man?uvres fall at the end of the military year in the french army, being so arranged in order that the second-year conscripts shall pass out from the army and back to their ordinary civilian avocations as soon as they return to barracks and have time to hand in their equipment and arms. for the majority of these men, it is two years since they have had time to see their friends, save for a stray day or two of leave here and there for the man whose people live within a short distance of the training-place to which he has been drafted, or a stray visitor who brings news from home to one or other at infrequent intervals. thus man?uvres mean a good deal to the conscript; even the first-year men catch the infection from their fellows with regard to the approaching time for going away, and there is as well the sense for these juniors that, when they return to barracks, they will no longer be first-year men, but able to advise and instruct such raw recruits as they themselves were just a year ago. added to this, again, is the sense of freedom that comes from knowing of the days of marching, billeting, and sight of fresh places and people from day to day, and it will be seen that the change from barrack life with its perpetual round of work to the constantly varying scenes of man?uvres is one which is anticipated with pleasure by all.

about a week, or perhaps more, before the time has come for the army corps concerned—or the cavalry or other divisions concerned—to set out on its march to the man?uvre area, the cavalry and artillery send out their patrols to gather up the horses which have been boarded out at farms for the summer, and the men of these patrols are almost invariably billeted on the inhabitants of the districts round which they have to ride on their errand. it is a pleasant task, this; the year is at its best, and summer just so far advanced that the early rising, the riding through the day, and the evening tasks are alike easy. the weather is good, the life is not too hard, and the party too small to admit of strict discipline being maintained; the men know that their picnic-time is due to their having been specially chosen as reliable for such work, and consequently they do not abuse their freedom.

and the horses come in from grass to train for what a horse can never understand, though it is in the knowledge of all that a horse comes to know his place in the ranks of the cavalry or in the traces of the gun team, and would gladly go back to that place after he has been cast out from the service to drudgery between the two shafts of a cart or cab. perhaps the horses have their own thoughts about going on man?uvres, and the change from stable life—such of them as have been kept in stables while the troops are in barracks—to the open air existence which is theirs in camp.

it is a great day for the conscript when the regiment marches out from barracks. farewell for a time, and in the case of the second-year men farewell for good, to the barrack routine. they leave in barracks the things they will not require on field service, the materials for what the british soldier knows as "spit and polish soldiering," and the conscript starts out with his field kit and equipment, prepared to have a good time.

the infantry swing out through the barrack gates, a long column of marching men; they talk among themselves of what they will do when man?uvres are over; the second-year men talk of going away, back to their homes, and of turning their backs on military service; they have done the duty their country asked of them, and now are at liberty to think of a good time—almost a holiday, in spite of the hard work and marching involved, with which they will end their service—to last them through the coming weeks, after which they will resume civilian attire and work. it has been a hard business, this conscript period, but france asked it, and ma foi, but we are men now! the stern strictness of the instructors, the unending discipline imposed by sergeants and corporals, the everlasting watchfulness of the adjutant over buttons and boots and the correct method of saluting—proper perspective, rapidly growing in the mind of the man nearing the end of his second year, assures him that these things are needs of a good army. and then, he is going out on man?uvres, among the apple orchards or the hill villages; he is going to show the country what its soldiers are like, and almost, but not quite, he regrets that the end of his period of military service is nearly in sight. the time to which he looks forward colours his view of all things; the barracks are behind, and before him is the open road—that long, straight road which, in so many districts of france, goes on and on across bare plains, to human sight a thread laid right across the fabric of the world without bend or divergence. a road of white dust which, as soon as the barracks are left behind, rises from the many footsteps of the marching men and envelops the column. the band in front goes free of the dust, and well it is that the throats of the bandsmen are not choked and dried with the insidious stuff, for one marches better, far better, with the music.

somebody starts a song, for the regiment is marching at ease. a squad takes it up, and it spreads through the company—the company in rear has already started its own song, a different one. interminably that song goes on, and the miles slip behind. at the end of every hour the column halts, and its men fall out for five minutes' rest—a good custom, this, for one can get rid of some of the dust, and often get a drink of water from a wayside spring—or jean, who always gets enough money from home to satisfy the desires of his heart, has brought a bottle. it would be in the last degree injudicious to incur the accusation of faire suisse on this first day of the march, and jean has long since learned wisdom over such points of etiquette. jean wants to keep the bottle till the next halt, but it is pointed out to him that the morning is already warm, and to carry a bottle for another hour when one might empty it—with assistance—and be saved the labour of transporting it further, is very bad judgment. jean needs little persuasion—but it is time to fall in and resume the march: the bottle gets emptied while the column is marching, and jean is voted un brave gar?on—as undoubtedly he is, in other things beside this.

shrouded in dust the column goes on. the grey-headed colonel is at the head, then comes the band, and then the men of the regiment follow, at ease, singing, smoking, chatting together. they pass through a village street in which is a simple monument to the men who fell in '70, and the colonel pulls his men up to attention while they pass through the street. quietly, and with something ominous in the manner of their march, the men pass out to the open road again, where "at ease" is the order once more. but, when they march steadily at attention, these french infantrymen seem the embodiment of military strength and efficiency. the army has taken them and made of them what it meant to make, and, breton lad or paris gamin, they are stamped with the mark of the army—they are soldiers of the republic, marching items which, apart from their personal characteristics, mean each a rifle and a bayonet for france when the hour shall strike. over successive horizons they go, stopping every hour for their five minutes; they grow heedless of the band at the head of the column, and scarcely know whether it is playing or no; one or two fall out, perhaps, for the first days of the march throw out from the ranks all the unfit; there is a doctor at hand to see to those who fall out, and the column swings on. some time, after what seems to the men very many hours, the band strikes up definitely and with an indefinable new note—and the men know they are marching into camp. food and sleep are not far ahead; the column stiffens at the call from the grey-haired colonel, and swings on to the camping-ground apparently as fresh as when the men passed out from the barrack gate. it is a part of their pride that they should come in well, should end their march like soldiers and men, not like weaklings.

the cavalry also go out from the barracks with anticipations of good times ahead. unlike the infantry, they have to keep formation when marching at ease as when marching at attention, for you cannot get a horse to rein back into the rank behind you or come up to the rank in front of you as easily as you yourself can drop back or go up, and, moreover, you cannot regain your place in the ranks at the call of "attention" as an infantryman can. but there are compensations. the "fours" of men divide into twos, of which each takes one side of the road; there is room in between the two inner men for the clouds of dust to roll about, and, although some of the stuff comes up, especially as regards the rear of the squadron, one is not so much down in it as the soldier on foot. one sees the country, too; the infantryman, keeping his place in his company, is just one of a crowd, and, in marching along and getting very tired—so the cavalryman says—he has no chance of looking about him and seeing what the country that he is marching through is like. one's horse does all the work, in the cavalry march, and one is merely a spectator, enjoying the fine day and the new scenery. it is good to be in the cavalry, and who would be an infantryman, when man?uvres start? patrol duty, for instance, and the isolated tasks that take patrols of three and four men to farmhouses where the milk is good and one is invited—yes, invited!—to pick fruit from the trees—what infantryman knows anything of joys like these? assuredly it is a good thing that one chose to serve in the cavalry.

supposing it is the first time one has gone out on man?uvres, there are all sorts of pleasant speculations in which one can indulge. guillaumette, the surly fellow, who when in barracks always occupies the next bed and snores so atrociously—he who is not always perfectly innocent of faire suisse, though he has the luck of a pig, and never gets caught at any of his mean tricks—guillaumette will be going away when one returns to barracks at the end of the man?uvres, and who shall say what pleasant kind of a comrade may not come from among the new recruits to take his place? jacques, for instance, who belongs to the third peloton has a first-year man in the next bed to him, one who is the son of a deputy, and has always plenty of money. when the deputy's son was for guard and was warned for duty so late that he could not possibly get ready in time, jacques lent him kit and helped him to turn out, with the result that jacques had five francs—five francs, think of it!—with which to go to the canteen. and, soon after one has got back off man?uvres, the new recruits will be coming in; one will be a second-year man, then, with perhaps a deputy's son to sleep in the next bed and dispense five francs at a time to one who knows all the little ways of soldiering and can be of use. the possibilities, both of the man?uvres themselves and of what comes after, are endless, and speculation on them is a pleasant business. surly old sergeant lemaire, too, is almost sure to get promotion this year, and the peloton will get another sergeant to take charge of it—certainly not one with a worse temper, for that would be impossible.

and the long road slips behind, while the troopers conjecture with regard to their future, talk together of horses bad and good, sergeants and corporals bad and good, comrades also bad and good; they smoke as they ride, and talk yet more of horses, for any army of the world the cavalrymen never tire of talking of horses and their own riding abilities, while in the french army boasting of one's own horsemanship, and all the rest of one's own good qualities, is even more common than it is among english soldiers. not that the boasting among either is carried to a nauseous extent, but the soldier is so subject to discipline, so used to doing good work with only the official recognition by way of return, that, knowing the work is good, he talks about it himself since nobody is there to do the talking for him—and this is especially true of the cavalry.

some time ago conan doyle created in "brigadier gerard" an excellent picture of a french cavalry officer of the old type, and to some extent the picture of gerard—the most human and realistic figure conan doyle has ever penned, by the way—still holds good as regards both officers and men. one may find in both officers and men of the french cavalry to-day much of the absolute disregard of risks, rather than bravery as that is understood among the english, which characterises the brigadier. there is, too, much of gerard's vanity in modern french cavalry officers and men, much of his susceptibility to influence, and all of his absolute loyalty to a superior. the french cavalryman will tell his comrades how he dislikes his squadron officer, but he will follow that squadron officer anywhere and into any danger—his loyalty is sufficient for any test that may be imposed on him. like gerard, he will brag of the things he has done, will devote much time to explaining exactly how he did them and how no other man could have done them just as well, until a british cavalryman, if he were listening, would tell the speaker to pass the salt and hire a trumpeter to blow for him. but, though the french cavalryman is true to the gerard picture in that he boasts inordinately, it will be found, when one has got to close acquaintance with him, that he does not boast without reason. he has done a good thing—why not talk about it, for if he does not nobody else will? the british attitude toward a boaster is one of contempt, since the man who boasts generally does little, and exaggerates that little out of recognition. but the french cavalryman boasts—and acts too; like the englishman, he does his work, and, unlike the englishman, he talks about it. but it must always be remembered that he acts as well as talks.

the picture of gerard, however, is not a faithful portrait of the french cavalry officer of to-day, for the modern french officer takes his work far more seriously than gerard took his, and understands it more fully. for forty years or more french officers, in common with the rest of the nation, have known that there would come a life and death struggle with germany; they have set themselves to the task of mastering the difficulties attendant on the crushing of the invaders and the avenging of sedan—no matter to what arm of the service the french officer may belong, he is first a soldier, and after that a man. gerard, on the other hand, was man first and officer afterwards. the difference has been brought about by the training which the army of the third republic imposes on its officers, and since that army is a conscript force, the difference is of itself a necessity.

and it should always be borne in mind, especially by those who deplore the training of the citizens of france into so huge an army, that the step has been vital to the life of the nation. with a far smaller population than germany, france has been compelled, as a matter of self-preservation, to keep pace with germany in the means adopted with regard to military training, has had to train and arm man for man, produce gun for gun—and when the hour of trial came it was found that the preparation had been none too great—there was not one trained man but was needed to cope with the national enemy, with prussian militarism and prussian greed of conquest. the conscript army of the third republic, unlike that of its eastern neighbour and unlike the huge levies that napoleon the first raised, has been intended as a means of defence only; the worst enemy of the republic cannot accuse it of having maintained all its effective citizens as soldiers with a view to aggression in any direction. the army is, because it must be for the safety of the nation, not because the nation desires territory or conquest.

and all this time the squadrons are marching along the straight roads that led over far horizons and to things unguessed, unseen by the first-year men.

they stop, at intervals along their marching line, to water their horses, loosen girths, and stretch themselves; they walk about the roads and look at each other's mounts; they share packets of cigarettes—those cigarettes made of black french tobacco that wither the back of the throat when first one inhales smoke from them. the lieutenant or sub-lieutenant comes round the troop to inspect the horses and see that all are fit, and the sergeant comes round too, probably to point out to the lieutenant some loose shoe or rubbing girth that the less experienced eye of the commissioned youngster has failed to detect. then girths are tightened, the men mount again, and go on, dividing the road between them as before.

as camp draws near, the line of men grows silent, or at least more silent than at the setting out, and the horses take their work steadily rather than eagerly, for this is their first day out, and they are not yet hardened to long marches.

then camp. the putting down of the lines, grooming, blanketing up for the night, feeding—one casts a glance over toward where the infantry have come in and got to their own meals, for this is the time when a cavalryman may have doubts as to whether it would not have been better, after all, to have joined the infantry. unworthy thoughts, these—is there anything in the world like a cavalryman, for real soldierly merit?

this business of believing one's own branch of the service to be infinitely superior to any other is carried into the different branches of the same arm, as well as existing between the three arms as a whole. the cavalryman knows that service in the cavalry is infinitely to be preferred to service in infantry or artillery, but further, if he is a dragoon, he knows that neither cuirassier nor chasseur nor hussar is nearly as good as himself, and the cuirassier, the chasseur, and the hussar have equally strong beliefs about the unquestionable superiority of their own branches of the cavalry. each branch, in the opinion of its members, can produce the best riders, the best shots, the best all-round soldiers, and the best officers. it is a harmless belief, maintained quite impersonally.

evening stables finished, the night guards are warned for their duty, the men settle down to the chief meal of the day, and later they sleep, the sound, healthy sleep induced by a long day in the open air. they waken or are wakened early in the morning, and again they saddle up and go on, for often the man?uvre area is many miles from the barracks, and days may be devoted to straightforward marching before the mimic warfare begins.

one comes back to the guns, the long, murderous tubes that trail, each behind six horses, just above the dust of the roads. the drivers are there and the battery officers, but the seats on the guns are empty, for the most part, for the gunners have marched out from camp very early in the morning. the drivers are at a disadvantage, compared with the men of cavalry or infantry—and even compared with their own gunners; for if a cavalryman has to keep his place in the ranks when mounted, then the gunner is absolutely a fixture in the battery. there can be no dropping back to talk to a comrade, whatever the pretext may be, for no man could take back with him the horse he is riding and the one he is leading, when both are in the gun team. the driver rides sombrely alone; the lead driver keeps his interval from the gun ahead, the centre driver looks to it that his lead horse does its share of work on the hills, and the wheel driver takes special care of the direction of his team when an infrequent corner has to be turned, for on him depends the track the wheels will make, and where they will run with relation to the middle of the road. were there only a lead driver, the sweep taken on corners would not be wide enough, and it takes some time to get such a ponderous engine as a 75-millimetre gun out of a ditch.

the regiment of artillery comes out from barracks in one long column, perhaps—unless one battery or a greater proportion of the whole has further to travel than the batteries which take the straightest road. for, if there are two or more parallel roads leading from the point of departure to the destination, if it is possible for any considerable part of the journey to divide up an artillery regiment into separate batteries, this is done. the civilian has no conception of the length of line on the road which an artillery regiment of ten batteries would take up, nor can one who has not experienced the dust of a military march understand what sort of cloud the last battery of ten would have to march in. the column goes out as a whole, but as soon as possible first one battery and then another turns off from the main route. if there are only two alternate routes, then each alternate battery turns off, leaving sufficient interval between the rest for the dust of one to settle before the next shall come along. if there are more than two roads, all are used, for the more a long column can be broken up into separate units for a day's march, the sooner will the units of the column reach their destination.

the fact that the larger a body of men is, the slower it moves, is one well known to military authorities, though civilians and even many military men would be prepared to dispute it. it will be seen to be incontrovertible, though, if one realises that the pace of any body of men which keeps together as one whole is the pace of the slowest unit, and, moreover, that when a long column is in progress, not all its units can keep exactly the same pace as the head of the column. consequently there occur a series of checks in the body of the column; here and there crowding forward occurs, and then the units of the column concerned in the crowding have to halve in order to rectify this—or at least have to check their pace for the time. the check may travel from the centre of the column right down to its rear, and then there are gaps which have to be corrected, for when a check occurs it is always prolonged just a little too long a time—and then the head of the column has to check in order for the rear to catch up. and, the longer the column, the more of these irritating little checks there will be, with a net consequence that the column will take relatively longer to pass a given point or to arrive at a given spot.

because of these checks, as well as to give more air and comfort to the men, in all arms of the service intervals are maintained on the march, and a column is divided up into as many separate units as possible. infantry maintain intervals between companies, cavalry maintain intervals between squadrons, and artillery maintain intervals between batteries, while the two mounted arms split up their columns if parallel roads are available, for the intervals do not quite compensate for the checks described, and, the smaller the units of the force can be made by means of separate roads, the shorter will be the march between two points.