FRANCE’S “POILUS”

Evening Star, Issue 23497, 10 February 1940, Page 19

FRANCE’S “POILUS”

HAVE THE D ARTAGNAN SPIRIT The poilu, or French oitizen-soldier, was born of the World War of 191418, when all tho manhood of France had been mobilised and the war had become national in the fullest sense (says G. H. Archambault in tho ‘ New York Times ’). Before 1914 France’s wars were fought mainly by the regular army, and the French soldier was known familiarly as “ pioupiou.” Then lie was in red trousers and kepi. When in 1914 he was put in horizon blue, with breeches, putties, and steel helmet, he emerged as “ poilu.” To-day he is in khaki. Why “poilu”? Beyond doubt the name derives from the French word “ poil,” or hair, a popular symbol of virility. Du Bellay, a sixteenth-cen-tury French poet, speaks of a “ hairy chest like that of Mars himself.” Whatever its origin, tho name soon came into current use. The poilu is of a philosophical turn of mind and will accept any hardship on one condition—that he is permitted to grouse. For he is the direct descendant of Napoleon’s “ grognards ” (grumblers). After he has spoken his mind and vented his spleen he carries on cheerfully. His grousing relieves him. Tho poilu’s handiness is proverbial. He can turn to anything, from cooking a meal to the digging of a trench. His foresight is that of a thrifty French peasant who accumulates a lot of junk; because “it may come in useful some day.” So to his regulation kit he adds innumerable odds and ends—pieces of string, lengths of wire, a few nails, candle ends, and what not. The poilu’s best friend is his pinarcl.” or wine. Not that the poilu is a soaker. Far from it. But France is a wine country and wine cheers the drink, he says. The poilu does not expect vintage wines: in fact, lie would scarcely appreciate them. What he f

wants is “ pinard,” liis name for that thick ish red wine grown so plentifully iu the South of France which leaves a purple stain on the empty glass. He gets two litres (three and a-half pints) of “ pinard ” every day. Having drunk his pinard, the poilu will roll a shapeless cigarette of coarse army tobacco and feel that life is wortl) living after all. When the poilu is not grouching he is exchanging wisecracks; when he is doing neither of these he is eating or sleeping—or fighting. His wants are few, his habitS frugal. He makes himself cosy anywhere on condition, individualist that he is, that no one encroaches on his allotted space, be it onlv the bare floor of u barn.

As a soldier the poilu is fully conscious of liis value*. There is no vainglory about it, but be thinks that when the fact is forgotten it is up to him to remind all and sundry. For there is much of the -'spirit of d’Artagnan and Cyrano de Bergerac in your puilu; much love of “panache,” that is to say, llourish without a swagger. You can do anything with a poilu when you play on that note. The poilu is conscious of his value as a man, and lias a deep sense of justice and equality of opportunity. Nor does he forget Napoleon’s dictum that every private has a field-marshal’s baton in his knapsack. He knows that many outstanding captains of Napoleon's army rose from the ranks, and that in more recent times Marsha! Joffre was a cooper’s son. Equality of treatment always appeals to the poilu, and no officer is more popular than one who shares hardships. The poilu uses the familiar “ thou ” in speaking to other 'poilus and also to most corporals and sergeants. In his mind the second person singular is both a sign of equality and a password for men of the same craft. An officer may venture to “ thou ” his men; they will accept him if they consider him worthy of being numbered among the poilus.