his long slender bayonet rattles against his thigh.
A large calloused hand, not too clean, holds his shouldered rifle at a
most unmilitary angle. The gun has seen hard service, the wood is
battered, and in places bright steel shows through the bluing; but look
closely and you will see that it is carefully greased, and in the muzzle
a little plug of cloth keeps out dust and moisture. In spite of a load
which would make a burro groan, he walks sturdily, whistling a march
between puffs of a cigarette. Glance at his face. The eyes are dark
gray, deep-set, and twinkling with good humor; they are the clear
decisive eyes of a man who knows what he wants and has set about getting
it. The nose is aquiline, the mouth strong and ironically humorous, the
unshaven chin positive and shapely. It is the face of a breed that has
been settling to type for many centuries, a race old in cultivation and
philosophy.
What is he in civil life? That is hard to say. A lawyer, a farmer, a
customhouse clerk, a cook--probably a cook; most of them seem to be
cooks, and mighty good ones. Ours at the mess was assistant chef at the
Savoy, in London, and when he has the material (for example a
hind-quarter of mule, a few potatoes, some dandelions, a tin of lobster,
and an egg) he can turn out a dinner hard to equal anywhere--delicious
hors d'oeuvres, superb soup, roast, sauté potatoes, salad, and so on.
The French soldier's one great joy and privilege is to grumble. Back in
billets where he goes to rest, he spends the whole day at it--hour after
hour, over a bock or a litre of wine, he complains of everything: the
food, the uniforms, the trenches, the artillery, the war itself. To hear
him, one would suppose that France was on the verge of ruin and
disintegration. Let some unwise stranger make the slightest criticism of
France, and watch the change. The poilu takes the floor with a bound.
There is no country like France--no better citizens or braver soldiers
than the French.
"Dis donc, mon vieux," he ends triumphantly, "where would Europe be now
if it were not for us?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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