In one small cantonment where two hundred Poilus sang, shouted, ate, drank and danced together to the strain of a wheezy gramophone, or in one word were “resting,” I started to investigate the various kinds of pets owned by the troopers. Cats, dogs and monkeys were common, whilst one Poilu was the proud possessor of a parrot which he had purchased from a refugee obliged to fly from his home. He hastened to assure us that the bird had learned his “vocabulary” from his former proprietor. A study in black and white was a group of three or four white mice, nestling against the neck of a Senegalais.

The English Tommy is quite as devoted to animals as is his French brother. I remember crossing one bitter February day from Boulogne to Folkestone. Alongside the boat, on the quay at Boulogne, were lined up the men who had been granted leave. Arrayed in their shaggy fur coats they resembled little the smart British soldier of peace times. It was really wonderful how much the men managed to conceal under those fur coats, or else the eye of the officer inspecting them was intentionally not too keen.

Up the gangway trooped the men, and I noticed that two of them walked slowly and cautiously. The boat safely out of harbour, one of them produced from his chest a large tabby cat, whilst the other placed a fine cock on the deck. It was a cock with the true Gallic spirit, before the cat had time to consider the situation it had sprung on its back. The cat beat a hasty retreat into the arms of its protector who replaced it under his coat. Once in safety it stuck out its head and swore at the cock, which, perched on a coil of rope, crowed victoriously. Both had been the companions of the men in the trenches, and they were bringing them home.

A soldier standing near me began to grumble because he had not been able to bring his pet with him. I enquired why he had left it behind since the others had brought theirs away with them, and elicited the information that his pet was “a cow, and therefore somewhat difficult to transport.” He seemed rather hurt that I should laugh, and assured me it was “a noble animal, brown with white spots, and had given himself and his comrades two quarts of milk a day.” He looked disdainfully at the cock and cat. “They could have left them behind and no one would have pinched them, whereas I know I’ll never see ‘Sarah’ again, she was far too useful.”

Entering Vitry-lé-Francois we had a splendid example of the typical “motto” of the French trooper, “II ne faut pas s’en faire” One of the motor cars had broken down, and the officer-occupants, who were evidently not on an urgent mission, had gone to sleep on the banks by the side of the road whilst the chauffeur was making the necessary repairs. We offered him assistance, but he was progressing quite well alone. Later on another officer related to me his experience when his car broke down at midnight some twelve miles from a village. The chauffeur was making slow headway with the repairs. The officer enquired whether he really understood the job, and received the reply, “Yes, mon Lieutenant, I think I do, but I am rather a novice, as before the war I was a lion-tamer!” Apparently the gallant son of Gaul found it easier to tame lions than to repair motors.