a jest of death itself.  In spite of all the horrors of modern warfare, with its annihilating shell-fire and the monstrous ruthlessness of great guns, the French soldier at his best retains that quality of youth which soars even above the muck and misery of the trenches.  The character of a young lieutenant of artillery, who came to fill the place of a poor fellow killed at the side of his caisson, is typical of innumerable soldiers of France.  He presented himself with a jaunty good humour, made a little speech to his battery which set all the men laughing, and then shook hands with them one by one.  Next day he knew each man by name, used the familiar “thee” and “thou” to them, and won their hearts by his devil-may-care manners and the smile which came from a heart amused by life.  Everything was a joke to him.  He baptized his four guns by absurd nicknames, and had a particular affection for old “Bumps,” which had been scarred by several shells.  The captain called this young gentleman Lieutenant Mascot, because he had a lucky way with him.  He directed the aim of his guns with astounding skill.  A German battery had to shift very quickly five minutes after his first shell had got away, and when the enemy’s fire was silenced, he would call out, “Don’t chuck any more,” to the telephone operator.  That was his way of ordering the cease-fire.

But Lieutenant “Mascot,” one day jumped on the top of a hayrick to direct the marksmanship of his battery, and a moment later a German shell burst above him and scattered part of the rick in all directions.  It was a moment of anguish for the onlookers.  The captain became as pale as death, and the gunners went on plugging out shells in an automatic way with grief-stricken faces.  The telephone man put his head out of his dugout.  He stared at the broken rick.  Beyond doubt Monsieur Mascot was as dead as mutton.  Suddenly, with the receiver at his ear and transfigured, he began to shout:  “Don’t chuck any more!” It was the lieutenant who had sent him the usual order.  Ten minutes later the lieutenant came back laughing gaily and, after shaking some straw out of his muddy uniform, gave a caressing touch to old “Bumps,” who had got the enemy’s range to perfection.  Then the captain embraced him.