The Faith of a Commander

‘MY religious faith has formed a part of my character, and, in this way, of my career as a man and a soldier.’ This unequivocal statement proves, were there need of it, that the work and nature, the methods and genius, of Marshal Foch can only be understood and expressed if the chronicler is familiar with the religious life and thought of the great soldier.

Yet it may seem an indelicacy and a breach of tact to make his faith an object of study and attention. Marshal Foch felt above all things a horror of display and of confidences. He never concealed his religion, but he never allowed it to receive an invidious publicity. I know, for I have been since childhood a friend of his family, how much he combined at once of pride and simplicity, candor and discretion. I do not wish in these pages to write anything intrusive; accordingly I shall confine myself to his public expressions of his religion. The inner secret is not a subject, for publicity. But this inner life was so powerful and so fully penetrated his outer life that no one could be deceived: the entire world has learned that the conqueror of the war was a Christian. ‘He was,’ as Mr. Baldwin said, ‘a great soldier, a great Christian, and a great gentleman.’ And, as he paid his respects to him for the last time, M. Poincaré could not contain his admiration for this man who, as he said, ‘had the strength to consider himself helpless before the Eternal and the greatness to attribute to divine generosity the gifts that were thought to be his glory.’ ‘Happy are they that believe!' Foch had told his pupils at the École Militaire. He felt in advance to what extent his faith would sustain him in his work and in his task as leader.

When after the war he visited his old school, Saint-Clément de Metz, where in 1869 and 1871 he had prepared for his matriculation at the École Polytechnique, he said to the young students: ‘It was here that I learned to work.’ Then, pointing to the chapel, he added: ‘And now, go look in your chapel for the Light without which work is nothing.’ It can be truly said that this light of faith and of prayer was his guide through all his life.

Born of an old Catholic family of the Pyrenees, he was brought up in the faith and piety of his ancestral home. A pupil of the ecclesiastical seminary of Polignan, then of the Jesuit colleges of Saint-Étienne and of Metz, his Catholic faith received from his teachers a lovely quality of simplicity and strength.

His faith before all else was loyal. A little before his death it happened that certain partisans of the Action Française wanted to hold a discussion with him. He always answered them: ‘The Pope has condemned your views. I have nothing to discuss. That is all.’

He showed the same simple pride during the régime that held sway in France about 1900, when Catholic officials were pursued by informers. He never concealed the fact that he had a Jesuit brother, and he never failed to follow the parish services as a simple believer. At Ploujean in Brittany to the time of his death he sang at Mass with the Breton peasants, received the sacrament, and followed the procession, a taper in his hand.

But these actions were animated by the loftiest personal feeling. He possessed above all other things an extraordinary mystical conviction of the sovereign authority of God.

On the seventeenth of November, 1919, at the end of a long conversation during which he outlined to me his strategical principles and his conception of a leader, just as he was about to leave I saw him coming brusquely toward me again. ‘And then especially, Father,’he said, to me, pointing to the sky, ‘there is God. It is He who gives victory.'

From this throughout his whole life, but especially during the war, came his inveterate habit of prayer. One evening, for example, he was surprised at prayer on the day before a great battle. ‘I pray when it’s cold,’he said with humor; ‘all the more reason to pray when it’s hot.’ He meant when there is danger. When a friend congratulated him on having received the supreme command at Doullens, he answered: ‘Don’t congratulate me yet. I’m none the prouder for that. And pray God it may not be too late.’

His conviction was extraordinarily intense that God as a sovereign master controls the world’s course. He expressed this conviction more than ten times in public, and incessantly in private conversation.

On the day of King Albert’s triumphal reëntry into Brussels, Cardinal Mercier paid his respects to Foch’s ‘genius.’ ‘No, no,’ protested Foch. ‘Genius has nothing to do with it. I have thought, planned, reflected. But when everything had been considered, I have never seen the way to a solution. Finally, when the “yes” had to be given on which thousands of lives were going to depend, I felt myself to be the blind instrument of Providence.'

Speaking of the battle of the Marne in September 1914 and of the even more daring march to the sea in October 1914, he again said to Father de Grandmaison: ‘How was I able to accomplish what I did? Because God willed it so. I don’t know how. We are the blind instruments of Providence.'

And still another time, referring to the most critical situation which he had known; ‘From what source did that unconquerable strength come to me? . . . I do not know. An instinct. We are the blind instruments of Providence. It is God who guides everything.’

But it would be wrong to think that this faith relieved him of the duty of action! It is well enough known with what intensity, prepared by fifty years of relentless work, he exerted his intelligence and energy to snatch victory from his foes. He has expressed his Conviction on this point admirably: ‘There is no need to confuse the miraculous with the providential. Strictly, it is not proper to speak of the miracle of the Marne, or the miracle of the Yser . . . the miracle of Victory. This would be to disparage the tremendous part played by our troops. As far as I am concerned, when at an historic moment a clear vision is given to a man and the event proves that this clear vision has determined movements of enormous consequence in an important war, I hold that this clear view (such as I think I had at the Marne, at the Yser, on the twenty-sixth of March) comes from a providential influence in the hands of which man is an instrument, and that the triumphal decision is brought from on high by a will superior and divine.’

The man who knew him most intimately, General Weygand, has very justly written: ‘He was asked from what source a man could draw such unshakable firmness of character. From the strength of his mind, he told us, but also from his conscience as a soldier and a Christian.’

One evening in November 1928, the Marshal was at the family home in Valentine with his brother, the Jesuit priest. They were silt ing near the great fire which had been kindled, and a secretary was reading from a religious work written by Father Foch. The Marshal listened, sitting on a stool beside the fire. When the reading came to an end, the priest asked the Marshal: ‘What do you think of it?’ ‘It’s too much for me,’ the Marshal answered humorously. ‘I’ll tell you something, however. When I left Saint-Clément de Metz, Father Cosson gave me as his highest word of advice to call often on the Holy Spirit. Ever since that time I have said each day the traditional prayer Veni, Sancte Spiritus, followed by the liturgical prayer ... da nobis . . . recta sapere . . . That prayer is the finest of all!’

To think justly and truly — his faith above all taught him that. That faith conformed to the teaching of his mother, his masters, his Church. He denied himself the subtleties in which the captious spirit indulges. He had an admirable sense of discipline. He wished, quite simply, to be a believer.

He died a believer. A great crucifix dominated the bed on which he died. I have leafed over his family books of prayer on his bureau, their pages yellowed. He understood the Evangel, the Missal, and the Imitation of Jesus Christ. They formed the daily nourishment of his thoughts and of his life. Foch loved to recall what Napoleon said of war, that it was an art primarily simple and all a matter of execution. But Foch would certainly have said no less of religion, of his own religion, that it was simple, and all a matter of execution; that is to say, a great truth infusing a whole life.