EARLY WAR DAYS IN LONDON.
In the early part of our sojourn in England I was sent to London on
duty. On the surface the city looked about as usual, except that the
taxi-cabs, buildings and squares, were plastered with recruiting
posters, the chief ones reading "Your King and Country need you" and
"Enlist to-day." After you had read them a couple of thousand times
they met your eyes with no more significance than do the bricks in a
wall or the people in a crowd.
London at night, however, was much different, because the city was in
darkness. The system of darkening adopted was rather amusing, as all
the squares and circuses, which in other times were most brilliantly
illuminated, now were darker than the streets, the contrast making
them, to an aviator, as distinguishable as before. Later on more
judgment was used in the control of lighting, as well as many other
things in England.
Soldiers were plentiful on the streets and in the theatres, hotels and
restaurants,--soldiers on leave from the various camps. But we were
more inclined to notice the tens of thousands of physically fit men
walking about in civilian clothes. Nobody seemed particularly
disturbed about the war. Kitchener was raising his army, and "the
Navy, thank God! was in excellent shape. Just wait till the Spring,
and Emperor Bill would get his bumps. We are willing to go if they
need us but not till they do. Why worry?"
In Clubland the difference was very marked--it had been deserted by
the younger men, and the clubs sheltered only a few of the older men
who had nowhere else to go. For, be it said to the eternal glory of
the man-about-town,--the wealthy knut who knew little more perhaps
than to run an expensive car, give expensive dinners and get into
trouble--the upper class drone--that he was among the first to
volunteer and get into active service. Perhaps all he could do was
drive a car; if so he did it--drove a London bus out at the front, or
a wagon; or did anything else at which he would be useful. Many of the
idle rich young men, and the majority of the young titled men of
England, rose to the occasion and went out and fought and died, and
many now lie buried in Flanders for the sake of Old England--for the
freedom of the world.
These posters shouting for recruits somehow did not look like England;
they were too hysterical; they were not effective: London, with more
posters per head of population than any other city in the Empire,
recruited men less swiftly than any other place.
Thousands of sight-seers crowded to the football matches while the
newspapers vainly lashed themselves into fury. It was only when Lloyd
George asked for more men, and gave convincing reasons that they were
needed, that the country responded. Day by day the newspapers made the
best of bad news from the front, and day by day did the readers
thereof conclude that England was doing well, and they "supposed that
she would bungle through." No man of prophetic foresight had yet
risen to say "This is a life and death struggle for us; we need every
man in the country, and every shilling to win the war." The common
talk was that we had stepped in to keep our treaty with France and to
assist poor Belgium, whose neutrality had been violated. Englishmen
did not feel that England's fall was first and last the object of
Germany's ambition. They did not realize that Germany saw in England
the nation which was always thwarting her and frustrating her desire
for "a place in the sun."
Should the theatres be kept open? should German waiters be still
allowed in the hotels? should German music be played at Queen's Hall?
should horse racing be continued?--these were the questions whose
discussion occupied a considerable amount of space in the newspapers.
Of course the theatres kept open, German music was played, and horse
racing continued: A large section of the public had to be amused, and
the livelihood of the actors and actresses and their relatives
depended upon it; if all German music were eliminated there would be
little left to choose from; and the important racing horse industry
could not be allowed to languish on account of a mere vulgar war.
So everything went on as before war-time except that gradually the
German waiters disappeared. "Business as usual" was the slogan, for
the ordinary business man rather fancied that he belonged to a nation
great enough to carry on war as a side issue without seriously
altering its daily routine.
For a while the big hotels and restaurants had a bad time of it, and
the management of the Cecil and Savoy thought of closing down. At this
trying juncture Sir Sam Hughes, Minister of Militia for Canada,
arrived in London and put up at the Savoy; other officers came to see
him and stayed there also. Temporary offices were opened; men looking
for contracts frequented the place and the Savoy quickly became the
Canadian headquarters in London.
Special rates for rooms were given Canadian officers and it was
possible to obtain a magnificently furnished, steam-heated room for no
more than was paid at other hotels for much inferior accommodation.
The Savoy Hotel, warm, comfortable and American like, located at the
heart of things, close to the theatre district and the War Office, had
a "homey" appeal to us, and it speedily became the centre of all
things Canadian in London; and the patronage of the Canadians tided it
over a bad financial period.
If you knew that one of your Canadian friends was in London, all you
had to do was to sit in the rotunda of the Savoy and watch the door.
You would be sure to see him come through those revolving doors some
time during the day. In that rotunda I met men whom I went to school
with, men who lived in my own city, but whom I had not seen for 20
years; others whom I met there had travelled all over creation since I
had last seen them. It soon got to be quite the natural thing to meet
old friends in this way.
In theatre land the problem play had disappeared as if by magic.
Several attempts to revive former successes of this type proved
absolute failures and the plays were quickly withdrawn; now there were
real tragedies to think about, and the old threadbare, domestic
triangle disappeared from the boards. Revues and musical comedies
succeeded, and "The Man Who Stayed at Home" a war spy play was a
tremendous success, as were the comedies "When Knights Were Bold" and
"Potash and Perlmutter." To be a success a play had to have the merit
of real comedy, or touch some national sensibility of the moment.
No new great literature had appeared, nor had the tragedy of the world
yet brought forth any great poetry. Monographs on special phases of
German character, thought and culture, were plentiful in the
bookstalls, and translations of Bernhardi and Treitschke sold in vast
numbers.
The love of music, so strong in England, was shown by the crowded
attendances at the Queen's Hall and the Albert Hall concerts. A good
deal of Russian music was heard, the Russian National Anthem being
played on every possible occasion. At the Christmas season not a seat
was empty at any of the presentations of the Messiah at Albert Hall.
Yet curiously enough England had banished her military bands, one of
the most effective aids to recruiting, and it was only after a violent
newspaper controversy on the subject had taken place that she used
them again.
Down in the city in Cheapside scarcely a uniform was to be seen; the
heart of ancient London seemed to beat as usual. In the theatre
district at night, particularly on the Strand, Leicester Square and
Piccadilly Circus, crowds of women promenaded as usual, like spiders
hunting for their prey. And the prey was there too, wanting to be
hunted.
This is one of the great tragedies of London,--the terrible maelstrom
of fallen humanity which is allowed to circulate there year after
year, sweeping into its vortex tens and hundreds of thousands of boys
and girls, who, but for it, might and probably would escape. In war
time when soldiers were involved, it was more terrible than ever, for
the results, as the medical men saw them, were disastrous from the
military standpoint alone.
From this great ulcer in the heart of London a deadly poison passes
far and wide into the national organism. The ulcer is there still for
the knife of some strong man to excise, for there is little doubt that
though restrictions will not prevent vice, it is equally true that
making vice open, enticing and easy, increases it.
During that first winter, tickets for the theatre were sold at half
price to men in uniform. On the other hand, an officer's uniform
seemed to be the signal for increased prices in the shops,
particularly in the smaller ones. A London physician, an officer, told
me that when he went shopping he always dressed in civilian clothes
because it was so much more economical to shop as a civilian.
The badge "Canada" of course, had been the badge for high prices from
the day we landed in Plymouth. It was "Canada, our emblem dear" in
very truth. It was well known that the Canadian Tommy received a
dollar and ten cents a day, whereas the British Tommy received only
25 cents, and it was assumed that officers were correspondingly better
paid than the British officer, while as a matter of fact, we received
less, rank for rank. The question of overcharging Canadians became
such a scandal that later on it was brought up in the House of Commons
in an endeavour to fix prices for certain commodities in the Canadian
Shorncliffe area.
The story is told of a Canadian going into a store and asking the
youngster in charge the price of some article. The youngster called up
stairs and the answer came back 1s. 10d. "But it is a Canadian" said
the child; "Oh, 2s. 6d." came back the answer.
The war in France was but faintly felt in England in those early days.
There had been no invasion of English soil such as had galvanized
France into a united endeavour to repel the invader. No Zeppelins had
yet dropped bombs on England. Great Britain had sent an expedition to
France,--"An Expeditionary Force," it was called. The very name did
not seem even to suggest a nation in arms. And yet away down
underneath it all England was uneasy. Well-informed people whose sons
were at the front knew the seriousness of the whole business.
Casualties had returned in large numbers, and the rolls of honour
published showed the terrible hammering England's wonderful little
army was being subjected to on the continent. Those despised Germans
had made great headway, and there were doubts as to whether the French
were sufficiently well equipped to stand the tremendous pressure put
upon them.
The battle off Chili had only been wiped out by Sturdee's victory, and
the exploits of certain raiders and submarines made the Briton realize
that the control of the oceans of the earth was a big undertaking. The
rallying of the colonies to his assistance touched him greatly, and
made him feel proud; on the other hand, strikes for higher pay in
munition factories and ship yards angered and disgusted him.
There was no great leadership anywhere, and the Englishman in his
heart of hearts knew it. Lloyd George, whom he acknowledged to be the
only genius in the Government, he either idolized or cursed, according
to whether he approved of his socialistic ideas or not. Englishmen I
talked to, even in France later on, fairly foamed at the mouth when
the little Welshman's name was mentioned, and refused to read the
"Times" which they said was run by "that traitor Northcliffe." It was
all very interesting to us, who hoped against hope that the man who to
our perspective was the one great man of vision would be given the
opportunity to become the man of action.
It was when one reached the heart of things, the War Office, that one
began to realize the undercurrents which were being set up in the
national life as a result of the war. In the court yard of the War
Office, which was carefully guarded by policemen, were large numbers
of women, young and old, waiting for news of son or husband, wounded
or killed. The looks on their faces were sufficient evidence of
tragedies which were increasing from day to day, and which would
eventually waken England. Inside the door was a reception room where
those who had business of any sort showed their credentials, signed
the necessary form, and were sent on to the various departments to
charge of a boy scout. Cots in the corridors, and specially walled-off
offices indicated the expansion going on in the various departments.
The war office authorities were going at the problem in hand in a most
unbusiness like way as far as the enlisting of recruits was concerned
but already had 800,000 men in training in England. Those in training
were not even equipped with rifles and uniforms.
After all the fault-finding in Canada before we left about the
slowness in getting us away it was interesting to learn that our
contingent had probably been more quickly outfitted and prepared for
the field than any other territorial or militia unit in the Empire.
In the course of my stay I dined at many of the famous London
restaurants, but the larger ones were usually empty and depressing.
One had to eat somewhere and one might as well take every possible
opportunity of seeing this phase of life in London in war time. One
night at the "Carlton" there were not twenty others present; even the
waiters seemed to be dejected, probably at the falling off of their
revenue from tips, and we left as soon as possible and went over to
the Royal Automobile Club in search of something brighter. There we
found a cheery log fire and sat in front of it until early morning,
talking of the war.
One heard the Russian and French national anthems very frequently, not
only in the streets, but in the theatres and public performances, such
as those in Queen's Hall. The finest playing of any national anthem
that I have ever listened to was the London Symphony Orchestra's
rendering of The Russian National Anthem one Monday night with
Safanoff conducting; it was sublime. I had heard the same number on
the preceding day in the same hall by another orchestra and the
difference was remarkable;--the first one sounding like an amateur
organization in comparison. No orchestra ever impressed me as did the
London Symphony Orchestra, with the possible exception of the Boston
Symphony Orchestra.
To be in London, not sixty miles from the firing line, in a city
firmly convinced of coming Zeppelin raids and prepared for naval
raids, and find the press discussing the plays and the music of the
day seemed strange indeed. It must have made the men in the trenches
nearly mad to realize that while they were fighting under the most
adverse conditions day by day and being killed in the defence of their
homeland, there were 30,000 slackers at one football match at home.
England is a strange country. We felt that perhaps if a force of
50,000 or 100,000 Germans would land in England she would waken from
the long sleep she had slept since her shores had been invaded by
William the Conqueror. 30,000 men could watch a football match at the
very moment the British line in Flanders was actually so thin that if
the Germans had tried to advance there was nothing to stop them.
Fortunately, for the moment, the enemy, too, was exhausted and before
he could recuperate our reinforcements had arrived.
The dying session of parliament was worth going to see; Bonar Law,
Beresford, McKenna, and Winston Churchill spoke. The latter made his
defence of the Navy which was as famous and as reassuring to the
country as Kitchener's statement in the house of Lords the day before
had been in regard to the Army. Mr. Bonar Law was the smoothest of the
speakers; Churchill gave one the impression of having much force of
character, despite his stuttering, but Bonar Law was the man you felt
could be trusted to look upon any proposition with coolness and play
the safe game for his country.
When the House was adjourned until February 2nd, there were very few
members left. This closing of the House of Parliament after a three
weeks' session in war time and after the raising of billions of
dollars of war loan by public subscription was remarkable for its
simplicity. There was no fuss or feathers, no music or formality. The
members just strolled out--those that happened to be there.
From the great window of the Savoy Hotel, I watched the funeral of
Lord Roberts, the national hero. The Thames embankment could be seen,
but, though a garden of not fifty yards in width separated the
building from the embankment, the fog was thick enough to make the
people as indistinct as though they had been half a mile away. Beyond
the embankment the grey wall of fog shut out everything but an
occasional gull which flitted out for a moment and disappeared again.
The embankment road was lined with Highland soldiers in khaki
greatcoats and Scotch caps, drawn up in quarter companies, while on
either side of the road stood a solid black wall of humanity--waiting,
some with umbrellas up to protect them from the fine drizzle. Not a
hundred yards away Cleopatra's needle stood like a tall sentinel in
the mist, and one wondered what tales of battle and heroic deeds it
could tell, if it could speak. One could imagine that during the long
ages it must have witnessed other magnificent funerals of kings and
heroes, and smiled, perhaps, at the brevity of human life.
The silence was broken by the long roll of kettledrums, and the
strains of Chopin's funeral march floated to us through the heavy air;
sadder than ever before they seemed to me, and yet, too, more
dignified than ever before. Then along the embankment, past
Cleopatra's needle, the head of the procession burst up through the
fog as though coming out of the ground.
The band came first, followed by the London Scottish with arms
reversed, the brass butts of the guns visible before the soldiers
themselves, making a curious reflection in the fog.
Then followed other regiments of infantry, squadrons of horses, Indian
troops with strangely-laden mules, guns; then, more cavalry. The
horses sent out great spurts of steam from their nostrils into the
cold raw air.
Then a space, and the funeral car drawn by six horses with riders
approached. The coffin, covered with a Union Jack, looked very small,
and a big lump came into my throat as I realized that this was all
that remained of the great little soldier, whose motor car not three
weeks before at Salisbury Plain had stopped beside mine, and whose
deeply seamed and furrowed face I had studied with the greatest
interest, remarking then that he looked very, very old.
After the car, the General's horse, with boots reversed in the
stirrups, was led,--riderless.
Next came a dozen or more coaches bearing the mourners, including the
King, and the pall-bearers, one of whom was Lord Kitchener. Squadron
after squadron of cavalry filed past two and two, until one felt the
procession was never going to end. The fog thinned somewhat, and a tug
and scow whirled past down the river on the rapidly flowing tide,
disappearing again into the mist.
As the last horses disappeared, the crowd began to move; motor cars
appeared; and the cortege of one of the greatest British generals
passed on to St. Paul's, the last resting place of the great soldiers
and sailors of the Empire.
One felt that Lord Roberts was greater than all those soldiers who had
gone before him, for his life had been without blemish.
Seldom--indeed, never before--had any British soldier or statesman the
opportunity to say to the nation "I told you so." For ten years
without avail, Lord Roberts had been warning the nation about the
great need of being prepared for a war that was bound to come; he had
tried by every possible means to wake it from its sleep and had
failed; and when the great war came as he said it would, he offered no
word in the way of reproach or self glorification, but bent all his
energies to help his Empire to his utmost in the hour of her greatest
need. And although he "passed over" before victory had come to us, he
had seen enough to know that the ultimate result would bring security
to the Empire and freedom to the human race.