The Waste of War.
I could not have been long in slumber, when a slight noise, perhaps the
cracking of a stick, drove sleep from my anxious brain, and I sat up
with surprise, staring at a long figure in black that stood peering at
me. The black gown, the beads and the broad-brimmed hat told me it was a
priest.
He spoke to me in German. It was one of the sentences Miss Goche told me
I would be asked--he wished to know where I was going. So I fired at him
a second of my readied German phrases: "I'm going south to fight," I
said, which was true.
Then he let free a flood of German that floored me. He waited for a
reply that hesitated; then with a queried look into my face, he said:
"English! you're no German," and his eyes began to twinkle.
"You can confess," he said, "remember there is no war with men of God.
I, too, am going south, I am going to France, our journey will seem
quicker in company, let us step forth."
He was a Christian Brother. He had been to Australia, where many of his
Order were established. I explained I knew of their work in education;
in fact, I happened to know many of the fraternity by name. I ran over a
gamut of names of those I knew in past years. There were Brothers Paul,
Wilbrid, Aloysius and Mark.
"I may know some of those you mention," he said, "but I do not think it
possible. We seldom know each other by name unless we are beneath the
same roof. There are hundreds called by the names you mentioned, I
myself am a 'Brother Wilbrid.'"
It is a wonderful fact that there is nothing that knits strangers
together, as the hitting on the name of a mutual friend, so we became
close companions.
He had been born in Lorraine, but had lived most of his time in Berlin.
His close-cropped grey hair showed he was well on in years. He had been
an artisan before he joined his Order, and he lightened our long tramp
to Coblenz with his idea of the trend of things.
The road was good and the air was clean and sweet. We passed by some
farms where women were behind the plough.
Summer was breaking, and the Autumn sunshine was drying the last
dewdrops from the grass.
"Note," Brother Wilbrid said, "how all Nature welcomes the sunshine,
hear the birds twitter, see the cattle slowly moving on that rise. All
Nature here joins in a hymn of peace, yet far beyond those western
ridges three million men lay trenched through the winter and stared in
hellish hate at each other across a narrow strip.
"All Nature welcomed the Spring with a paean of praise, but by fighting
men it was welcomed as the opportunity to rise from winter holes and
rush across the Spring sun-warmed earth to warm it anew with flowing
blood. But it is not the waste of blood that so appals, it's the waste
of effort and the waste of heroism. The labor of three million men
could, in the wasted months of war build much to ensure unending human
happiness. Thirty-two thousand men cut a channel through Panama and
shortened the world's journey to your home by a third! Think what the
labor of three million men could do!
"And then there is the waste of heroism.
"Men with large hearts will risk their lives to drag a comrade out of
danger. It is heroism--yes--but it is wasted on a cause of
foolishness----"
"But," I interrupted, "there is other heroism than that on the fighting
line," and I told him the story of Abbe Chinot, of Rheims, the young
priest in charge of the cathedral; how, when German shells were crashing
into the grand old pile which was being used as a hospital for German
soldiers, Chinot, aided by Red Cross nurses, dragged the wounded into
the street, where surged a mob, maddened that their beloved church was
in flames, and that their homes and five hundred of their folks had
been smashed with German shells. The sight of the grey uniforms on the
German wounded drove the mob into frenzied screams of revenge, but the
fearless Abbe placed himself between the uplifted rifles of the crowd
and the German wounded. "If you kill them," he said, "you must first
kill us"; and how the mob, struck with his perfect courage, moved away
in silence.
[Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL OF RHEIMS.]
[Illustration: "Smashed with German Shells."
(The Rheims Cathedral Front.)]
"Yes, that is fine, very fine," he said--"yet it does not prove that
the war made the brave Abbe heroic.
"This war is unnecessary. It is the most unnecessary of all wars. It is
not a war of the people. It is a merchants' war. It is not a war of the
workers. It is a war for commerce--and four million or more lives will
go up to God in the interests of Trade.
"I fear the consequences of this war. I feel this war spirit will bring
on a sequel that will surprise humanity.
"A great writer[1] likened the war spirit to a carbuncle on the body.
The poison flowing through the blood localises itself, and a painful
lump forms in the flesh. Relief is sought in salves, ointments, and
poultices. But the lump continues to swell, and the pain to increase,
until at the very time when the soul is in mortal agony the carbuncle
bursts and spews out the poison. The pain ceases, the swelling subsides,
and the flesh regains its normal color.
"The poison of injustice flows through the veins of society. Men are
denied their natural rights; and when the oppression becomes
unendurable, their oppressors make all manner of excuses. The affliction
is due, they say, to the wrath of God, to the niggardliness of nature,
or to the encroachments of foreign nations. Ah, the encroachments of
foreign nations! When all other excuses fail, there is this to fall back
upon; and each ruling class of oppressors holds its victims in
subjection by charging the trouble to the others.
"But the people are awakening. A few already see their real oppressors.
It is for each who sees the truth to tell his fellow, and that fellow
his fellow, until presently all will know the truth, and the truth shall
make them free; free from industrial tyranny at home, and free from
military tyranny from abroad. The work of the peace advocate is not
negative. It is not enough for him to cry peace, peace! He must first
lay the foundation for peace. To cry peace while the people writhe under
injustice is like trying to heal the carbuncle without cleansing the
blood."
[Illustration: "The Waste of War."--Chapter XII.
(The Cartoon, "Advance of Civilisation," by Bradley, in the "Chicago
Daily Mail.")]
[Footnote 1: Stoughton Cooley.]
[Illustration: "It is not the people's fight."--Chapter XIII.
(The Cartoon, "Must Peace Wait for This," by Bradley, in the "Chicago
Daily Mail.")]