Having shown what the British soldier thinks of the French as fighting men, it is pleasant to turn to our Ally’s opinion of Tommy Atkins.  Here the letters deal in superlatives.  M. Duchene, French master at Archbishop Holgate’s School, York, who was wounded with his regiment at Verdun, writes in glowing terms of his comrades’ praise.  “Ah, those English soldiers!” he says.  “In my regiment you only hear such expressions as ’Ils sont magnifiques,’ ‘Ils sont superbs,’ ’Quels soldats!’ No better tribute could be given.”  Another Frenchman with the army of the Republic is stirred into this eulogy in a letter to a friend in England:  “How fine they are, how splendidly they behave, these English soldiers!  In their discipline and their respect for their officers they are magnificent, and you will never know how much we have applauded them.”

Another Frenchman, acting as interpreter with a Scottish regiment, relates with amazement how the Highlanders go into action, “as if they were going to a picnic, with laughing eyes and, whenever possible, with a cigarette between their lips.  Their courage is a mixture of imperturbability and tenacity.  One must have seen their immovable calm, their heroic sang-froid, under the rain of bullets to do it justice.”  Then he goes on to describe how a handful of Scots were selected to hold back a large body of Germans in a village to enable the main body of the British to retire in good order.  They took up a position in the first house they came to and fired away at the invaders, who rained bullets on the building.  Some of the gallant little party fell, but the others kept up the fight.  Then there came a pause in the attack, the German fire ceased, the enemy was seeking a more sheltered position.  During this brief respite the sergeant in command of the Scots surveyed the building they had entered.  It was a small grocer’s shop, and on an upper shelf he found a few packets of chocolate.  “Here, lads,” he shouted, “whoever kills his man gets a bit o’ this.”  The firing began again, and as each marksman succeeded, the imperturbable Scot shouted “Got him,” and handed over the prize amid roars of laughter.  “Alas,” comments the narrator, “there were few prize-winners who lived to taste their reward.”

The same eulogist, whose narrative was obtained by Reuter’s correspondent, also speaks of the fastidious Scot’s preoccupations.  He has two—­to be able to shave and to have tea.  “No danger,” the Frenchman declares, “deters them from their allegiance to the razor and the teapot.  At ——­, in the department of the Nord, I heard a British officer of high rank declare with delicious calm between two attacks on the town:  ‘Gentlemen, it was nothing.  Let’s go and have tea.’  Meanwhile his men took advantage of the brief respite to crowd round the pump, where, producing soap and strop, they proceeded to shave minutely and conscientiously with little bits of broken glass serving as mirrors.”