Arms and the Man
There must be no misunderstanding. We may condemn the futility of the
appeal to arms as the ultimate method of arbitriment between civilised
beings; we can have nothing but whole-hearted admiration for the man
who has answered the appeal.
Civilisation, if it means anything, has meant the development of
the sense of humour. It was the gradual realisation of an absurd
disconnection between seeing a man scowling, and clubbing the life
out of him so that _he_ should see no more, and between hearing his
insults, and depriving _him_ for all time of hearing, that brought
primitive man out of savagery. The same discovery, of its incongruity
put an end to the duel among us. Our German opponents have always been
behind us in this, in civilisation, in the sense of humour. It is with
a feeling of disgust as much as of anger that we find our civilisation
cannot save us from being dragged down to the level of savage brawling.
But the appeal to arms once made, and our national and personal
ideals once involved in the hazard, we may well be proud of the
sane, temperate spirit with which the men of our race assert their
superiority, even in the whirlpool of elemental passions that is war.
Actual fighting, the killing of men, cannot be done well except by men
in the rage of the fighting fever, in the passion that "sees red."--It
is no surprise to us that the British soldier can still charge like
seven demons. To lie for hours passive under fire, with death close
round in the trenches, calls for a still rarer emotional concentration,
the white animosity that flares steadily but does not flicker.--To
those who know our history, it is no news that the Briton, for cold
unshaken courage, can still out-last all other men. But what, in a
Briton, who has seen the soldiers of several nations reacting under
the war-fever, touches a deeper chord of pride, is to see that our
countrymen can pass in and out of the "fighting state" with the mental
detachment of civilised beings. Even in the "red rage" they become
neither blind nor deaf to the call of humanity or reason. They maintain
personality against the overwhelming war atmosphere of animal fury
and suspicion. When the fighting shadow passes, they are still their
natural selves, kindly or surly, or intelligent, knowing what they
like or dislike, with no collective infection from a false pride, a
simulated enthusiasm or hatred.
Of this power of maintaining mental balance, through all the flux
and reflux of the "fighting state," military record gives us little
idea. But it is the deciding factor in racial wars. The degree of
its possession by the several races in the end decides for victory
or failure. The nation that has the strongest vital stock survives
longest. As between two such vital races in conflict, that must prevail
which is the better "civilised"; which can maintain its characteristic
strength, its individual consciousness, against all the assaults of
violent physical or mental emotion.
A captured Prussian lieutenant, with whom I had a quick talk beside the
road near Rheims a few days ago, was pleased to express surprise at the
courage and doggedness of our British "mercenaries," as he called them.
He thought I was insulting him, when I told him that the conditions
under which our volunteer private served were very similar to those of
the German officer!
It has been always a new surprise to find how many Germans, even those
who know military history and are well acquainted with England, have
allowed their sense of national rivalry with us, of jealousy rather
than hatred, to blind their judgment, otherwise expert in military
matters. They have continued to make three elementary blunders about
our army; and they are now paying dearly for the miscalculation.
The first blunder has been to confuse a man who volunteers to fight for
his own country, as his profession, with a "mercenary"; by which we
mean a man who hires himself out to fight for any country which offers
him enough pay. The second has been in some way to reason that a man
who voluntarily makes himself efficient to defend his own country, and
receives an allowance for it, must be inferior, as fighting material,
to a man who compulsorily so serves his country, and receives an
allowance for it. And the third has been the astounding ignorance of
the teaching of military history, which proves conclusively that, from
the time when the Spartans beat the Athenians down to the present
day, the professional-soldier army has always beaten the amateur or
conscript army, even at great disadvantage of numbers.
That is the essential difference which we have been seeing every day
in the field. Our men are fighting, just as consciously, for the
preservation and honour of their country, as are their conscript
enemies. But, because of their race, they do not care to make a parade
of that consciousness. We do not encourage in war more than in peace
the "jelly-bellied flag-flappers" whom Mr. Kipling has pilloried. It
takes a very special story of pluck to draw from any collection of our
soldiers even a "Good old England!" or a "What will they say at home to
that?" Fighting, manœuvre, fatigue, firing, wounds, death, they are all
just parts of their professional job; which they like to do well for
its own sake, and in which they have a technical interest.
When the fighting is done, in camp, in reserve, in intervals, it is
striking to see the different look on the faces of the different races.
The Briton keeps nothing of the fixed "war" look, the strained, set
expression and eyes of some other races, as if the weight of a country
was on their shoulders, as if death was near in thought and always
being defied, as if the whole world was an object of suspicion. The
moment his "job" of fighting, or whatever it may be, is done for the
time, the Briton becomes himself again. Just a tired and gay, or a
tired and grumbly fellow who has finished his job, according to his
ordinary nature.
England and his home and family have not been saved with every shot he
has fired, and when he is off duty, he is not worried about the future
of the Fatherland. He has learned in a hard school that his duty is
just his job; and he has learned to do his job, killing, cooking, or
horse-tending, with a keen, impersonal, professional interest.
When I said something like this to a German officer in prison at
Bruges, he jumped at it: "Ah, just so! He fights like a machine: he has
no heart in it! He will be beaten by our Germans, inspired by the one
thought of the German flag!"
Not a bit! A boxer does not do less damage because he has learned how
to fight, as an art, with years of training. When he is in the ring,
heart tells in the end, but it tells through the degree of skill. When
you have got a soldier who fights for the love of it, as a profession,
and, besides that, has become a master of the art, you have found
a champion who will out-last a rank of compulsory-service amateurs
inspired by all the patriotism under the sun!
Put our volunteer professionals in the firing line, leave them to fend
for themselves on a terrible retreat, like that from Courtrai, and the
individual grit, the racial inspiration will carry them through to the
marvel of the world. Their training will stand them in all the better
stead. They will know how to fight, what to do, even when their company
officers have fallen, when they have lost their unit. Patriotism,
personality, they are there behind the professional keenness, as a
driving, reserve force. Our machine is not a barrel organ grinding out
"Die Wacht am Rhein," which wants the big handle turned to keep the
machinery going. Break the living organism, and each cell will remain
instinct with life.
What strikes the Continental troops most is our soldiers' gaiety! It
is not that the men are excitedly funny or tuneful, in trench or camp.
(Our songs the French consider funereal!) But between fights they
become just themselves again. The fighting job is over for the moment.
It would be absurd among fellow professionals to make a fuss about it.
The eternal grumbling Briton grumbles still, about his wet feet (he
has just come in from fifteen hours under fire in the muddy trenches);
about his food, traditional subject of caustic jest; about some old
"puffing Sal," a howitzer that made a mark of his trench all day. He
will talk of the mud she scattered over him, not probably of the pals
hit on either side of him. Such grumbling seems to the Continental
trooper a joke, a tremendous social effort. The cheery man rags as
heartily as he ever would. The unsociable man sets to washing or
eating imperturbably. What is there to make a fuss about?
Of course, if an outsider like myself spoke at such times of the day's
fighting, the men would lighten up with the interest of professionals,
anxious to explain things. "We were on in that ball-room show"; "The
---- and the ---- caught it hot there"; "Nice little bit of shooting
the Germans did there"; "Never knew we were hit and stood like
sillies"; and then perhaps a stiff argument about the merits of "Ruddy
Jim" or "Old Cough-drop," which would, as likely as not, prove to be
two of the enemy's batteries that had been giving murderous trouble.
No wonder the foreign comrade, with his serious conception of the great
danger and great issues that lay behind such affectionate nick-names,
would listen astonished, and wonder how they "keep it up." Keep it up?
It is just themselves! Unimaginative, humorous, business-like men at
their work, boys in their ways of thought and speech off duty.
The letters home are on the same reserved but natural note.
Professional information being barred, the soldier has had to fall back
on the few conventional phrases to express personal feelings, which our
tongue-tied nation allows itself. They are learned in childhood, and so
come easily.
* * * * *
It was often the same scene. In some deserted little village, dusty,
sun-white, and shuttered, the glimpse of a khaki coat and a sun-red
British face has cheered and checked us as we ran through.
Pleasant to hear the broad easy tongue; and we retire to the one little
wine-shop, that still keeps open because it is near a base-camp.
The rumour of English newspapers in some unaccountable way gets abroad.
Soon there are a dozen or more khaki caps crowded in the little room.
The few peasants left drift in there too. The usual long handshakes,
absurd French tags of talk. The soldiers are plundered of their last
emblems, as mementoes. Not a village in the war area where one does
not see peasant caps and peasant frocks decorated proudly with the
insignia of some one of the British regiments.
Then comes talk of the chance of getting a letter home. Half of the men
retire to violent wrestles with foreign pens and ink at the table in
the rear of the shop: the rest stay yarning.
The letters are always read aloud or left open as a point of honour;
but I had never once to suggest the omission of a line which gave place
or date or regimental names. The tradition of the silent war has gone
deep. Further, very few either knew or cared where they were or had
been. The names meant nothing. Even the sense of time had been lost in
the constant occupation and the turning of day into night.
* * * * *
Certainly the letters I saw at that end were far less picturesque
than those published in the papers; but the latter, of course, are
a selected number. The traditional "English tongue" learned in the
elementary school, with its stiff conventions, held the paper. These
scraps are typical of many read to me:
"Dear brother,--I hope you are well, as this leaves me. I am quite
well. And I have not written before, as there has been no time. And I
hope She and all are well. Please give them my love. I have seen ----,
and we have seen lots of fighting. I think that is all, so must end.
Love to ---- and ----.--Yours affectionately, etc."
"Dear Dad,--This is the first time I have written, and I have had no
letter. Please write soon, and ask Mum and sisters to write. I am
quite well, as I hope this finds you. It is very hot, and it is bad
for the horses. Baby Bob must be a big chap now. Give him my love. A
gentleman is taking this. Tell all to write and send some cigarettes.
I will not write any more, so will end.--"
From, etc.
Sometimes the human touch breaks through the conventions, in a kiss
sent to a baby or in a scrawled P.S.:
"Dear Mother,--I am very well, as I hope you are and father. And ----
and ----. It has been very hot, and I have not slept in bed for four
weeks. But I am all serene. Give Tom my love, and I am glad he has
joined; we must all do something. Don't worry.--From your loving son,
----."
--and then a big scrawl all across the reverse sheet, and again the
big scrawl across the back that brings a catch to one's throat--"Don't
Worry, Mother." "Don't Worry."
I don't suppose they bothered much at home, when they got these
letters, at the absence of battle news. Husband, brother, or son,
the sight of his writing is enough. "I am quite well"--and for those
waiting another milestone in their shadow-time has been safely passed.
In many of the Irish letters the mode is more picturesque, the
expression comes easier.
"Dear ----,--We got it last night but one, and J---- and C---- went
home, God send they meet no Germans there. J---- had it in for them
since big Tom went. I'm as I was, with a chip off my foot that's
healing fine, and I hope you're doing well in these bad times. They
have a story here that the German's firing silver bullets, as the
leads run low. If I got a few in me, I'll bring them home to set you
up. Send all the cigarettes you can find and chocolates. This is hell,
and I have no time to write, the kisses is for yourself, but I expect
the girls will steal them off the paper. Keep laughing, woman.--Your
affekt. boy, ----."
This, again, is from a very young north Irishman:
"Dear Wife,--I have not written before, for my time has been full
up. If it's not all right about the money go to Mrs. ----. She has a
good heart. Write soon, and send some cigarettes. How is little Dick?
Give him a kiss. He must be a great man now in this long while. Give
my love to the old lady, and write soon, soon, SOON. I am wading in
blood.--Your affectionate husband, ----."
He had not actually seen any fighting; but the "neighbours" would want
that battle touch for their talk, and so good manners demanded it.
Little scrawls, on scraps of paper, written on a stone or rifle-butt,
they were shoved into my hands. Sometimes given by word of mouth.
"I hope you are quite well, as this leaves me," comes to have the
force of a symbol, when we think of the remote homes to which the
conventional phrase will mean so much. In fancy we can follow each of
them, by sea, and rail, and cart, to the moment of the postman's knock,
the opening door....
_Wyman & Sons Ltd., Printers, London and Reading._