It would be a bit of a change to see the Continental way of doing things.  They spoke a queer lingo, the French, but were all right.  Quite all right, judging from the newspapers, and a fellow who had gone out as a chauffeur and had come back with fancy manners.  “After you, Monsieur.  Pardonney-more.”  There would be some great adventures to tell the lads when the business was over.  Of course there would be hot work, and some of the boys would never come back at all—­ accidents did happen even in the best regulated wars—­but with a bit of luck there would be a great home-coming with all the bells ringing, and crowds in the streets, and the band playing “See the conquering hero comes,” or “when Tommy comes marching home.”  We had learnt a thing or two since South Africa, and the army was up to scratch.  These Germans would have to look out for themselves.

2

I think that represents fairly enough the mental attitude of the average British soldier who came out to France into an unknown land in which he was to do “his bit.”  The younger men knew nothing of the psychological effect of shell-fire, and their imagination was not haunted by any fear.  The older men, brought back to the Colours after a spell of civil life, judged of war according to the standards of the South African campaign or Omdurman, and did not guess that this war was to be a more monstrous thing, which would make that little affair in the Transvaal seem a picnic for boys playing at the game.  Not yet had they heard the roar of Germany’s massed artillery or seen the heavens open and rain down death.

The British officer was more thoughtful, and did not reveal his thoughts to the men.  Only in quiet conversation in his own mess did he reveal the forebodings which made his soul gloomy.

“There is no doubt the German army is the greatest fighting machine in Europe.  We might dislike some of their methods, their cast-iron system and all that—­oh, I know what the Times man said about their last manoeuvres—­but they have been preparing for this war for years, and their organization is all cut and dried.  How about the French?  Yes, they have plenty of pluck, and I’ve seen something of their gunners—­quite marvellous!—­but have they got any staying power?  Are they ready?  How about their politicians?  I don’t like the look of things, altogether.  We have joined in this infernal war—­had to, of course—­but if things go wrong in France we haven’t anything like an army to tackle a job like this. . . .  Not that I’m a pessimist, mind you.”

No, they were not pessimists, these British officers, when they first came out to France; and the younger men, all those lieutenants who had come quite recently from Sandhurst and Stonyhurst, and public schools in England, with the fine imperturbable manner of their class and caste, hiding their boyishness under a mask of gravity, and not giving themselves away by the slightest exuberance of speech or gesture, but maintaining