16 
LAND & WATER 
October 5, igi6 
of munitions plays an important pant in tlie " moral ' 
of 'the troops. The a.verage Poilu has no sympatii\- 
with the man who grumbles at the number of hours he 
may have to work. We heard the tale of a munition 
worker who was complaining in a cafe at having to work 
so hard. A Poilu who was en permission, and wlio 
was sitting at the ne.xt table turned to him sayinj; : 
" You have no right to grumble, you receive 10 to la 
francs a day for making shells and we poor devils gel 
5 sous a day for stopping them ! " 
Rat-Catchers 
We lunched in the small but hospitable village of Sdzanne 
in company with a most charming invalided officer, who 
informed us that he was the principal in that district 
of the S.D.R.D.R. (Service de Recherche des Ratticrs) 
(the Principal Recruiting Officer for Rat-Catchers ). 
In other words, he is spending his time endeavouring to 
persuade suitable bow-wows to enhst in the service 
of their country. Likely dogs are trained until they do 
not bark, and become entirely accustomed to the sound 
of firing ; they are then pronounced aptes d faire cani- 
pagne, or "fit for service," receive their livret militaiic, 
or certificates — for not every chance dog is allowed in 
the trenches — and are despatched to the trenches on a 
rat-hunting campaign. 
From Sezanne we proceeded direct to the new camp 
for German prisoners at Connantre. The prisoners were 
mostly men who had been taken in the recent fighting 
on the Somme or round Verdun. The camp was already 
excellently installed and the prisoners were busy in groups 
gardening, making bread, or sitting before great heaps 
of potatoes preparing them for the evening meal. The 
German sense of order was everywhere in evidence. In 
the long barracks where the men slept the beds were 
tidy, and above each bed was a small shelf, each shelf 
arranged in exactly the same oi^der, the principal orna- 
ments being a mug, fork and spoon ; and just as each 
bed resembled each other bed, so the fork and spoon were 
placed in their respective mugs at exactly the same 
angle. There were small partitioned apartments for the, 
non-commissioned officers. The French Commander of 
the camp told us that the German love of holding some 
form of office was everywhere apparent. The French 
made no attempt to command the prisoners themselves, 
but always chose men from amongst the prisoners who 
were placed in authority over their comrades. The 
prisoners rejoiced exceedingly and promptly increased 
in self-importance and, alas, decreased in manners, if 
they were given the smallest position which raised them 
above the level of the rest of the men. 
In the barrack where they were cutting up bread for 
the prisoners, we asked the men if they deeply regretted 
their captivity. They replied unanimously that they 
were " rather glad to be well fed," which seemed an 
answer in itself. They did not, however, appreciate the 
white bread, and stated that they preferred their own 
black bread. The Frenfch officers commanding the camp 
treat the prisoners as naughty children who must be 
" kept in the comer " and punished for their own good. 
In all m</ travels through France I have never seen any 
bitterness shown towards the prisoners. I remembt 1 
once at Nevers we passed a group of German prisoner-^, 
and amongst them was a wounded man wh6 was lyini,' 
in a small cart. A hand bag had fallen across his leg, 
and none of his comrades attempted to remove it. A 
French woman pushing her way between the guards, 
lifted it off and gave it to one of the Germans to carry. 
When the guards tried to remonstrate she replied simph- : 
" J'ai nn fils prisonnier Id-bas, faut esperer qu'une alh- 
inandc ferait autant pour lui." 
On the battlefields the kindness of the French medical 
men to the German wounded has always been con- 
spicuous. One of my neutral friends passing through 
Germany, heard from one of the prominent German 
surgeons that they were well aware of this fact, and knew 
that their wounded received every attention. There is 
a story known throughout France of a French doctor 
who was attending a wounded German on the battlefield. 
The man, who was probably half delirious, snatched at a 
revolver which was lying near by and attempted to shoot 
the doctor. The doctor took the revolver from him, 
patted him on the bead, and said : '" Vtfyons] voyons^, ne 
failes pas f enfant " and went on dressing his wounds. 
, Everywhere you hear accounts ^0/ brotherly love and 
religious tolerance. I remember kneeling once by the 
side of a dying French soldier who was tenderly supported 
in the ai^ms of a famous young Mohammedan surgeon, 
an Egyptian who had taken liis degree in Edinbijirgh 
and was now attached to the l-'rcnch Red Cross. Ijhe 
man's mind was wandering, and seeing a womjin bcjfiide 
him he commenced to talk to me as to his betrotned. 
" This war cannot last always, little one, and when it 
is over we will buy a pig and a cow and we will go to the 
Cure, won't we, beloved ? " Then in a lucid moment he 
realised that he was dying, and he commenced to pray, 
" Ave, Maria, Ave Maria," but the poor tired brain could 
remember nothing moje. He turned to me to continue, 
but I could no longer trust ^myself to speak, and it was 
the Mohammedan who took up the prayer and continued 
it whilst the soldier followed with his lips until his soul 
passed away into the valley of shadows. I think this 
story is only equalled in its broad tolerance by that of the 
Rabbi Bloch of Lyons, who was shot at the battle of 
the Aisne whilst holding a crucifix to the lips of a dying 
Christian soldier. The soldier priests of France have 
earned the love and respect of even the most irreligious 
of the Poilus. They never hesitate to risk their lives, 
and have displayed sublime courage and devotion to their 
duty as priests and as- soldiers. Behind the first line of 
trenches a soldier priest called suddenly to attend a 
dying comrade, took a small dog he was nursing and 
handing it to one of the men simply remarked, " Take 
care of the little beast for me, I am going to a dangerous 
corner and I do not want it killed." 
A Gun Carriage an Altar 
I have seen the Mass celebrated on a gun carriage. 
Vases made of shell cases were filled with flowers that the 
men had risked their lives to gather in order to deck the 
improvised altar. A Red Cross Ambulance drove up and 
stopped near by. The wounded begged to be taken out 
on their stretchers and laid at the foot of the altar in 
order that " they might receive the blessing of the good 
God " before starting on the long journey to the hospital 
behind the lines. 
Outside the prison camp of Cannantre stood a circle 
of French soldiers learning the bugle calls for the French 
Army. I wondered how the Germans cared to listen to 
the martial music of the men of France, one and all so 
sure of the ultimate victory of their country. Half a 
kilometre further on, a series of mock trenches had been 
made where the men were practising the throwing of 
hand grenades. Every available inch of space behind 
the French lines is made to serve some useful purpose. 
I never see a hand grenade without thinking how 
difficult it is just now to be a hero in France. Every man 
is really a hero, and the men who have medals are almost 
ashamed since they know that nearly all their comrades 
merit them. It is especially difficult to be a hero in 
one's own family. One of the men in our hospital at 
Royaumont had been in the trenches during an attack. 
A grenade thrown by one of the French soldiers struck 
the parapet and rebounded amongst the men. With 
that rapidity of thought which is part of the French 
character Jules sat on the grenade and extinguished it. 
For this act of bravery he was decorated by the French 
Government and wrote home to tell his wife. I found 
him sitting up in bed, gloomily reading her reply, and 
I enquired why he looked so glum. " Well, Mademoiselle," 
he replied, " I wrote to my wife to tell her of my new 
honour and see what she says ; ' My dear Jules, We are 
not surprised you got a medal for sitting on a hand 
grenade ; we have never known you to do anything else 
but sit down at home ! ! ! ' " 
It was at Fere Champenoise that we passed through the 
first village which had been entirely destroyed by the 
retreating Germans. Only half the church was standing, 
but services are still held there every Sunday. Very 
little attempt has been made to rebuild the ruined houses. 
Were I one of the villagers I would prefer to raze to the 
ground all that remained of the desecrated homesteads 
and build afresh new dwellings ; happy in the knowledge 
that with the victory of the Allies would start a period 
of absolute security, prosperity and peace. 
(To be continued.) 
