What I have related took place on the first Sunday in June in the year
1914. Brunford, a large manufacturing town which stood well-nigh in
the centre of the cotton district of Lancashire, had enjoyed what was
called "a great boom in trade." Mills had been working overtime, and
money had been earned freely. During the last five years poor men had
become rich, while the operatives had had their share in the general
prosperity. This fact was manifest in the general life of the town.
The sober and thrifty part of the population had increased their
savings. Hundreds of people had bought their own cottages, and had
laid by for a rainy day. The thriftless were none the better for the
prosperity which abounded, rather they were the worse. Big wages had
only meant increased drunkenness and increased misery. Still all the
people hoped that good trade would continue and that there would be
plenty of work.
On the following day Tom went to work as usual, but he felt that a new
element had come into his life. He was not given to self-analysis, but
while on the one hand he felt suddenly free, he knew on the other that
he had sacrificed something which meant a great deal to him. Still he
would not think about it. After all, all the time he had been keeping
company with Alice he felt like a man tied to the end of a rope. He
would now have his liberty. He was glad to be free from a girl who
made him uncomfortable when he drank a glass of beer or went out to
enjoy himself.
Tom was by no means a hero. There was a great deal of good in his
nature, but there were coarse elements which affected him strongly. If
Polly Powell had not appeared, it is possible, such was Alice's
influence over him, that he would have remained true to his former
ambitions, and probably have risen in the social scale. He was
intelligent, and possessed a large degree of what the Lancashire people
called gumption. On the other hand he was the child of his
surroundings and of his order. The coarse life of the town had gripped
him, and his home influences had not helped him toward the ideal which
Alice Lister had helped him to strive after.
"Ay, Tom, I 'ear as Alice Lister has give thee the sack," said a youth
a few days after Tom had parted from Alice.
"Maybe 'twas t'other way around," replied Tom.
"Why, yo doan't main that you chucked 'er?"
"She wur too goody-goody for me," replied Tom. "I am noan baan to be a
saint, I am going to enjoy mysen."
"Weel, tha' won't be a saint if tha' has much to do with Polly Powell.
She's noan a saint," and the lad laughed meaningly. "Still her
feyther's got a bit of brass. I reckon he will have all thine, Tom;
Jim Parkin told me that tha' spent four shillings at the Thorn and
Thistle last night."
"Well, what if I did?" asked Tom.
"Ay, it's noan my business, but I think thee'rt a fool. If a lass like
Alice Lister took up wi' me, I would not throw myself away on Polly
Powell. Thou'lt ne'er mak' much on 'er. She'll lead thee a dog's
life, Tom, and tak' all tha' brass."
"Well, I reckon it's my business," retorted Tom.
"Then it's a fool's business," replied the other.
This kind of thing made Tom uncomfortable, but it didn't turn him aside
from the path on which he was walking. There could be no doubt about
it, Tom's character was deteriorating, and during the next two months
he not only declared that he had chucked religion altogether, but that
he meant to enjoy life. Tom spent most of his evenings at the Thorn
and Thistle, and as a consequence his studies were neglected. Not that
there was much outward difference in him; he still remained fairly
sober, although on more than one occasion he was seen leaving the Thorn
and Thistle at closing time with staggering footsteps; it never caused
him to lose any work, however.
Meanwhile dark clouds began to arise in the nation's sky. People had
given only a passing thought to the news of the murder of the Crown
Prince of Austria, but presently when Austria sent her outrageous
ultimatum to Serbia, and the people read what Sir Edward Grey said
about it, they began to talk seriously. For there is no part in
England where politics have such a keen interest for the
working-classes as they have in Lancashire. Almost every man there is
a politician, and there are but few, especially among the older men,
who have not an intelligent grasp not only of home, but of
international affairs.
"I'll tell you what," said one manufacturer to another as they stood on
the steps of the Mechanics' Institute, "those Germans mean war; they
have been preparing for it for years, and they are trying to force it."
"Nay," replied the other, "but I doan't see how it can affect us,
except"--and he laughed meaningly--"except for our benefit."
"How can it be for our benefit?"
"Why, can't you see? If the Germans join Austria against Russia and
France, we shall be able to steal the German trade;--and we can do with
it," was the reply.
"Ay, we can."
"Just see how Manchester is riddled with Germans. They have been
robbing our trade right and left, and even here in Brunford Germans are
poking their noses. I am about sick of them. Thirty years ago we
hardly ever saw a German, and now they have nobbled our best-paying
lines. If I had my way, all Germans should be driven out of the
country; they are a bad lot to deal with; they have no business honour,
and they don't play the game."
"Come now, it's not so bad as that."
"Ay, but it is. For years they have been sending their lads over here
on the pretence of learning the language. They take jobs in our
offices for hardly any wage, and then when they have learned our
secrets, and the names of our customers, they just play against us."
"Well, more fools we for letting 'em."
But it is not my purpose to deal with the talk which was so prevalent
towards the close of July 1914. Neither am I going to try to trace the
history of the events which led up to the war which has staggered
humanity. We all know now what Germany had in her mind: how by
pretence, and deceit, and fraud she worked her will; how she thought
that England would allow her to crush France and Russia without moving
a finger. Germany thought that the English were blind, and that for
the sake of gain we should remain neutral and never lift a finger while
she swept over Belgium to crush France; thought, too, that we should be
supine while she violated treaties and committed the most fiendish
deeds ever committed in the history of the world. But it is not my
purpose to speak of these things; I have to tell the story of a
commonplace lad in a workaday town, and what influence the great world
convulsion had upon his life.
At first Tom was not much moved by the danger of war. For one thing he
had given but little attention to public affairs, and for another thing
he was enamoured with Polly Powell. Still he could not help being
influenced by what every one was talking about. Local strikes, the
rate of wages, and the quality of beer ceased to be the general
subjects of conversation in the Thorn and Thistle. Every one was
talking about a possible war. And when finally early in August the
news came to Brunford that England had decided to take her part in the
great struggle, Tom found himself greatly interested.
"I'll tell you what," said Enoch Powell, the landlord of the Thorn and
Thistle, "the Germans have bitten off a bigger piece than they can
chew. I give them about six weeks. What can they do with Russia on
the one side and France and England on the other? Besides, the German
people don't want war. It's that blooming Kaiser. In about six weeks'
time they will be on their knees crying for mercy."
That was the general feeling of the town during the first fortnight of
the War, and when as day after day the brave little Belgian army at
Liege held out against the advancing Huns there was great confidence.
"They have had their time-table smashed to smithereens at the first
go," was the joyful comment. "Wait till our lads get across, they'll
let 'em know."
In these days there was very little bitterness against the Germans.
The terror of war had scarcely been felt. People talked about the
untold millions of Russian soldiers who would be in Berlin by the
following October. They boasted confidently about the armies of
France, and the unconquerable power of the British Navy. It is true
that at the first news of the War many of the employers of labour were
staggered; but presently as, when day followed day, they saw that trade
would not be destroyed, but that possibly new avenues of wealth would
be opened, they became more cheerful. Besides, England was rising
nobly to her responsibilities. Lord Kitchener's call for half a
million men was answered in a few days. "Think on it," the people said
one to another, "half a million men in a week! Why, we'll smash 'em
afore they know where they are!"
Tom never thought of joining the army. The idea of being a soldier was
utterly strange to him. The soldiers whom he knew were mostly of the
lower orders; fellows who had got into trouble, or had taken the
"King's shilling" while they were drunk. He had looked down upon them
as being lower in social scale than himself, and he would never be seen
walking with a soldier. When he saw lads of his own class enlisting,
he shrugged his shoulders with a laugh. "Let 'em join if they want
to," he said, "but it's noan in my line." In fact, after the first
three weeks of the War, although terrible stories were reaching England
about the ghastly atrocities in Belgium, and about the Germans nearing
Paris, the manufacturing parts of Lancashire were largely unmoved. The
terrible harvest of war which was to come later was not yet realised.
It is true that thousands of young fellows responded to the call of
duty. Young men of the better-educated class obtained commissions and
were working at the local barracks; while here and there the more
adventurous of the operatives found their way to recruiting stations.
But the response was not large; partly for the reason that the reality
of their country's call had not come to them with its full meaning.
One evening Tom found himself talking with young Waterman, who had been
away from Brunford for some weeks.
"Hullo, Pollard," said Waterman, "I see you have not enlisted."
"Nay, I am not bound to enlist; there's enough gone to lick the Germans
already. Don't you think so?" asked Tom.
A bright light came into Waterman's eyes. "I am going to enlist," he
said--"that is, my people are getting me a commission. I have had some
training, you know."
"But we shall quickly lick them, don't you think so?" asked Tom.
"You've been in Germany a goodish bit. You went to school and college
there, so you ought to know."
Waterman laughed. "We English are fools," he said.
"How's that?"
"Of course I am going to do my bit," said Waterman. "As an Englishman
I must; but we shall never lick the Germans."
"Why? Think of the millions the Russians have got; think of the
French; think of our Navy."
"Ay, think of it all," replied Waterman, "but you don't know what the
Germans are. I do. In that country every man is a soldier. Look at
Brunford; here are thousands upon thousands of fellows who are hanging
back, and who are worth nothing in a time of war. If this had been a
German town every man you see would be a soldier. Then see how much in
advance of us the Germans are in scientific matters. They have got
mountains of guns and ammunition. Besides, they have made a science of
war, while Englishmen are only amateurs. Think of what they have done
already; nearly the whole of Belgium belongs to them, and a great slice
of France."
"But do you mean to say," cried Tom, "that they will lick us? Why,
think of our Navy; think of----"
Waterman did not wait to hear the end of Tom's sentence; he crossed the
road and was lost to sight.
One event took place, however, which somewhat opened the people's eyes,
and is talked of even to-day. A young German who had come to Brunford
a few years before, and who had succeeded in amassing a fortune, was
called home by his Government. So popular had he become in the town,
and so little had the realities of the war laid hold of the people,
that some of the leading townsmen decided to give him a dinner. This
dinner was arranged to take place in the large dining-room of the Bull
and Butcher, the largest hotel in the town. Although some people were
anything but pleased at the arrangement, so little ill-feeling was felt
towards the Germans that a good number of the townspeople gathered.
When the dinner had been eaten the chairman rose to propose the toast
of the evening. He said that although Mr. Shweitzer was called upon to
fight against the English people, the town had no ill-will against him
personally; they all knew him as a good fellow, a good sportsman, and
an honourable business man. During the time he had been in Brunford
they had opened their doors to him and received him as an honoured
guest, and although the unfortunate war had taken place, they had
nothing but good feeling towards Mr. Shweitzer. That was why they had
invited him as their guest that night, and he, the chairman, expressed
the hope that the war would soon be over and that Mr. Shweitzer would
return and take up the position which he had so long occupied amongst
them. The toast to his health was heartily cheered; good feeling
abounded, and all waited for the response of the German guest.
As Mr. Shweitzer rose to respond he received quite an ovation; the
diners even went so far as to give him musical honours. Mr.
Shweitzer's reply was in fairly good English. He thanked his friends
for their good-fellowship, and for the kind things they had said about
him.
"As to my coming back to Brunford again," he concluded, "I have but
little doubt that I shall return, but when I do, the Kaiser, and not
the man you now own as king, will rule over England. For the Germans
are going to lick your country, and Wilhelm II will be your future
king."
For a few seconds those who had gathered were so much astonished that
there was a dead silence. Meanwhile the German looked around the room
with a supercilious smile.
Then an Englishman who had been sitting close by came up to the German.
He was a brawny, stalwart fellow. "Do you mean that?" he asked the
German.
"Yes, I do," was the reply.
The Englishman without another word struck him a mighty blow on the
jaw. "That for you and your Kaiser!" he exclaimed amidst the shouts of
those present.
The blow was so heavy and so well aimed that the German's jaw was
broken. He was taken to the hospital, where he remained for some
months, and he has not yet returned to Germany.[1]
During the next day Brunford was excited beyond measure. The story was
told in a hundred mills by thousands of operatives; it was discussed in
the public places, in every inn and tavern, and throughout the whole
district. It did more to enlighten the minds of the people as to the
real hopes and aims of the Germans than all the newspaper articles
which had appeared. It revealed to the people, too, the real character
of the Germans. Here was one of the best of them who had acted like a
cad, and who in the face of good-fellowship had haughtily flaunted the
superiority of the German people. The incident also gave point to the
story of the ghastly atrocities which were taking place in Belgium.
People were excited beyond measure; the War was becoming real to them.
All this had its effect upon Tom. Not that even yet he realised the
full significance of what was taking place. Hundreds of young fellows
were enlisting, but Tom held back. September, October, November passed
away, and still Tom failed to respond to his country's call. He quite
agreed with his friends, and said that of course England must lick the
Germans; but he never admitted that the War had anything to do with him.
"I am earning good brass," said Tom, "and if I hold on I shall make
more still. Let those as wants to fight the Germans fight 'em, I'm
noan going to get killed." This he said to Polly Powell one night as
he sat in the private sitting-room of the Thorn and Thistle.
"And quite right too, Tom," said Polly--"tha'rt too good a lad to be
killed by the Germans. Besides, enough'll go without thee. If th'
other chaps like to be fools, let 'em."
Still Tom did not feel altogether comfortable. At the back of his mind
was the vague thought that he ought to do his bit, but his natural
selfishness, added to Polly Powell's influence, kept him at home.
Besides, by this time winter had laid its icy grip upon the earth.
News came of soldiers being crippled for life by frost-bite; stories
were told of men standing up to the waist in icy slush; wounded men
came back from the front telling stories about the terrible power of
the Germans; newspapers were obliged to admit that we seemed to be
powerless in the face of the enemy.
All this made Tom somewhat afraid; he was not cast in an heroic mould;
the spirit of adventure was not strong within him.
"I say, Tom," said a man whose three sons were in the army, "are you
going to stay home like a coward?"
"I'm noan a coward," replied Tom.
"Then what do you mean by not doing your duty?"
"I have my own views," replied Tom. "Look here, Elijah, I'm not such a
fool as to go over there and get killed; th' other chaps'll lick the
Germans all right."
"That's the answer of a coward," replied Elijah Butterworth; "if
everybody said that, the country would be robbed from us, and we should
have those German devils ruling over us."
"No fear of that," laughed Tom, and yet he felt uncomfortable.
"Aren't you an Englishman?" cried Elijah, "and don't you care for the
old country?"
"Ay, I don't know," replied Tom, "the Germans are just as well off as
we are."
Meanwhile the real facts of the situation became more apparent. The
Germans were not to be beaten easily. Russia, in spite of all that had
been said about her power as a great steam-roller, could make no real
headway; while France and England combined could not drive the Huns
from the line they occupied. People tried to explain the situation,
but the dreadful logic still remained: the country we had sworn to
protect and save was in the hands of the enemy. The industrial part of
France was held in a grip of iron; while Russia was powerless against
the hosts of Germany.
First there were talks about the war being over by Christmas, but that
delusion quickly vanished, and when a member of the Cabinet came to
Manchester, and said that it might take years to drive the enemy from
his position, people stared in bewilderment. More and more men were
asked for, while some of the newspapers began to talk about
conscription.
As Christmas drew near, Tom became more and more uncomfortable, even
although the blandishments of Polly Powell grew more powerful. He had
attended two recruiting meetings, but they seemed to him half-hearted
and unconvincing. He still saw no reason why he should "do his bit."
When he was asked why he didn't join, he mentioned the names of several
young fellows who also held back.
"Why should I go," he would say, "when so-and-so and so-and-so stay at
home? They are manufacturers' sons, and they are no better nor me.
Let them enlist as privates, and then I'll see about it."
When the New Year came a big recruiting meeting was announced at the
great hall of the Mechanics' Institute. It was advertised that a man
who had been to Belgium, and had witnessed what had taken place, was to
be the chief speaker. At first Polly Powell tried to persuade Tom not
to go, and would probably have been successful had there not been a
dance that night to which Polly had been invited. Tom, not being a
dancer, was not eligible for the occasion, so he made his way to the
meeting.
That meeting marked an era in Tom's life. Little by little the speaker
gripped the attention of the audience until the interest became intense
and almost painful. He described what he had seen, he gave terrible
proofs of the ghastly butchery, and worse than butchery, that had taken
place. He made it clear to the audience what the war really meant. He
showed that not only was the power of England at stake, but the welfare
of humanity trembled in the balance. He related authenticated stories
of what the Germans said they would do when they came to England. As
Tom listened he heard the sound of the advancing Huns, saw towns and
villages laid waste, saw the women of England debauched and outraged,
saw the reign of devilry.
"By God!" he exclaimed aloud, "I can't stand this!"
His words reached the speaker, who made the most of them.
"Yes," he cried, "if the young men of England hang back, if they fail
to love their country, if they care nothing about the honour or
sacredness of womanhood, if they prefer their own ease, their own
paltry pleasures, before duty; if they would rather go to cinema shows,
or hang around public-house doors than play the game like Englishmen,
this, and more than this, will take place. The England that we own and
love will be lost for ever. Liberty will be gone, we shall be a nation
in chains, while our women will be the playthings of inhuman devils.
That is the problem which every man has to consider.
"What are you going to do? Let me put it another way. If we win this
war, if the glory of England is maintained, and if she remains as she
has always been--
"The home of the brave and free,
The land of liberty,
to whom shall we owe it? Who will have been our saviours? It will be
the lads who have sacrificed everything to do their duty."
A great cheer arose from the audience, and Tom, scarcely realising what
he was doing, shouted and cheered with the rest.
"But if we lose," continued the speaker, "if the Germans break our
lines and come to England, if we are beaten, to whom shall we owe it?
Who will be responsible? It will be the shirkers, the cowards! Look,
you young men!" he cried passionately. "Thousands and tens of
thousands of our brave fellows are at this time in the trenches;
fighting, suffering, dying. What for? For England, for England's
honour, for the safety of her women, for the sacredness of our lives,
for you: while you, you skulk at home smoking your cigarettes, go to
your places of amusement, and drink your beer. Don't you realise that
you are playing the coward?"
Then the speaker made his last appeal, clear, impassioned, convincing.
"What are you going to do, young men?" he cried. "We don't want
conscripts, but free men who come out cheerfully, willingly, gladly to
do their duty to their King, Country, and God. Who will be the first?"
He stood on the platform waiting amidst breathless silence.
"Will you wait until you are forced?"
"No! By God, no!" said Tom, and starting to his feet he walked to the
platform and gave his name.
Thus Tom became a soldier.
"Tha doesn't say so?" said Tom's mother when, that night, he told her
what he had done.
"Ay, I have."
"Then thou'st goin' for a sodger."
"Ay."
Mrs. Martha Pollard looked at him for a few seconds without speaking.
Evidently she found it difficult to find words to express her thoughts.
"Weel, Tom," she said presently, "I thought thee't got low eno' when
thee got drinkin' and picked up wi' that peacock-bedecked Polly Powell;
but I ne'er thought a bairn o' mine would sink as low as that. Wer't'a
baan now?"
"I'm goin' to tell Polly," said Tom.
"Ay, tha mun be sent to Lancaster asylum," said Mrs. Pollard.
[1] The above incident actually took place in a Lancashire city at the
beginning of the War.