“We always knew,” writes one soldier, “that the French were swift and dangerous in attack, but we know now that they can fight on the stubbornly defensive.”  One of the South Lancashires is loud in his praise of their behavior under fire.  “Especially the artillery,” Sergeant J. Baker adds; “the French seem to like the noise, and aren’t happy unless it’s there.”

One of The Times correspondents mentions that the German guns have a heavy sound “boum,” and the French a sharper one, “bing”; but neither of them is very pleasant to the ear, and it requires a cultured military taste like that of the French to enjoy the full harmony of the music when the British “bang” is added to the general cannonading.  The French artillery is admitted to be fine, the deadly accuracy of the gunners being highly praised by all who have watched the havoc wrought in the German lines.

For the French soldier, however, the path of greatest glory lies in the charge.  Dash and fire are what he possesses in the highest degree.  His highly-strung temperament chafes under delays and disappointments.  He hasn’t the solid, bull-dog courage that enables the British soldier to take hard knocks, even severe punishment, and come up smiling again to renew the battle that he will only allow to end in one way, and that way victory.

In the advance, as one writer describes it, the French dash forward in spasmodic movements, making immediately for cover.  After a brief breathing space they bound into the open again, and again seek any available shelter.  And so they proceed till the charge is sounded, when with gleaming bayonets and a cry of “pour la gloire” upon their lips they sweep down upon the enemy at a tremendous pace.  The whole thing is exhilarating to watch, and to the men engaged it is almost intoxicating.  They see red and the only thing that can stop them is the sheer dead weight of the columns in front.  To the French the exploit of the 9th Lancers, already described in this volume, is the greatest thing in the war.  They would have died to have accomplished it themselves.  The fine heroics of such an exploit gives them a crazy delight.  Then there are the forlorn hopes, the bearing of messages across a zone of withering fire, the fights for the colors.  One incident which closely resembles the exploit of the Royal Irish Fusiliers is recorded.  A message had to be borne to another regiment and volunteers sprang forward eagerly to the call.  The enemy’s fire was particularly deadly at this point, and it seemed impossible for a messenger to get through, but no man hesitated.  The first fell dead before he had traveled many yards, the second had a leg shot off, the third by amazing luck got through without a scratch.  Deeds of this kind have endeared the French soldier to Tommy Atkins more than all his extravagant acts of kindness, and the sympathetic bond of valor has linked them together in the close companionship of brothers-in-arms.