Within a week of Jutland the Empire has been stirred to its depths by the
tragic death of Lord Kitchener in the _Hampshire_, blown up by a mine
off the Shetlands on her voyage to Archangel. On the eve of starting on his
mission to Russia his last official act had been to meet his critics of the
House of Commons face to face, reply to their questions and leave them
silenced and admiring. On the day of the battle of Jutland these critics
had moved the Prime Minister to declare that Lord Kitchener was personally
entitled to the credit for the amazing expansion of the army. Sir Mark
Sykes, no mean authority, asserted that in Germany our War Secretary was
feared as a great organiser, while in the East his name was one to conjure
with; and Sir George Reid, a worthy representative of the Dominions,
observed that his chief fault was that he was "not clever at circulating
the cheap coin of calculated civilities which enable inferior men to rise
to positions to which they are not entitled." These tributes were delivered
in his lifetime; they deserve to be contrasted with the appreciations of
those journalists who clamoured for his appointment, then clamoured for his
dismissal, and profaned his passing with their insincere eulogies. Three
weeks of Recess elapsed before the Houses could render homage to the
illustrious dead. In the Lords the debt has been paid by a statesman, Lord
Lansdowne, a soldier, Lord French, and a friend, Lord Derby. In the Commons
the speeches were all touched with genuine emotion and the sense of
personal loss. Through all these various tributes rang the note of duty
well done, and Mr. Bonar Law did well to remind the House of the sure
instinct which caused Lord Kitchener to realise at the very outset the
gigantic nature of the present War. In a sense his loss is irreparable, yet
his great work was accomplished before he died. Sometimes accused of
expecting others to achieve the impossible, he had achieved it himself in
the crowning miracle of his life, the improvisation of the New Armies.
The violation of Greek territory by the Bulgarian troops, as might be
expected, has not led to any effective protest from King Constantine. On
the contrary, one seems to hear this benevolent neutral deprecating any
apology on the part of King Ferdinand: "Please make yourself at home. This
is Liberty Hall."
It is otherwise with the irruption of the Russians under General Brusiloff.
His great offensive is a source of offence to the Austrians, who have good
reason to complain that the "steam-roller" is exceeding the speed limit. Or
to change the metaphor, the bear and his tormentor have changed places.
Ireland has receded a little from her place in the limelight, and though
debates on martial law continue, and Irish members ask an inordinate number
of questions arising out of the hot Easter week in Dublin, the temperature
is no longer "98 in the shade" as a local wit described it at the time.
Ministers are extremely economical of information: the anticipated
settlement still hangs fire, and there are increasing fears that it will
not hold water.
[Illustration: THE FAR-REACHING EFFECT OF THE RUSSIAN PUSH]
A number of professional fortune-tellers have been fined at Southend for
having predicted Zeppelins. The fraudulent nature of their pretensions was
sufficiently manifest, since even the authorities had been unable to
foresee the Zeppelins until some time after they had arrived.
The discussions in Parliament and out of it of the way in which things get
into the papers which oughtn't to, are dying down. A daily paper, however,
has revived them by the headline, "Cabinet leekage." Now, why, in wonder,
do they spell it in that way?
It is quite impossible to keep pace with all the new incarnations of women
in war-time--'bus-conductress, ticket-collector, lift-girl, club waitress,
post-woman, bank clerk, motor-driver, farm-labourer, guide, munition maker.
There is nothing new in the function of ministering angel: the myriad
nurses in hospital here or abroad are only carrying out, though in greater
numbers than ever before, what has always been woman's mission. But
whenever he sees one of these new citizens, or hears fresh stories of their
address and ability, Mr. Punch is proud and delighted. Perhaps in the past,
even in the present, he may have been, or even still is, a little given to
chaff Englishwomen for some of their foibles, and even their aspirations.
But he never doubted how splendid they were at heart; he never for a moment
supposed they would be anything but ready and keen when the hour of need
struck.
[Illustration: FARMER (who has got a lady-help in the dairy): "'Ullo,
Missy, what in the world be ye doin'?"
LADY: "Well, you told me to water the cows, and I'm doing it. They don't
seem to like it much."]
_July, 1916_.
On the home front we have long been accustomed to the sound of guns, small
and great, but it has come from training camps and inspires confidence
rather than anxiety. We have been spared the horrors of invasion,
occupation, wholesale devastation. In certain areas the noise of bombs and
anti-aircraft guns has grown increasingly familiar, and on our south-east
and east coasts war from the air, on the sea, and under the sea has become
more and more audible as the months pass by. But July has brought us a new
experience--the sound fifty or sixty miles inland in peaceful rural
England, amid glorious midsummer weather, of the continual throbbing night
and day of the great guns on the Somme, where our first great offensive
opened on the 1st, and has continued with solid and substantial gains, some
set-backs, heavy losses for the Allies, still heavier for the enemy. Names
of villages and towns, which hitherto have been to most of us mere names on
the map, have now become luminous through shining deeds of glory and
sacrifice--Contalmaison and Mametz, Delville Wood, Thiepval and
Beaumont-Hamel, Serre and Pozières.
The victory, for victory it is, has not been celebrated in the German way.
England takes her triumphs as she takes defeats, without a sign of having
turned a hair:
Yet we are proud because at last, at last
We look upon the dawn of our desire;
Because the weary waiting-time is passed
And we have tried our temper in the fire;
And proving word by deed
Have kept the faith we pledged to France at need.
But most because, from mine and desk and mart,
Springing to face a task undreamed before,
Our men, inspired to play their prentice part
Like soldiers lessoned in the school of war,
True to their breed and name,
Went flawless through the fierce baptismal flame.
And he who brought these armies into life,
And on them set the impress of his will--
Could he be moved by sound of mortal strife,
There where he lies, their Captain, cold and still
Under the shrouding tide,
How would his great heart stir and glow with pride!
[Illustration: "TWO HEADS WITH BUT A SINGLE THOUGHT"
FIRST HEAD: "What prospects?" SECOND HEAD: "Rotten." FIRST HEAD: "Same
here."]
The results of the battle of the Somme are shown in a variety of ways: by
the reticence and admissions of the German Press, by its efforts to divert
attention to the exploits of the commercial submarine cruiser
_Deutschland_; above all, by the Kaiser's fresh explosions of piety.
"The Devil was sick, the Devil a monk would be." There is no further sign
of his fleet, which remains crippled by its "victory." Nor can he, still
less his Ally, draw comfort from the situation on the Russian or Italian
fronts.
[Illustration: WELL DONE, THE NEW ARMY]
Mr. Punch finds the usual difficulty in getting any details from his
correspondents when they have been or are in the thick of the fighting.
Practically all that they have to say is that there was a "damned noise,"
that breakfast was delayed by the "morning hate," or that an angry sub
besought a weary O.C. "to ask our gunners not to serve faults into our
front line wire." One of them, however, a very wise young man, ventures on
the prediction that the War will last well into 1918. As the result of a
brief leave he has learned an important truth. "In England they assume that
you, having just arrived from France, _know_. When you return to
France, it is assumed that you, having just arrived from England,
_know_."
In Parliament Ireland is beginning to suffer from a rival in unenviable
notoriety. Mesopotamia does not smell particularly sweet just now, but that
may add to its usefulness as a red herring. Geographers are said to have
some difficulty in defining its exact boundaries, but the Government are
probably quite convinced that it is situate between the Devil and the Deep
Sea. Two Special Commissions are to be set up to inquire into the
Mesopotamian and Dardanelles Expeditions. Public opinion has been painfully
stirred by the harrowing details which have come to light of the
preventible sufferings endured by British troops. From their point of view
the supply of their medical needs, now guaranteed, is worth a wilderness of
Special Commissions. But Ireland still holds the floor, though Mr. Asquith
is frugal of information as to the prospective Irish Bill and has
deprecated discussion of the Hardinge Report, the most scarifying public
document of our times. The Lords, unembarrassed by any embargo, have
discussed the Report in a spirit which must make Mr. Birrell thank his
stars that he got in his confession first. But why, he may ask, should he
be judged by Lord Hardinge, himself a prospective defendant at the bar of
public opinion?
Following the lead of a certain section of the Press, certain Members have
begun to wax vocal on the subject of reprisals, uninterned Aliens, and the
Hidden Hand. Their appeals to the Home Office to go on the spy-trail have
not met with much sympathy so far. An alleged Austrian taxi-driver has
turned out to be a harmless Scotsman with an impediment in his speech. More
interesting has been the sudden re-emergence of Mr. John Burns. He sank
without a trace two years ago, but has now bobbed up to denounce the
proposal to strengthen the Charing Cross railway-bridge. We could have
wished that he had been ready to "keep the bridge" in another sense; but at
least he has been a silent Pacificist. Mr. Winston Churchill, when his
journalistic labours permit, has contributed to the debates, and Lord
Haldane has again delivered his famous lecture on the defects of English
education. But for Parliamentary sagacity _in excelsis_ commend us to
Mr. McCallum Scott. He is seriously perturbed about the shortage of
sausage-skins and, in spite of the bland assurance of Mr. Harcourt that
supplies are ample, is alleged to be planning a fresh campaign with the
assistance of Mr. Hogge. Another shortage has given rise to no anxiety, but
rather the reverse. In a police court it was recently stated that there are
no longer any tramps in England. Evidently the appeal of that stirring old
song, "Tramp! tramp! tramp! the boys are marching," has not been without
its effect.
[Illustration: CONJURER (unconscious of the approach of hostile aircraft):
"Now, Ladies and Gentlemen, I want you to watch me closely."]
Yet another endurable shortage is reported from the seaside, where an old
sailor on the local sea front has been lamenting the spiritual starvation
brought about by the war. "Why," he said, "for the first time for twenty
years we ain't got no performing fleas down here." And performers, when
they do come, are not always successful in riveting the attention of their
audience.
_August, 1916_.
The third year of the War opens well for the Allies; so well that the
Kaiser has again issued a statement denying that he is responsible for it.
The Big Push on the Somme goes on steadily, thanks to fine leadership, the
steadfast heroism of the New Armies, and the loyal co-operation of the
munition-workers at home, who have deferred their holiday rather than
hamper their brothers in the trenches by a lessened output.
Here one fact may suffice as a sample. The weekly consumption of high
explosives by the Army is now between eleven and twelve thousand times as
much as it was in September, 1914. Yet when a lieutenant is asked to state
what it is really like being along with the B.E.F. when it is in its
pushful mood, he sedulously eschews heroics, and will not commit himself to
saying more than that it's all right--that he doesn't think there is any
cause for anxiety. "We seem to have ceased to have sensations out here. It
is a matter of business; the only question is how long is it going to take
to complete." So, too, with the Tommies. "Wonderful," declares the man in
the ranks to persistent seekers after thrilling descriptions of war. "You
never see the like. Across in them trenches there was real soda-water in
bottles." To return to our lieutenant, he "simply can't help being a little
sorry for the Boche now that his wild oats are coming home to roost." Even
his poetic friends, formerly soulful and precious, take this restrained
view. The Attributes of the Enemy are thus summed up by one trench bard:
If Boches laughed and Huns were gents,
They'd own their share of continents;
There'd be no fuss, and, what is more,
There wouldn't even be a war.
Whereas the end of all this tosh
Can only be there'll be no Boche.
[Illustration: THE BIG PUSH
MUNITION WORKER: "Well, I'm not taking a holiday myself just yet, but I'm
sending these kids of mine for a little trip on the Continent."]
Another poet, an R.F.C. man, adopts the same vein, void alike of hate or
exultation:
Returning from my morning fly
I met a Fokker in the sky,
And, judging from its swift descent,
It had a nasty accident.
On thinking further of the same
I rather fear I was to blame.
It is easy to understand why the enemy nations find England so
disappointing and unsatisfying to be at war with.
Italy, too, has had her Big Push on the Isonzo, capturing Monte Sabotino,
which had defied her for fifteen months, and Gorizia--a triumph of
scientific preparation and intrepid assault. The Austrian poison-gas attack
on the Asiago plateau has been avenged, and the objectives of the long and
ineffectual offensive of the previous winter carried with thousands of
prisoners at a comparatively cheap price. To add to Austria's humiliation
her armies on the Eastern Front have been placed under the Prussian
Hindenburg. And Rumania has joined the Allies at the end of what has been a
very bad month for the Central Empires. English newspapers have been
excluded from Germany, and Berlin has added truthless to meatless days. But
the Germans have long since found a substitute for veracity as well as for
leather and butter and rubber and bread. They are said to have found a
substitute for International Law, and it is an open secret that they are
even now in search of a substitute for victory. We might even suggest a few
more substitutes which have not yet been utilised. As, for example, a
substitute for Verdun with the German flag flying over it; substitutes for
several German Colonies; a substitute for Austria as an ally; and
substitutes for Kultur and Organisation and Efficiency and World Power and
the Mailed Fist and the Crown Prince and the Kaiser and the War and all the
things that haven't come off.
Various momentous decisions have been arrived at in Parliament. The Cabinet
are _not_ to be cinematographed, and unnecessary taxi-whistling is to
be suppressed, without any prejudice to the squealing of importunate
chatterers below the gangway. Ireland has again dominated the Parliamentary
scene; the Nationalists have resumed their freedom of action with attacks
on Sir John Maxwell and martial law, and are displaying an embarrassing
industry reminiscent of the 'Eighties. Mr. Ginnell has been removed by
order of the Speaker; Mr. Duke has succeeded Mr. Birrell; and the
discussion of three Irish Bills has bulked so large that one might almost
forget we were at war. In such brief moments as could be spared from Irish
affairs the Premier has proposed a fresh Vote of Credit for 450 millions,
has introduced a Bill for extending the life of Parliament, and another
establishing a new Register. The last has been unmercifully belaboured in
debate, the Prime Minister himself describing it as "a halting, lopsided,
temporary makeshift." The apparently insoluble problem is that of enabling
soldiers in the trenches to exercise the franchise. Soldiers and sailors
can very well wait for their votes, but not for their money, and the delays
in providing pensions for discharged men have been condemned by members of
all parties. So the War is not altogether forgotten by the House. Mr. Lloyd
George, the new War Secretary, without wasting breath on the pessimistic
comments of his colleague Mr. Churchill, has given an encouraging survey of
the general situation. The cry has gone up that Mr. Hughes Must Come Back
from Australia, and Mr. Swift MacNeill has been rewarded for his
pertinacity by extracting a promise from Mr. Asquith that he will purge the
Peerage of its enemy Dukes. Better still is the solemn assurance of the
Premier that the Government are taking steps to discover the identity of
all those who are in any way responsible for the judicial murder of Captain
Fryatt--the worst instance of calculated atrocity against non-combatants
since the murder of Nurse Cavell.
The education of our New Armies is full of strange and noble surprises. Now
it is an ex-shop boy converted into an R.H.A. driver. Or again it is a
Tommy learning to appreciate the heroism of a French peasant woman:
'Er bloke's out scrappin' with the rest,
Pushin' a bay'net in Argonne;
She wears 'is photo on 'er breast,
"_Mon Jean_," she sez--the French for John.
She 'ears the guns boom night an' day;
She sees the shrapnel burstin' black;
The sweaty columns march away,
The stretchers bringin' of 'em back.
She ain't got no war-leggin's on;
'Er picture's never in the Press,
Out scoutin'. She finds breeks "_no bon_,"
An' carries on in last year's dress.
At dawn she tows a spotty cow
To graze upon the village green;
She plods for miles be'ind a plough,
An' takes our washin' in between.
She tills a patch o' spuds besides,
An' burnt like copper in the sun,
She tosses 'ay all day, then rides
The 'orse 'ome when the job is done.
The times is 'ard--I got me woes,
With blistered feet an' this an' that,
An' she's got 'ers, the good Lord knows,
Although she never chews the fat.
But when the Boche 'as gulped 'is pill,
An' crawled 'ome to 'is bloomin' Spree,
We'll go upon the bust, we will,
Madame an' Monsieur Jean an' me.
Or once more it is the young officer shaving himself in a captured German
dug-out before an old looking-glass looted from a _château_ by a dead
German, and apologising to its rightful owner:
Madame, at the end of this long campaign,
When France comes into her own again
In the setting where only she can shine,
As you in your mirror of rare design--
Forgive me, who dare
In a German lair
To shave in your mirror at Pozières.
Then there are "lonely soldiers" in India, envious of their more fortunate
comrades in Flanders, and soldiers quite the reverse of lonely during their
well-earned leave.
[Illustration:
THE CAPTAIN: "Your brother is doing splendidly in the Battalion. Before
long he'll be our best man."