If you’ve ever had dealings with Parisian taxi drivers, you might be sceptical about certain details of the “Miracle of the Marne”, an early turning point in the first World War that happened a century ago this week.
The usual story is this. By the start of September 1914, in a lightning advance designed to end the war early, the Germans had reached the river Marne at Meaux, 25 miles east of Paris, so close they could be seen from the Eiffel Tower. A panicked city, where the eating of rats during the Prussian siege of 1870 was still a living memory, prepared for the worst. Then the veteran general Joseph Gallieni, based in Paris, devised a dramatic plan. Commandeering every available taxi, he rushed thousands of men to the front overnight. The subsequent counter-attack stopped the German advance, and a grateful city hailed its taxi fleet as saviour.
The truth, as you may suspect, was more complicated. A seized map outlining enemy plans, along with a strategic mistake by the Germans in exposing a flank, were probably the crucial elements of the French victory.
After all, of the city’s thousands of cabs, only about 600 could be found when needed (nothing new there), transporting a fraction of the troops who fought. Mission complete, the taxi drivers read their meters and presented a bill, which was paid, albeit at a discounted rate: 27 centimes to the franc.
Still, the episode did catch the public imagination. If not the drivers, it made the Renault company, which built the cabs, a symbol of French resistance. One of the cars still stands as an exhibit at the Musée de l’Armée in Paris, a sort of tomb of the unknown taxi.
And the myth of the Marne has another pleasing resonance. You’ll have heard of Saint Fiacre, the 7th-century Irish monk who travelled to France, and a millennium later gave his name to the horse-drawn hansom cabs of Paris (via a hotel where the cabs gathered).
Well, St Fiacre’s main French base was Meaux, where the cathedral holds his relics. And anyone seeking to make a case for his involvement in the Marne Miracle might also point to a common mistranslation of his name as “battle king”. But as for his supposed supernatural powers, these were traditionally focussed on a battle of a different kind, a rearguard action, if you like. He was credited with the cure of haemorrhoids, via a stone seat with the shape of his buttocks. The infamous Cardinal Richelieu was among many who travelled to Meaux down the centuries hoping for relief.
The power worked both ways, apparently. On the principle that a holy man giveth, occasionally, as well as taketh away, Henry V is said to have blamed his own piles on the desecration of St Fiacre’s shrine during his Siege of Meaux (1422).
He underlined the point by dying – of severe colonic infection, according to historians – on August 31st of that year, impressively close to the saint’s feast day, which is variously dated as August 30th or September 1st.
Getting back to 20th century battles, the victory at the Marne was largely down to the French army. But there was also a vital contribution from British troops, under the direction of an aptly named general, Sir John French.
Just to confuse things, French was English by birth, but Irish by ancestry and sentiment, being descended from the family that gave its name to Frenchpark, Co Roscommon. He also began and ended his long public life with spells in Ireland.
As a young officer, he was posted to another Western Front – Connacht during the Land War – where he helped protect the labourers brought in to harvest crops for Capt Boycott. Forty years later, he became lord lieutenant in an Ireland just embarked on the War of Independence.
His long military career sharply divided critics. And he was somewhat conflicted himself, especially about Ireland, where he was once described as “an imperialist, a democrat, and a home ruler at the same time”. But the Battle of the Marne is generally agreed to have been among his finer hours.
At first reluctant to commit troops, he was persuaded by an emotional appeal from the French commander Marshal Joffre. At a meeting 100 years ago today, Joffre clasped his ally’s hands desperately and begged his help.
Whereupon, with tears rolling down his cheeks, according to witnesses, French tried and failed to reply in the language with which he was synonymous, before declaring in English that his men would do “all that men can”.
@FrankmcnallyIT