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The French soldiers who were being sent towards the unknown front —­not knowing their own destination and forbidden to ask—­had recovered from the shock of the sudden call to the colours and the tragedy of their hurried partings from wives, and sweethearts, and old mothers, who are always dearest to Frenchmen’s hearts.  The thrill of a nation’s excitement brought a sparkle to their eyes and a flush to their cheeks.  The inherent gaiety of the French race rose triumphant above the gloom and doubt which had preceded the declaration of war.  Would they never tire of singing the Marseillaise?  Would all this laughter which came in gusts through the open doors of cattle trucks and the windows of third-class carriages change into the moan of the wounded at their journey’s end?  It was hard to look forward to that inevitable fate as I watched them pass.  They had tied flowers to the handles of their trains and twisted garlands round the bars.  There were posies in their kepis, and bouquets were pinned by the plump hands of peasant girls to the jackets of the soldiers of the line, gunners, cuirassiers, dragoons, and fusiliers marins.  Between the chorus of the Marseillaise came snatches of songs learnt in the cabarets of Montmartre and the cafes chantants of provincial towns.  They swarmed like bees—­in blue coats and red trousers—­upon those enormous troop trains which passed through Gournai and Pontoise, Rouen and Amiens.  Rows of them, grinning down under peaks at freakish angles, dangled their legs over as they squatted on the roofs of the wooden trucks.  They hung on to the iron ladders of the guards’ vans.  Sometimes six of them would be installed on the ledge behind the funnel of the engine, with their russet faces to the wind.  In the argot of Paris slums, or in the dialects of seaport towns, they hurled chaff at comrades waiting on the platforms with stacked arms, and made outrageous love to girls who ran by the side of their trains with laughing eyes and saucy tongues and a last farewell of “Bonne chance, mes petits!  Bonne chance et toujours la victoire!” At every wayside halt artists were at work with white chalk drawing grotesque faces on the carriage doors below which they scrawled inscriptions referring to the death of “William,” and banquets in Berlin, and invitations for free trips to the Rhine.  In exchange for a few English cigarettes, too few for such trainloads, they gave me ovations of enthusiasm, as though I stood for England.

“Vive l’Angleterre!  Vos soldats, ou sont ils, camarade?” Where were the English soldiers?  It was always that question which sprang to their lips.  But for a little while I could not answer.  It was strange.  There was no news of the crossing of the Expeditionary Force to France.  In the French and English newspapers no word was said about any British soldiers on French soil.  Was there some unaccountable delay, or were we fulfilling our bond privately, a great drama being played behind the scenes, like the secret war?