I have seen British regiments at ease, British soldiers at rest and in
their billets. Always they are smart, always they are military. A
French regiment at ease ceases to be a part of a great machine. It
shows, perhaps, more humanity. The men let their muscles sag a bit.
They talk, laugh, sing if they are happy. They lie about in every
attitude of complete relaxation. But at the word they fall in again.
They take up the slack, as it were, and move on again in that
remarkable _pas de flexion_ that is so oddly tireless. It is a
difference of method; probably the best thing for men who are Gallic,
temperamental. A more lethargic army is better governed probably by
rule of thumb.
I had crossed the Channel again to see the French and English lines.
On my previous visit, which had lasted for several weeks, I had seen
the Belgian Army at the front and the French Army in billets and on
reserve. This time I was to see the French Army in action.
The first step to that end, getting out of Calais, proved simple
enough. The car came from Dunkirk, and brought passes. I took more
influenza medicine, dressed and packed my bag. There was some little
regret mingled with my farewell to the hotel at the Gare Maritime. I
had had there a private bath, with a porcelain tub. More than that,
the tub had been made in my home city.
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