not at all difficult. One has plenty of information about the war, and
the more simply this is given the better it seems to me. However, it is
all very interesting and I am supplied with the opportunity of meeting
hundreds of American men. They are all awfully kind to me. I generally
speak at club luncheons and dinners.
One night I had to speak at a splendid dinner given by the neighbourhood
club of Bala-Cynwyd, a suburb of Philadelphia. Of many delightful
evenings spent in America I think this night was the most enjoyable. My
turn came towards the end of the programme. There had been many fine
talks by famous Philadelphians as well as by other British officers, and
I felt very diffident about saying any thing at all. However, I stood up
and saw several hundred cheery men all looking up at me with kindness
and encouragement shining from their faces. I told them a few funny
stories and said that I liked them an awful lot; that I liked them so
much that I wanted them to like my countrymen. I forget exactly what I
did say.
A few days afterwards I received a letter from the secretary of the
club, which I shall always keep, for it assures me of their friendship
and affection.
I do not think that the American people have done their duty by us. When
the early Christians were given a big thing they started missions which
had for their object the conversion of the heathen. Why has not America
realised her responsibility to us? Why hasn't she sent a mission to
England, with the object of converting middle-aged and elderly Britons
to that attitude of mind, so prevalent here, which makes every American
man over thirty desire to help and encourage enthusiastic young men? At
the moment, the meeting of American enthusiasm and British conservatism
always suggests to my mind the alliance of the Gulf Stream with the
Arctic current. There is an awful lot of fog when these two meet and
some shipwrecks.
Quite often I talk at Rotary Clubs. Every city or town has a Rotary Club
over here. The members consist of one man from each of the leading
business houses in the town or city. They meet at lunch once a week and
endeavour to learn things from one another. One member generally talks
for twenty minutes about his particular business, then an alarm clock
goes off; and sometimes an outsider gives an address. I rather love the
Rotarians. The milk of human kindness flows very freely, and the members
behave to one another like nice people in decent books. At any rate many
cordial remarks are made, and it always seems to me that the thought,
even if it is an affected one, which produces a decent remark helps to
swell the amount of brotherly love in the world. The Rotarians are keen
business men and are obviously the survivors of the fittest in the
business world.
Sometimes I have spoken for the Red Cross at large public meetings. I
even addressed a society affair in the house of a charming Philadelphia
lady. This was very interesting. There were about one hundred people
present and my host, an adopted uncle, endeavoured to introduce me in a
graceful manner with a few well chosen words, but he forgot his lines.
At this function one felt one's self to be present at a social gathering
described by Thackeray. There were many men and women present with the
sweetest and most gracious manners in the world. They were all
descendants of the people who lived in Philadelphia before the
Revolution, and something of the atmosphere that must have prevailed in
a fashionable drawing-room or "Assembly" during those romantic days
seemed to be in the air.
Of course my first experience of public speaking was in Bethlehem. It
happened at the Eagle Hotel. One of the Vice-Presidents of the Steel
Company called me up and said. "Mac, will you give us a short talk at
the Red Cross luncheon to-day?" "But yes, Mr. B----, I'll be delighted,
though I am no orator."
So I found myself decked out in uniform on my way to the Eagle in Mr.
B----'s car. With tact he urged me to be careful. "Y'know, Mac, the
people in this burgh have not _quite_ realised the situation. Many are
of German origin and there are some Irish, and one or two are not fond
of England. They are a fine crowd of men and are working like Trojans to
get money for the Red Cross."
"May I damn the Kaiser, Mr. B----?" I meekly asked. "Sure! Sure! Mac;
give him hell. Every mother's son will be with you in that."
After lunch, Mr. B----, as General of the Army of Collection, stood up.
(He is a ripping chap, a little embonpoint perhaps, as befits his age.
He is about forty-five and looks thirty. He has a round, cheery face,
hasn't lost a hair from his head, and when he talks, suggests a small
boy of twelve successfully wheedling a dime from his mother for the
circus.)
He said: "We have had with us in Bethlehem men of the Entente Allies,
men who have heard the whi----stling of the shrapnel, and who have seen
the burs----ting of the high explosives, and to-day one of these heroes
will address you."
The "whistling of the shrapnel" thrilled me. It brought back to my mind
a night in an Infantry dugout in France, when dear old Banbury of the
Rifle Brigade was wearying me and three other subs with a story of one
of his stunts in "No Man's Land." We heard a bounding, whipping sound
and then a massed chorus of whistling, and we all breathed a sigh of
relief as Banbury jumped up, and grabbing his gun muttered, "Whizz
bang," and disappeared up the dugout steps. That was all. He switched on
to cricket when he returned. And yet they call the Boche frightful.
Then the "bursting of the high explosives." I hate high explosives. They
are so definite, and extremely destructive; and so awkward when you're
up a chimney and it hits somewhere near the base, and you slide down the
rope and burn your poor hands.
I stood up, feeling like ten cents, and commenced to tell my audience
about the Red Cross _a la guerre_. Whenever I tried to thrill them they
all laughed, and then I guessed that my accent was the cause of all the
trouble. I tried to talk like an American, I thought, with some success.
I called the Kaiser a "poor fish," but when I discussed America and the
war and said "By Jove, we need you awful badly over there," they all
collapsed and I sat down.
Afterwards they came up, fine chaps that they are, and all shook hands.
It seems to be an art developed by certain persons to be able to
introduce speakers. If you are the fellow who has got to talk, the
chairman gets up and commences to praise you for all he is worth. A
fellow told me at a dinner the other night that while visiting his home
town he had been compelled to address the townsmen. The deacon mounted a
small platform and commenced to eulogize. He had only got the first
versicle of the "Te Deum" off his chest, when his set of teeth fell out
and landed on the bald head of my friend, giving him a nasty bite. This
was a great help.
About this eulogizing--my Highland blood helps me to understand; my
English education tells me that it is--well, displaying all your goods
in the front window, and I'm not sure that it "is done." Eddy Grey says
"Hector, it is just 'slinging the bull.'" It is. Some of these
eulogising gentlemen talk for ten minutes each time, but they are
generally good looking people turned out in quite nice evening things.
I went to a "coming-out party" yesterday and ate some interesting food,
chatted with some amusing girls, and then rushed into John Wanamaker's
to help to sell Liberty Bonds. I stood at the base of a bronze eagle and
harangued a large audience, but not a soul bought a bond. However, a
lady whose father was English was partially overcome and fell on my
chest in tears. She was about fifty. I should liked to have hugged her,
but I did not know her very well, although the introduction was vivid.
I manage generally to hold the interest of my audience, but I wish I
were Irish. I always love to talk to American men. They make a fine
audience. Having found it difficult in England to grow up, my growth
towards a reverend and sober mien has been definitely stunted during my
year in America. Americans don't "grow up." An American possesses the
mind of a man, but always retains the heart of a child, so if you've got
to speak, it is quite easy to appeal to that great, wonderful Yankee
heart. Of course, my greatest opportunity came on the Fourth of July,
1917. I realise more and more every day what a tremendous honour was
paid to me by my friends of Bethlehem.
Towards the middle of June, the town council of Bethlehem met to discuss
the annual municipal celebration of America's Independence. They
discussed the choice of an orator and unanimously decided that it would
be a graceful act of courtesy to ask a British officer to do the job.
The lot evidently fell upon me, and the local Episcopal parson waited
upon me, and put the request, admitting that only judges, ex-governors,
colonels, and big people like that had been asked in previous years. I
said "Right, O!" And then began to reflect upon the great honour shown
to my country and me. As I have told you before, the population of
Bethlehem is largely of Teutonic descent and there are quite a large
number of Irishmen here. Never in the history of the United States had
an Englishman in full uniform delivered the Independence Day oration. I
was a little frightened. You see the folk thought it would be a nice
thing to do; a sort of burying the hatchet.
Many days before, I wrote out a series of speeches, and wondered if I
should get stage fright. I felt that the job might prove too difficult
for me.
The Glorious Fourth arrived, ushered in by the banging of many
fireworks, making it difficult, and a little dangerous for law abiding
and humble citizens. I cleaned and polished up my uniform, slung a gas
mask and wallet round my shoulders, and awaited the automobile that
should take me to the campus. It came at last, and I found myself
standing surrounded by two bands and about three thousand people.
The children were firing all kinds of infernal pistols and crackers, and
I wondered how I should be able to make myself heard by the large throng
of people. The National Guard lined up, and the band commenced to play
various tunes. After a time silence was called, and the band broke into
"The Star Spangled Banner" while the National Guard and I saluted. The
people then solemnly repeated the oath of allegiance to the Republic,
while the flag was solemnly unfurled on a huge flagstaff. It was all
very solemn and inspiring, and became more so when a clergyman read a
Psalm. Then the bands played "America" which seems to have the same time
as "God Save the King" while we endeavoured to sing the words. The Chief
Burgess then addressed the throng, but being an elderly man, his
inspiring address was heard by only a very few.
Soon it was my turn to speak, and in fear and trembling I mounted a
little stand improvised for the occasion. I looked at the old building
beside me in which our wounded of the Revolution had been cared for by
the gentle Moravians. I looked at the people around me, thousands of
happy faces all looking with kindliness and friendship towards me. I
don't know exactly what I said, but perhaps the spirits of the poor
British Tommies who had died fighting for their king in the old building
behind helped a little, for I know that during the half hour I spoke
every face was fixed intently upon me, and when I finally got down,
there was a mighty cheer that went straight to my heart. At any rate I
had that thing which is greater than the speech of men and of angels,
and without which the greatest orator's speech is like sounding brass
and tinkling cymbals--Love. I had a very great love for my friends of
Bethlehem, a love that refused to differentiate between Anglo-Saxons
and Teutons, and they knew it, consequently they listened with a great
patience.
After the band had once more played, and a clergyman had said a prayer,
hundreds and hundreds came forward and shook hands. There were veterans
of the Civil War who threw their chests out and offered to go back to
France and fight with me. One old gentleman with snowy hair said "Lad,
it was an inspiration." Then exiles, mostly women from England, Ireland,
and Scotland, came up, some weeping a little, and said "God Bless you."
One darling old Irish lady said "Sure Oirland would get Home Rule if you
had any power in England."
Sometimes I think that we humans are a little too fond of talking.
Perhaps it might be a good idea to remember at this time the words of
the great chancellor: "Great questions are not to be solved by speeches
and the resolutions of majorities but by blood and iron." I suppose for
the Allies it gets down to that finally, but they all do an awful lot of
talking.
XVIII
THROUGH PENNSYLVANIA
December, 1917.
I have just returned from a tour of Pennsylvania with a senator, and
have come back to Philadelphia possessing much experience, and a
profound love for my senator as well. We traversed several hundred
miles, stopping only to talk at important, though in some cases
out-of-the-way, towns in the great commonwealth. Our object was to help
the people to realise the present situation. At times it was hard going,
at times our experience was altogether delightful. We visited Allentown,
Sunbury, Lock Haven, Erie, Pittsburgh, Washington, Altoona, Johnstown,
Huntingdon, and Harrisburg.
At Allentown we were met and greeted by a warm-hearted Committee of
Public Safety, and spoke to a tired out audience of Pennsylvania
Dutchmen and many yawning chairs, as well as a few officers from the
Allentown Ambulance Camp. I found talking difficult and I fear my
audience was bored. My senator did his best, but the Allentown people
have many soldiers of their own, and besides they realise the situation.
They are Pennsylvania Dutchmen, and that stands for fervent Americanism
which is more real, I think, on account of the stolidness they display.
At Sunbury the folk were awfully glad to see us. Sunbury is a charming
place with a beautiful large park in the centre of the town, disturbed a
little by the locomotives that seem to rush through its very streets,
heedless of whether they kill a few careless Sunburyites on their
journey. We spoke to a large and delightful audience of kindly people,
who saw all my poor jokes, and sympathised quite a lot with my country
in its struggles. I left them all warm friends of the British Empire, I
hope. The whole town is sympathetic and we met the niece of the chap who
discovered oxygen. I loved the old houses and the quiet restful feeling
in the air. The people of Sunbury are with us in the job of finishing
the Boche even unto the last man.
At Lock Haven, a fine old town with a great past as a lumbering centre,
and with also a fine old inn, we met some nice folk, but things had gone
wrong somewhere, and the attendance was very small. It was difficult to
gather the attitude of the people.
We left Lock Haven very early in the morning, and commenced a long
journey to Erie on a local train, which behaved like a trolley car, for
it seemed to stop at every cross roads. Although it lasted eight hours I
enjoyed the journey very much, but a journey on an American train,
especially in Pennsylvania, presents no horrors for me, since I always
find several old friends, and make a few new ones on the way.
I had had to talk to a large crowd of travelling men one Saturday
afternoon in Philadelphia. They were a fine audience, in spite of the
fact that they were all in a state of "afterdinnerness," and the room
was full of smoke, which was hard on my rather worn-out throat.
A "travelling man" is a commercial traveller, called by the vulgar, a
"drummer"--a little unkindly I think. Until this meeting, and its
consequences, I had never understood American travelling men. Now I do.
I believe that these men form a kind of incubator for some of the
keenness and determined-doggedness that is so marked in the American
character.
And so upon the long journey I met several friends. One was travelling
for corsets, I believe. The corsets did not interest me,--I'm not sure
that they interested my friend very much, but they gave him scope for
his profession, as well as an opportunity to bring up a family. I learnt
a great deal from these two men, and the many conversations that had
bored me a trifle while travelling, came back to my mind.
These fellows have to apply every device, every trick, to carry off
their job. Their numbers are great and their customers are always on
the defensive, so they've got to know more about human nature than about
their wares. They have to overcome the defenses of the men they deal
with. Their preliminary bombardment has to be intense. They've got to
make an impression; either a very good one or an evil one,--both are
effective, for an impression of their existence and what they stand for
must be left upon the minds of their opponents. I heard two discussing
their tactics on this long journey to Erie. One chap spoke of a merchant
whose reputation as a notorious bully was well known to travelling men.
He was a nasty red-headed fellow, and was overcome in the following way.
The drummer approached the desk and delivered his card. The merchant
looked at it and said "What the hell do you mean by wasting my time? I
don't want yer goods, what have yer come for?"
The drummer merely said, "I haven't come to sell _you_ anything."
"Well, what the hell do yer want?" replied the merchant.
"I've merely come to have a good look at as mean a looking red-headed
son-of-a-gun as exists on the face of this earth. I collect photographs
of atrocities."
The merchant looked furious and then angrily said, "_Come in!_" So the
drummer entered with certain fears. The red-head seated himself at his
desk, and commenced his work, keeping the drummer standing. The drummer,
fearing defeat and ignoring the notice "No Smoking," lit a foul cigar,
walked over to the desk and commenced blowing clouds of smoke all over
the merchant. The "red-headed son-of-a-gun" looked up and grinned. It
was not difficult after that.
Finally, at about three-thirty, we reached Erie. We addressed a rather
small audience in the court house, and afterwards spent a diverting hour
in a local club.
At three-thirty A.M. we left for Pittsburgh and spent the rest
of the early morning in a Pullman sleeper, getting duly asphyxiated. At
Pittsburgh we addressed a large crowd of business men called "The
Pittsburgh Association of Credit Men." They formed a delightful audience
and listened with apparent interest to our story. The trouble is, that
men these days, want to hear about atrocities. They like one to tell
them about Belgium women getting cut up into impossible pieces and all
that sort of thing. I don't see the use of it at all. Besides my job is
not to amuse, nor to appeal to the side of a man's character which
appreciates newspaper stories of tragedies, but rather to place before
him actual conditions as I saw them. It always seems to me that the
greatest atrocity of the war was the initial use of poisonous gas by
the Germans, and the tragedy lay in the fact that human nature became so
unsporting as to resort to such methods.
Certain people, talking at dinners and meetings these days, definitely
take up a line of speech which chiefly concerns itself in detailing
German atrocities. They find it perfectly easy to gain round after round
of applause by saying something like the following: "That fiend of hell,
the Kaiser, spent years and years plotting against the peace of the
world. He massacred little Belgian children, and raped systematically
Belgian women. 'One week to Paris, one month to London and three months
to New York,' he shrieked. But the American eagle prepared to fight, the
British lion roared, and France, fair France, clasped her children to
her breast and called for aid across the ocean to the sons of Uncle Sam
to whom she had given succor in the dark days of '76."
Now I will admit that talk like that is quite effective and stirs a
fellow up quite a lot, but I rather think that ten years hence it will
be described as "bull." What American men and American women want is
cold facts that can be backed up with proof, convincing proof. Of course
there is not a shadow of doubt that the Germans had designs upon the
rest of the world, but I have one object in my talks--to endeavor to
foster a firm and cordial understanding between my country and America.
My objects cannot be attained by detailing horrors, so I allow the
newspapers to thrill and amuse them, and I try to tell them things as I
myself saw them. Strangely enough I find cold facts "get across" much
better than all the British bull dog screaming and eagle barking in the
world, which reminds me of the man who said that he only knew two tunes
and that he got these mixed up. When asked what the two tunes were he
replied, "God save the weasel" and "Pop goes the Queen."
And then we arrived at Washington, Pa. Washington, Pa., will never be
forgotten by this British soldier. We found ourselves on a platform
looking at as cheerful and delightful a crowd of people as I ever hope
to talk to. They were all smiling and gave us a wonderful welcome. I
told the children present, that the boys and girls in my country were
all taught about George Washington in their schools and sometimes even
in the Sunday-schools. I told them that sometimes they mixed him up a
little with Moses and the prophets, but, in any case, it was not until
they became highly educated that they realized that he was an American.
They were a delightful audience, and after I had spoken for about an
hour they gave me an encore, so I sang them a comic song. I hated
leaving Washington.
Then we arrived at Johnstown and heard about the flood, and the story of
the man who was drowned there and who bored all the saints in Paradise
with a reiteration of his experiences in that memorable tragedy,
although he was interrupted frequently by a very old man sitting in a
corner. The Johnstown saint was annoyed until it was explained to him
that the old man was Noah who, it may be remembered, had some flood of
his own.
It snowed when we arrived at Huntingdon and consequently the audience in
the "movie" theatre was small.
We had a wonderful meeting at Altoona. The people were very enthusiastic
and I met some fine warm-hearted Americans afterwards. Sometimes a chap
would say, "I've got a Dutch name, Lieutenant, but I'm an American and
I'm with you."
Our train caused us to be too late for the meeting at Harrisburg, so we
returned to Philadelphia. I hated parting with my senator. The thing I
loved best about our tour was the cordial feeling displayed towards me
by the hundreds of men I met after the close of the meetings.
I was a little tired, but nevertheless quite sorry when our journey
ended.
I have grown to hate the very idea of war and I hope that this will be
the last. Still I wonder. What a futile occupation war is when one comes
to think of it, but, of course, we could not allow Germany to give a
solo performance. Yet there must be an antidote.
Some years ago, on a very warm Sunday afternoon in New Zealand, a number
of men from a small college decided to bathe in a rather treacherous
looking lake near by. They had all been to chapel that morning, not only
because chapel was compulsory, but because the service was usually
cheery and attractive and some of them were theological students.
Unfortunately one man, little more than a boy, was drowned. The
circumstances were distressing because he had just got his degree and
was showing promise of a useful life.
I can see it all now; his great friend--for men become great friends in
a college--working his arms endeavouring to bring back life long after
he was dead; the solemn prayer of the master; the tolling of the chapel
bell as the sad procession moved up to the college; and then the friend
solemnly deciding to devote his life to the dead boy's work. It was all
very sad, but something had been introduced to the whole thing which
made the more frivolous amongst us think. We felt different men that
night, when one of our number lay dead in the college building. Some of
us who knew, felt a great comfort when we saw the friend decide to take
up the dead boy's work. We felt that friendship had won a great fight.