A MESSAGE TO THE PACIFISTS. A MESSAGE TO THE BEREAVED. A MESSAGE TO THE
TRENCHES
_Owing to the immense demand from home and from the trenches for this
letter, which appeared in the ‘Morning Post,’ the Editor found it
necessary to place it in the hands of London publishers to be reprinted
in pamphlet form, seventy-five thousand copies of which were sold in
less than a week direct from the publishers._
_Extract from a Letter from Her Majesty_
‘The Queen was deeply touched at the “Little Mother’s” beautiful
letter, and Her Majesty fully realizes what her words must mean to our
soldiers in the trenches and in hospitals.’
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_To the Editor of the ‘Morning Post’_
Sir,—As a mother of an only child—a son who was early and eager to do
his duty—may I be permitted to reply to Tommy Atkins, whose letter
appeared in your issue of the 9th inst.? Perhaps he will kindly convey
to his friends in the trenches, not what the Government thinks, not
what the Pacifists think, but what the mothers of the British race
think of our fighting men. It is a voice which demands to be heard,
seeing that we play the most important part in the history of the
world, for it is we who ‘mother the men’ who have to uphold the honour
and traditions not only of our Empire but of the whole civilized world.
To the man who pathetically calls himself a ‘common soldier,’ may I say
that we women, who demand to be heard, will tolerate no such cry as
‘Peace! Peace!’ where there is no peace. The corn that will wave over
land watered by the blood of our brave lads shall testify to the future
that their blood was not spilt in vain. We need no marble monuments to
remind us. We only need that force of character behind all motives to
see this monstrous world tragedy brought to a victorious ending.
The blood of the dead and the dying, the blood of the ‘common soldier’
from his ‘slight wounds’ will not cry to us in vain. They have all
done their share, and we, as women, will do ours without murmuring and
without complaint. Send the Pacifists to us and we shall very soon show
them, and show the world, that in our homes at least there shall be no
‘sitting at home warm and cosy in the winter, cool and “comfy” in the
summer.’ There is only one temperature for the women of the British
race, and that is white heat. With those who disgrace their sacred
trust of motherhood we have nothing in common. Our ears are not deaf to
the cry that is ever ascending from the battlefield from men of flesh
and blood whose indomitable courage is borne to us, so to speak, on
every blast of the wind. We women pass on the human ammunition of ‘only
sons’ to fill up the gaps, so that when the ‘common soldier’ looks back
before going ‘over the top’ he may see the women of the British race on
his heels, reliable, dependent, uncomplaining.
The reinforcements of women are, therefore, behind the ‘common
soldier.’ We gentle-nurtured, timid sex did not want the war. It is no
pleasure to us to have our homes made desolate and the apple of our
eye taken away. We would sooner our lovable, promising, rollicking
boy stayed at school. We would have much preferred to have gone on
in a light-hearted way with our amusements and our hobbies. But the
bugle call came, and we have hung up the tennis racquet, we’ve fetched
our laddie from school, we’ve put his cap away, and we have glanced
lovingly over his last report which said ‘Excellent’—we’ve wrapped them
all in a Union Jack and locked them up, to be taken out only after the
war to be looked at. A ‘common soldier,’ perhaps, did not count on
the women, but they have their part to play, and we have risen to our
responsibility. We are proud of our men, and they in turn have to be
proud of us. If the men fail, Tommy Atkins, the women won’t.
Tommy Atkins to the front,
He has gone to bear the brunt.
Shall ‘stay-at-homes’ do naught but snivel and but sigh?
No, while your eyes are filling
We are up and doing, willing
To face the music with you—or to die!
Women are created for the purpose of giving life, and men to take it.
Now we are giving it in a double sense. It’s not likely we are going
to fail Tommy. We shall not flinch one iota, but when the war is over
he must not grudge us, when we hear the bugle call of ‘Lights out,’
a brief, very brief, space of time to withdraw into our own secret
chambers and share with Rachel the Silent the lonely anguish of a
bereft heart, and to look once more on the college cap, before we
emerge stronger women to carry on the glorious work our men’s memories
have handed down to us for now and all eternity.
Yours, etc.,
A Little Mother.
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