from us. It is difficult to explain this patriotism which produces such
results; but go to New Zealand and you will find that it is the boast,
and the proud boast of many, that they have seen the king. Go to
Australia, where the working man rules the country, and hear the
national anthem played, or watch the flag being saluted in the schools,
and if you are courageous pass a rude remark about the king. Go to any
part of the empire, and you will find something inexplicable, something
unexplainable, which always points to Buckingham Palace and the little
man there. Americans look upon this with good-natured condescension. I
wonder why? It is not far to Canada, but you will find it there, too,
where they ought to be more enlightened since they live next to the
greatest republic. Always is it the empire, and always is "God save the
King" the prayer of the people. Perhaps we are a little bit mad, we
British, but I daresay we will continue being mad, since madness binds
together a mighty throng of people who in perhaps a poor sort of way
stand for fairness and decency. We all know how much of the child
remains in us, even when we are old. We look back to the days when we
believed in fairies, and sometimes when we are telling stories to our
children we let our imagination have full play, and gnomes and fairies
and even kings and princesses once more people our minds.
Is there anything more obnoxious than a child who refuses to believe in
fairies or who is not thrilled at Christmas time at the approaching
visit of Santa Claus? He misses so much. He hasn't got that foundation
to his mind that will make life bearable when responsibility brings its
attendant troubles. Take away our monarchy and we Britons become like
children who don't believe in fairies. We won't know what to do. The
monarchy supplies a wonderful need to us.
There is also a more practical reason for the retention of the monarchy.
We hold that a constitutional monarch is necessary to a properly
decentralized form of government. Party politics reign supreme in
England. The government passes a bill amidst the howls of the opposition
party and the opposition press. Then the bill is taken to the King and
he has _the_ right to veto it. He knows, however, that he must rule in
accordance with the wishes of his people, and so the bill receives the
royal signature and becomes law. A subtle change occurs. The press,
wonderfully powerful in England, becomes less bitter and the opposition
ceases to rage a little. Soon the law settles down into its right place.
So the king's signature is effective in that it makes the issuing of a
new law gentler and sweeter.
Is it not true that a king of great personality can have tremendous
power for good? Most people recognize now the power of our late King
Edward, some know the influence of our present monarch. All through
this present war we feel that the king is sharing our troubles and
suffering. You know we are suffering awfully in Great Britain. Even our
insular snobbishness does not help us a bit. It seems to have gone
somehow.
The king is a gentleman, and can't possibly advertise himself, but it is
true that very little goes on without his knowing all about it. He has
been working hard reviewing troops, visiting the sick and wounded,
helping in a thousand ways. Then he is so fine in his encouragement of
individuals. A few words from him to a keen officer helps that officer
for the rest of his life.
And so the king sweetens our national life. We love him; of course we
do, and we can't help it. Possibly we are fools, but we glory in our
foolishness.
A young English officer received the D. S. O. and the Military Cross and
finally died at Loos, getting the V. C. He, of course, went to the
palace to receive both the D. S. O. and the Military Cross. His father,
an old man with snowy white hair, went to get the V. C. The king gave
him the medal with a few conventional words, and then, while shaking
hands, whispered to the old man to remain. The king, upon finishing the
distribution of medals, took the father into an anteroom and then said
very quietly: "I say, Mr. K----, I am awfully sorry for you! I've been
interested in this boy of _ours_ and remember him well." Then the old
man sat down and told the king all about his son, and went away
comforted greatly and very proud of his son.
This is just a little thing, but it is the kind of thing that supplies
our need.
You know we don't want a republic. Why should we have one? We have a
king.
If American people want to understand us they must take this into
account. When they talk in terms of good-natured deprecation of our king
it hurts. I once spent a week-end with one of the greatest men in this
country and was surprised to hear him praising the monarchy merely from
a business point of view, and he knew what he was talking about. He had
wandered around London listening to the people talk and had studied the
whole thing from the coldly commercial side. Perhaps I am talking from
an idealistic point of view, and yet my life spent in many parts of the
world has been a practical one. It is, of course, quite possible that
the world's civilization may collapse and fall to pieces for a season.
Human passions are queer things; the cruel spirit of the mob still
exists, and it only becomes rampant where the things of the flesh have
become greater than the things of the spirit. This war has made us
suffer so much that in spite of cheery optimism we are almost benumbed
in Great Britain. I was in a large division that was reviewed by the
king on Salisbury Plain the day before embarkation, and as we marched
past the king on his pretty black Arab he looked at each one of us with
that humble expression of a father looking upon his son, and through
many weary months in France and Flanders that look was with us, and it
helped and encouraged. Even my big charger seemed to know that the king
was inspecting him, for he kept time to the march from "Scipio," and we
gave the very best salute we could muster up. Possibly none of the men
of that division are together to-day.
The king saw more than one mighty throng of cheery men marching so gayly
over the beautiful plain of Salisbury. He saw those men, young and
beautiful, for they were of the first hundred thousand, going out to
face the disciplined German army. He saw them spending fearful days and
awful nights in the trenches, being fired at and having little
ammunition to return the fire. He saw the first casualty lists coming
out and realised the suffering that he would share with many a mother,
father and sweetheart. Yet he was proud to be King of England that day,
and we were proud of him as our king. We couldn't possibly be proud of a
president. We are fearful snobs in England and the biggest snobs among
us are the working classes. We of England admire the United States form
of government. At present it seems the right thing over here. It would
never do for us.
XVI
A NAVAL VICTORY
October, 1917.
I went to Philadelphia the other day, and putting up at the hotel at
once called up M----, who said that as she was a member of the Motor
Messenger Corps it behooved her to show herself at a large meeting that
Corps had decided to arrange for getting recruits for the Navy. She said
that she had a box; so I suggested delicately that I might help her to
occupy the said box. Nothing would give her greater pleasure, but as she
had several girls with her, she suggested that I might feel awkward
unless she got another man. Having assured her that, on the contrary,
nothing would give me greater pleasure, I was then asked to accompany
her, so at eight o'clock, dressed in a strange imitation of a badly
turned out British officer, she dashed up in her Henry Ford and took me
to the demonstration.
The box was well exposed and there I sat with two ladies, disguised as
officers, in the front seats, and two more behind. There were several
hundred blue jackets decorating the stage, all armed with instruments,
and the programme stated that the said blue jackets were the band of
Sousa.
Dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant in the U. S. Navy the great
conductor marched on to the stage, bowed to the audience a little,
mounted a stand, gave one beat, and Hey Presto! off went the band. Of
course it was wonderful, made even more thrilling by the dress of the
performers.
He played piece after piece and then a gentleman in evening dress walked
on followed by a rather nervous looking Admiral of the British Navy. The
gentleman promptly commenced to eulogize the Admiral, who must have felt
rather terrible, but he stepped forward, Sousa meanwhile breaking into
"God Save the King." The Admiral commenced. He was obviously nervous;
however, his lack of power as an orator was very effective, and he spoke
a little about destroyers, and then stopped. Sousa then played, rather
too quickly and without much feeling, "Rule Britannia." I felt
militantly British and was very proud of the Admiral's entire lack of
oratorical power.
We had some more wonderful music from Sousa and after some flattering
remarks from the gentleman in evening dress, General W---- stepped
forward and said a few well chosen words. They were very effective and
to the point. He looked every inch a soldier, and was faultlessly turned
out: we all liked him. After that we had some more music and then the
gentleman in evening dress with more complimentary remarks ushered in a
man dressed as a British officer in "slacks" which did not fit well. He
was a tall youth with a very good looking face, brown curly hair, and an
engaging smile showing a set of good teeth. The gentleman in evening
dress commenced, as we thought then, to torture him about his gallantry
in action and all that sort of thing, and then the officer started.
He said some big things. He remarked that he had heard it said in
America that the British were using Colonial troops to shield their own
men. Incidentally I have often heard this said, but anxiously, as though
the speaker could not believe it but wanted to be reassured. I have
always laughed at this statement and remarked that to use one man to
shield ten or twelve was too difficult a proposition for the "powers
that be" in England. To deny it on my part, as a British officer, seemed
too ridiculous; besides, the whole thing is so obviously German
propaganda.
However, I was interested to hear how this Australian chap would deal
with the thing, so I listened carefully. He went on to explain what he
had heard and then said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, as an Australian
officer, I want to tell you that it is a _Damned Lie_." He brought the
thing out with much feeling. He then endeavoured to explain the
Gallipoli campaign and denied its being a failure.
A little blood commenced to flow about the stage at this time and he
was getting worked up. I have heard similar oratory in Sydney. Perhaps
he was getting too eloquent, but he had the crowd with him, and I know
that quite a number of young ladies felt cold shivers down their spinal
columns.
He said in stirring phrases that Australia and the Australians were not
in any way annoyed with the home government about the Gallipoli
business. They ought to be a little, it seemed to me, but I was thrilled
by his loyalty to the homeland. He then convinced us all of the
wonderful discipline prevailing in the Australian army. I am sure that
he helped us. The American people liked to hear about Australia, and
were glad to hear that we British were not poltroons. The few of us
there felt proud to have such a fellow standing up for us, and even we
were a little thrilled by the gory stories that he told. He certainly
dismissed from the minds of those present any idea of a breaking up of
the British Empire.
So far he had spoken wonderfully, but after three-quarters of an hour he
waxed very eloquent and, throwing out his arms, he commenced using just
a little too often the words "Men and Women of America," smiling sadly
the while and getting a little like a parson.
He now attacked the pacifists in that clever and abusive way which I
have only heard once before, when the editor of a flamboyant Sydney
paper gave a lecture in the old City Hall at Auckland. The said editor
being rather a noted character, the mayor had refused to occupy the
chair, and he was abused impersonally, but viciously and cleverly. In
like manner, the pacificists in Philadelphia were called "pestiferous
insects" a rather unpleasant sounding term and hardly descriptive. I
wish that he hadn't used that phrase. Still he was effective and I am
certain did a great deal of good.
I have one complaint to make, however. This Australian seemed to express
a terrific hate for the Germans and spoke about their atrocities. He
mentioned seeing men lying dead in No Man's Land until their eyes were
eaten out and all that sort of thing. He grew furious with the Boche,
and carried the audience with him. He spoke of women getting
"desecrated." Groans and angry mutterings could be heard throughout the
hall and I awoke to the strange fact that a British officer was sowing
in America a feeling of savage hatred towards the Germans and
succeeding. One thought of Punch's picture depicting a German family
enjoying their morning hate. Perhaps you will say "And why not, the
blighters." Perhaps he was waking up the country a little and was quite
right, but the thing interested me and I wondered.
Isn't it true that we are fighting Germany because she is a hater? Isn't
it true that Germany has been guilty of such filthiness that she is
slowly but surely cutting her own throat? Isn't it a fact that we have
always tried to fight clean, no matter what our enemy may be like? Isn't
it true that Uncle Sam came into this war really because of the sinking
of the _Lusitania_ and the fact that the Germans were such blighters in
Belgium? Isn't it true that in warfare, to be successful, you must be
cool and calm and steady? Isn't it true that, in boxing, the chap who
loses his temper runs some awful risks? In a word, don't you think the
Germans are getting licked badly because of their futile and mad hatred?
I know you can't stop the men from seeing red in an attack. It helps
them a little and makes them better fighters, but it is really a form of
Dutch courage. I want to see America going into this war as the champion
of manliness, decency, purity, goodness,--all that sort of thing. She is
bound to hate a little. She'll catch that disease quick enough from the
Boche, but if she learns to hate as the German's hate, she is beaten,
licked to pieces, no matter what the issue of the war may be.
As you know, I spent the best part of a year in France and Belgium, and
I can honestly say that during that time I never saw hate displayed,
except towards the supply people who wouldn't believe in our "strafed"
cycles. I have heard of Tommies getting furious and the officers who
have told me have spoken about it as a little amusing, but they don't
seem to have felt it themselves at all. I had a bedroom in a billet next
to a kitchen where Mr. Thomas Atkins used to take his refreshment, and I
have heard some wonderful stories, a little lurid; but quite often I
have heard Fritz admired.
I remember one day during the battle of Loos chatting to the Major,
while awaiting orders to fire, and regretting that our men should get
atrocious, as I had heard they were. The Major, an old campaigner, out
with the original expeditionary force, smiled a little, but merely
observed that it was very natural.
Past our battery position there was passing a few prisoners and a
procession of wounded--but mostly "blighties"; and I saw one sergeant
with a German helmet. I wanted to buy it as a "prop" for lurid stories
on leave, so went over to him. He had four bloody grooves down his face,
and he told me that he had had a hand-to-hand fight. He seemed a nice
chap, and he described the combat, in which he had evidently been
getting the worst of it, for the four grooves were nail marks from the
German. Fortunately he got his bayonet. "And you killed him," I broke
in. "Oh no, sir," he replied; "I just gave him a dig and the Red Cross
people have got him now. There he is, sir, I think,"--as a German
prisoner, lying on a stretcher and smoking a woodbine went by. I
returned without the helmet and told the story to the major, and he
said, "Oh no; I shouldn't believe all you hear about Tommy Atkins."
Perhaps our men have got nasty and very furious with the Boche. One can
hardly blame them. I am willing to believe that sometimes when the
Germans have done dirty tricks with our prisoners revenge has been
taken, but I just don't believe for a single instant that the chaps I
knew and loved in France could behave in any way but as decent, hard
fighting, hard swearing, good natured fellows. I don't believe either,
and no one I knew in France during my year there believed, that the
Boche were _always_ dirty in their tricks, though I will admit that they
show up badly as sportsmen.
Frankly, I want to see this country putting every ounce of power into
the combat. I want them to realize fully that Germany requires a lot of
beating. I want them to know that a victorious Germany would be a menace
to the liberty of the world, and all the other things that the
newspapers say.
But I dislike intensely this savage hate propaganda that is being
affected here. It is stupid, useless and dangerous. Didn't some
philosopher say that if he wanted to punish a man he would teach him how
to hate. The Germans deserve it; of course they do, but we must be
stronger than they. Also, you cannot exterminate them, unfortunately, so
you have got to try to make them decent, by some means or other. A
famous member of my clan, David Livingstone, went about amongst the
most savage tribes of Africa, unharmed and unarmed. It was just because
of the love that emanated from him. I fear it will be difficult to like
the Germans very much after all they have done, but we Britons must not
let Uncle Sam think for an instant that we have learnt from the Germans
how to hate in their own commonplace savage way. Of course it is not
true. We have a sense of humour and the Americans have a wonderful sense
of fun, and these two things cannot walk together with that stupid,
vulgar thing called hate.
The other night I had to speak at a club meeting. There was an infantry
officer there, and I felt that for a gunner to talk of the discomforts
of war in the presence of an infantry officer would be a little
humorous. However, these fellows wanted thrills, so I tried to give them
some, though, as you know, warfare is a commonplace amusement mostly,
and if one is limited by facts, it is difficult to thrill an audience.
The infantry officer spoke afterwards. It was very thrilling. He told me
seriously later on in my rooms that he was a godson of Nurse Cavill,
that he had seen the Canadians crucified, that he had walked along the
top of the parapet for half a mile with a machine-gun playing on him in
the moonlight, that he enjoyed patrols and loved sticking Germans in the
back in their listening posts, that he had discovered a German disguised
as a gunner officer behind the lines, that he had remained with six
wounds in his body for eight days in No Man's Land, that he had been
wounded six times, that he had often been right behind the German lines
at night, that he had overheard an interesting conversation between two
German staff officers in a German dugout, that he was in the second
battle of Ypres, Neuve Chappelle and Loos, that he had been a private in
the Gunners years ago, and many other adventures----!
And the extraordinary thing to me is that intelligent Americans, big
men, listen and believe these things. Later, when their own boys return
they will know that the chap who has been through it will tell
them--nothing. It is fine for us British here these days. We are heroes,
wonderful heroes. But strange people seem to be arriving and I wonder if
they are all taking the right line. I realise at once that it is very
easy for me to talk like this. A gunner subaltern, with his comfortable
billet to return to, even at the end of an unpleasant day, seldom comes
face to face with the Boche. Still I can only repeat that during my
service I saw nothing of common, vulgar hatred displayed by any infantry
officers I have met. It is not worth while: they are too great for that.
Of course I may have missed it. But there was Taylor, for example, a
horse gunner I believe, who was attached to the trench "Mortuaries." He
was at Haylebury with Taggers. He used to come into the mess at times.
Once during the battle of Loos while we were attacking he took several
of his cannon over into the Boche trench which we had succeeded in
capturing. Unfortunately something went wrong on our flank and Taylor
with the wonderful Second Rifle Brigade was left in this trench
surrounded by Boches in helmets with spikes in them. They were jammed
tight in the narrow, well-formed German trench and only a bomber at each
end could fight. We had plenty of bombs, however, and the Germans had
little fancy for jumping over the barricade they had made in their own
trench. Their officers attempted to lead their men and one by one were
bombed or shot. Taylor could see the spikes on their helmets. There was
a delay and then a German private with a cheery "Hoch!" jumped up on to
the barricade trying to entice the others to follow. They did not, but
the private received a bullet and lay there rather badly wounded. He
gave a slight movement, perhaps he seemed to be stretching for his gun,
so the bomber let him have one and ended all movement.
These men of ours were in a very awkward position, almost hopeless, and
no chances could be taken, but Taylor was annoyed with the bomber for
killing him, although there was nothing else to be done. He seemed too
brave to die. Taylor also told me, when he was in our dugout at the
battery position dead beat, that he saw a German badly wounded being
attended by one of our R. A. M. C. men. The German was begging the Red
Cross chap to let him die for his country.
I am merely telling you these things in order to let you see what
impressions I got. I hope that you will not think that I am becoming a
pacifist. But even if the Germans have taught our men to hate, I hope
that we will not be responsible for teaching the fellows over here that
sort of thing. Many of them will learn soon enough. Besides, I am not
sure that it is advisable for us to do it.
The next day I met the Admiral and took him out to my friends at
Chestnut Hill. M----'s mother, a hopeless Anglophile, fell for him at
once. He amused us all at dinner, and then we asked him to go with us to
the hotel to dance. He came and stayed with us until midnight. A----
liked him very much and spent the whole evening, or what was left of
Saturday night, talking to him, ignoring the wonderful music that was
enticing us all to dance. On Monday he came with me to Bethlehem. I took
him home to tea, and my landlady, an English girl, was very thrilled,
and was perfectly overcome when he bowed to her, and shook her warmly by
the hand. She brought tea up, and stayed to gossip a little, and they
commenced discussing Yarmouth or some other place that they both knew.
I discussed the "hate" business with the Admiral, but he seemed to think
that it could not be helped and that perhaps the men made better
fighters if they felt furious. So perhaps after another dose of France
and "Flounders" I may feel the same.
At the moment in Bethlehem the people are preparing for a trying time.
They are convinced that something is going on in France about which they
know nothing. They are sure that the boys are in it. They are
appreciating to the full the wonderful work being done at Ypres by our
men. Having been ordered to wear uniform I am astonished at the number
of people who greet me. As I walk along I am constantly greeted with
"Good evening, Captain." What charming manners the American working man
has when you are not employing him!
Yesterday I was going up the street in uniform when two small boys
stopped making mud pies and, after looking at me with great pleasure,
one said "Hello, Horn Blow Man!"
I hope that I am not entirely wrong about the hate business, but I
always feel that in the same way that you hide love from the rest of the
world because you are proud of it, so you hide hate because you are
ashamed of it.
If a Frenchman developed hate for his theme in propaganda he'd get away
with it. But American people know that we are merely like themselves,
too lazy and good natured to develop a really efficient form of hatred.
XVII
POISONOUS GAS
November, 1917