The chivalrous spirit of the present conflict informs this
article, which appeared originally in The London Daily News
under the title "The Greatest Game of All: The True Spirit
of War," and is here reproduced by special permission of Mr.
Jerome.
War has been described as the greatest of games. I am not going to
quarrel with the definition. I am going to accept it. From that point
of view there is something to be said for it. As a game it can be
respectable; as a business it is contemptible. Wars for profit--for
gold mines, for mere extension of territory, for markets--degrade a
people. It is like playing cricket for money. A gentleman--man or
nation--does not do such things. But war for love--for love of the
barren hillside, for love of the tattered flag, for love of the
far-off dream--played for a hope, a vision, a faith, with life and
death as the stakes! Yes, there is something to be said for it.
Looked at practically, what, after all, does it matter whether Germany
or Britannia rules the waves? Our tea and our 'baccy, one takes it,
would still be obtainable; one would pay for it in marks instead of
shillings. Our sailor men, instead of answering "Aye, aye, Sir," in
response to Captain's orders, would learn to grunt "Jawohl." Their
wages, their rations would be much the same.
These peaceful Old World villages through which I love to wander with
my dogs; these old gray churches round which our dead have crept to
rest; these lonely farmsteads in quiet valleys musical with the sound
of mother creatures calling to their young; these old men with ruddy
faces; these maidens with quiet eyes who give me greeting as we pass
by in the winding lanes between the hedgerows; the gentle, patient
horses nodding gravely on their homeward way; these tiny cottages
behind their trim bright gardens; this lilliputian riot round the
schoolhouse door; the little timid things in fur and feather peering
anxious, bright-eyed from their hiding places! Suppose the miracle to
happen. Suppose the weather-beaten board nailed to the old beech tree
warning us in faded lettering as we pass beneath it of the penalties
awaiting trespassers were to be superseded by a notice headed
"Verboten!" What essential difference would there be--that a wise man
need vex his soul concerning? We should no longer call it England.
That would be all. The sweep of the hills would not be changed; the
path would still wind through the woodland. Yet just for a name we are
ready to face ruin and death.
It certainly is not business. A business man would stop to weigh the
pros and cons. A German invasion! It would bring what so many of us
desire: Conscription, tariff reform. It might even get rid of Lloyd
George and the Insurance act. And yet that this thing shall not be,
Tory Squire and Laborer Hodge, looking forward to a lifelong wage of
twelve-and-six-pence a week, will fight shoulder to shoulder, die
together, if need be, in the same ditch. Just for a symbol, a faith we
call England. I should say Britain.
Can we explain it even to ourselves? Thousands of Germans come over to
England to live. They prosper among us, take their pleasures with us,
adapt themselves to our English ways, and learn to prefer them.
Thousands of Englishmen make their homes in German cities; find German
ways of living, if anything, suit them better. Suddenly there arises
the question, shall English ways of life or German ways of life
prevail: English or German culture--which shall it be? And the English
who have lived contentedly in Germany for years hasten back to fight
for England, and the desire of every German in England is to break up
his pleasant home among us and fight to bring all Europe into German
ways of thinking.
Clearly the definition is a right one. It is just a game.
Just as all life is a game; joy and sorrow the zest of it, suffering
the strength-giving worth of it. Till Death rings his bell, and the
game is over--for the present. What have we learned from it? What have
we gained from it? Have we played it to our souls' salvation, learning
from it courage, manhood? Or has it broken us, teaching us mean fear
and hate?
I quote from the letter of a young cavalry officer writing from the
trenches:
Although I can't pretend to like this nightmare, I cannot
help realizing that it is doing something for those of us
who are going through it that we otherwise would have
missed; it brings out either the best or worst in a man. It
makes character.
He speaks of a little black dog. They are living in two feet of water,
he and his men. The German lines are a hundred yards off; wounds,
disease, and death are around them. They are worried about this
wretched little dog. He has, it seems, lost his people, and is not to
be comforted. It is a curious picture. One sees the straggling line of
grimy, mud-stained men. They are there to kill; their own life hangs
on a thread. A nightmare of blood and dust and horror, and in the
midst of it, growing there as if the soil suited it, this flower of
pity for a little fellow-creature.