Holidays, common enough in civil life, are rare joys in the B.E.F.  Leave is obtainable occasionally.  But nobody speaks of leave as “holidays.”  It is a thing altogether apart.  It is almost sacred.  It is too thrilling, too rapturous to be compared to anything we knew before the war.  We should be guilty of a kind of profanity if we spoke of leave as “holidays.”  It ought to have a picturesque and impressive name of its own; but no one has found or even attempted to find an adequate name for it.  If we were pagans instead of professing to be Christians, if we danced round fountains and set up statues of Pan for our worship and knew nothing of the Hebrew spirit, we might get a name for “leave” out of the vocabulary of our religious life.  Being what we are we cannot do that, but we rightly decline to compare leave with ordinary holidays.

Only a few men in the army succeed in getting what is properly called a holiday, a day or two off work with a change of scene.  I got one, thanks to M. It is one of the many things, perhaps the least of them, for which I have to thank his friendship.

M. had formed an exaggerated, I fear a totally erroneous, idea of my powers of entertaining men.  It occurred to him that it would be a good thing if I gave lectures to the men of the cavalry brigade to which he was attached.  What he said to the general who commanded the division I do not know, but somehow, between the general and M., the thing was worked.  I found myself with a permit to travel on railways otherwise barred to me and three golden days before me.

No one can say that life in my three camps was dull.  Life is never dull or monotonous for a man who has plenty of pleasant work to do and a party of good friends as fellow-workers.  But a change is always agreeable, and I looked forward to my trip with impatient excitement.

It was like being a schoolboy again and going forth to the Crystal Palace with money in my pocket, an entire half-crown, to be dribbled away in pennyworths of sherbet and visits to curious side-shows.  That party was an annual affair for us that came in June as a celebration of the Queen’s birthday.  My visit to M. was in August, but the weather was still full summer.

As a lecturing tour that expedition was a flat failure.  M.’s cavalry, officers and men, were frankly bored and I realised from the very start that I was not going to justify whatever M. said to the general about me.

In every other respect the holiday was a success.  I enjoyed it enormously and I gained some very interesting experience.  I saw French rural life, a glimpse of it.  Cavalry cannot be concentrated in large camps as infantry are.  When they are not wanted for fighting they are scattered in small parties over some country district where they can get water and proper accommodation for their horses.  The men are billeted in farm-houses.  The officers live in chateaux and mess in the dining-halls of French country gentlemen if such accommodation is available, or take over two or three houses in a village, sleep where they can and mess in the best room which the interpreter and the billeting officer can find.

M. slept in a farm-house and secured a room adjoining his for my use.  I slept on the softest and most billowy feather bed I have ever come across, with another feather bed, also very soft and billowy, over me by way of covering.  My room had an earthen floor, a window which would not open, a broken chair and no other furniture of any kind.  I do not think that our landlady, the wife of a farmer who was with the colours, had removed her furniture from the room to keep it out of my way.  That almost bare room was just her idea of what a bedroom ought to be.  Her kitchen and such other rooms as I saw in her house were equally bare.

Unlike the French women whom I met in towns, this farmer’s wife was a slattern.  She cared neither about her own appearance nor the look of her house.  She did not wash her children.  But she worked.  The land was well tilled and her cattle well tended.  There was no sign of neglect in the fields.  Things might have been a little better, perhaps, the place more efficiently worked, if her husband had been at home, but there was not room for much improvement.  Yet that woman had no one to help her except a very old man, her father-in-law, I think, who was infirm and almost imbecile.

She had four children, but they were hindrances rather than helps.  The eldest of them was about eight years old.  She did the whole work of the farm herself.  I used to hear her getting up at 4 a.m., lighting a fire and opening doors.  Peeping through the half-transparent pane of glass in my tiny window, I saw her tending her horse and cows before 5 a.m.  She worked on, and worked hard, all day.

The French have not had to face the difficulty of the “one-man business” as we have, because the women of the minor bourgeoisie are willing and able to step straight into their husbands’ places and carry on.  I learnt that when I lived in towns.  The French can go farther in calling up the men who work the land, because their peasant women can do the work of men.  The land suffers, I suppose, and the harvests are poorer than in peace time.  But if farms in England were left manless as those French farms are, the result would be much more serious in spite of the gallant efforts of the girls who “go on the land.”

M. and I tramped about that country a great deal while I was with him.  We saw the same things everywhere, cattle well cared for and land well worked by a few old men and women who looked old long before their time.

Our landlady cannot have been an old woman.  Her youngest child was a baby in a cradle, but she looked fifty or more.  Loss of youth and beauty is a heavy price for a woman to pay for anything.  I wonder if she resented having to pay it.  At least she has the satisfaction of knowing that she bought something worth while though she paid dearly.  She kept her home.  She fed her children.  As surely as her husband in the trenches she helped to save her country.

I have been assured that the French women have not been so successful as English women in the conduct of war charities.  They have not rushed into the hospitals to nurse the wounded with anything like the enthusiasm and devotion of our V.A.D.’s.  In the organisation of War Work Depots and the dispatching of parcels to prisoners of war the French women have proved themselves on the whole less efficient than English women.  They have not shone in the management of public business, where Englishwomen have been unexpectedly able and devoted.

On the other hand French women seem to have done better than English women in the conduct of their private affairs.  This, I think, is true both of the bourgeois and peasant classes.  In England the earning power on which the house depends is the man’s.  When he is taken away he is very badly missed and the home suffers or even collapses.  In France the women are more independent economically.  They can carry on the business or the farm sufficiently well without the man.

But I did not get permission to visit M.’s cavalry division that I might observe the French peasantry.  I went to give lectures to the men.  I did that, faithfully exerting myself to the uttermost, but I did it very badly.  I suppose I am not adaptable.  Certainly the conditions under which I lectured destroyed any faint chance of my succeeding, before I began.

It has been my lot to lecture under various circumstances to widely different kinds of audiences.  I have been set up at the end of a drawing-room in a house of culture in the middle west of the U.S.A.  I have stood beside a chairman on a platform in an English hall.  Never before had I been called upon to lecture in a large open field, standing in the sunlight, while my audience reclined peacefully on the grass under a grove of trees.  Never before had I watched my audience marched up to me by squadrons, halted in front of me by the stern voices of sergeants, and sitting down, or lying down, only after I had invited them to do so.  It was a very hot afternoon.  I do not wonder that half the men went to sleep.  I should have liked to sleep too.

I lectured that same day in another field to a different body of men.  There I was even more uncomfortable.  Two thoughtful sergeants borrowed a table from a neighbouring house and I stood on it.  That audience stayed awake, perhaps in hope of seeing me fall off the table, but made no pretence of enjoying the lecture.

Yet it was not altogether the strange conditions of the performance which worried me.  I should, I think, have come to grief just as badly with those audiences if they had been collected into rooms or halls.  I was out of touch with the men I was talking to.  I did not understand them or how to address them.  I had some experience, experience of six months or so, of soldiers; but that was no help to me.  These were soldiers of a kind quite new to me.  They belonged to the old army.  Officers and men alike were professionals, not amateurs soldiering by chance like the rest of us.

The cavalry is, with the possible exception of the Guards, the only part of our force in which the spirit of the old army survives.  Every infantry battalion has been destroyed and renewed so often since the war began that the original personality of the thing, the sense of memory, the link with the past and all its traditions, no longer survives.  An infantry regiment bears an old name; but it is a new thing.  Its resemblance to the regiment which bore the name before the war is superficial, a thin veneer.  In spirit, outlook, tone, interest, tradition, in all but courage and patriotism, it is different.  In the cavalry this great change has not taken place.

The cavalry suffered heavily in the early days of the war and has lost many men since.  Large numbers of recruits have come in to make good the losses.  But the number of new men has never been so great as to destroy the old regiment’s power of absorption.  Recruits have been digested by the original body.  They have grown up in the tradition of the regiment and have been formed by its spirit.  The difference between the cavalry troopers and the infantry privates of the army of to-day is difficult to define; but it is very easily felt and plain to recognise.

Perhaps it is most clearly seen in the attitude of men towards their officers.  In the old army officers were a class apart.  Everything that could be done was done to emphasise the distinction between officers and men.  And the distinction was a real, not an artificial thing.  The officer was different from the men he commanded.  He belonged to a different class.  He had been educated in a different way.  He was accustomed before he joined the army and after he left it to live a life utterly unlike the life of the men he commanded.  It can scarcely have been necessary to deepen by disciplinary means the strong, clear line between officers and men.

In the new army all that can be done by regulations is done to keep up the idea of the officer super class.  But the distinction now is an artificial one, not a real one.  Neither in education, social class, manner of life, wealth, nor any other accident are our new officers distinct from the men they command.

For the men of the old army the officer was a leader because he was recognisably in some sense a superior.  He might be a good officer or a poor one, brave and efficient or the reverse.  Whatever his personal qualities he was an officer, a natural leader.

For the men of the new army an officer is an officer more or less by accident.  No one recognises any kind of divine right to leadership.  Discipline may insist, does quite rightly insist, on due respect to officers as such; but everybody feels and knows that this is a mere question of expediency.  Men cannot act together unless some one commands; but it does not follow that the man who gives the orders is in any permanent way the superior of the men who receive them.

What has really happened during the war is that the army has changed in the essential spirit of its organisation.  It is no longer built on the aristocratic principle like the army of Louis XIV.  It has been democratised and is approximating to the type of Napoleon’s armies or Cromwell’s Ironsides.  The shell of the old organisation is there still.  The life within the shell is different.

I do not know how the men of the old army regarded their generals and officers in high command.  If we may trust Kipling they had, sometimes at least, a feeling of strong personal affection and admiration for certain commanders.

     “He’s little, but he’s wise,
     And he does not advertise,
       Do you, Bobs?”

Very likely the cavalry men still have this kind of feeling for their generals.  The men of the brigade I visited certainly ought to have loved their general.  He did a great deal for them.  But the new army does not seem to have any feeling either of respect or contempt for its generals.

Nothing surprised me more when I became intimate with the men than their attitude towards their commanding officers.  I had read of the devotion of armies to their leaders.  We are told how Napoleon’s soldiers idolised him; how Wellington’s men believed in him so that they were prepared to follow him anywhere, confident in his genius.  Misled by newspaper correspondents, I supposed that I should find this sort of thing common in France.  I had often read of this general and that as beloved or trusted by his men.

In fact no such spirit exists.  Very often the men do not know the name of the commander of the particular army, or even the brigade, to which they belong; so little has the personality of the general impressed itself on the men.  Very often I used to meet evidences of personal loyalty to a junior officer, a company commander, or a subaltern.  Occasionally men have the same feeling about a colonel.  They never seem to go beyond that.  There was not a trace of admiration for or confidence in any one in high command.  It was not that the men distrusted their generals or disliked them.  Their attitude was generally neutral.  They knew nothing and cared very little about generals.

Perhaps men never did idolise generals, and historians, like newspaper correspondents, are simply inventing pretty myths when they tell us about the hero worship paid to Napoleon, Wellington, and the rest.

Perhaps the fact is that the conditions of modern warfare tend to obscure the glory of a general.  He can no longer prance about on a horse in front of lines of gaping men, proudly contemptuous of the cannon balls which come bounding across the field of battle from the enemy’s artillery.  His men are inclined to forget his existence, usually do remain ignorant of his name because they do not see him.  One is tempted to wonder whether the formal ­and very wearisome ­inspections which are held from time to time behind the lines, generally on cold and rainy days, are not really pathetic efforts of kings and generals to assert themselves, to get somehow into the line of vision of the fighting men.

Perhaps it may be that generals, through no fault of their own, have lost that “plaguy trick of winning victories” which bound the heart of Dugald Dalgetty to Gustavus Adolphus.  Victories, so far as we can see, are things which do not occur in modern warfare, or, at all events, do not occur on the western front.  If any one did win a victory of the old-fashioned kind it is quite possible that he might become the hero of the soldier.

It would be very interesting to know what the feelings of soldiers of other armies are towards their generals.  The German people seem to idolise von Hindenburg.  Have the German soldiers any kind of confidence in his star?  Von Mackensen has some brilliant exploits to his credit.  Does Fritz, drafted into a regiment commanded by him, march forward serenely confident of victory?

Our men do no such thing.  They have unshaken confidence in themselves.  They are sure that their company commanders will not fail them or their colonels let them down.  But they have no kind of feeling, good or bad, about their generals.