WAR AND THE FUTURE
H. G. Wells
One of the minor peculiarities of this unprecedented war is the Tour of the Front. After some months of suppressed information—in which even the war correspondent was discouraged to the point of elimination—it was discovered on both sides that this was a struggle in which Opinion was playing a larger and more important part than it had ever done before. This wild spreading weed was perhaps of decisive importance; the Germans at any rate were attempting to make it a cultivated flower. There was Opinion flowering away at home, feeding rankly on rumour; Opinion in neutral countries; Opinion getting into great tangles of misunderstanding and incorrect valuation between the Allies. The confidence and courage of the enemy; the amiability and assistance of the neutral; the zeal, sacrifice, and serenity of the home population; all were affected. The German cultivation of opinion began long before the war; it is still the most systematic and, because of the psychological ineptitude of the Germans, it is probably the clumsiest. The French Maison de la Presse is certainly the best organisation in existence for making things clear, counteracting hostile suggestion, the British official organisations are comparatively ineffective; but what is lacking officially is very largely made up for by the good will and generous efforts of the English and American press. An interesting monograph might be written upon these various attempts of the belligerents to get themselves and their proceedings explained.
Because there is perceptible in these developments, quite over and above the desire to influence opinion, a very real effort to get things explained. It is the most interesting and curious—one might almost write touching—feature of these organisations that they do not constitute a positive and defined propaganda such as the Germans maintain. The German propaganda is simple, because its ends are simple; assertions of the moral elevation and loveliness of Germany; of the insuperable excellences of German Kultur, the Kaiser, and Crown Prince, and so forth; abuse of the "treacherous" English who allied themselves with the "degenerate" French and the "barbaric" Russians; nonsense about "the freedom of the seas"—the emptiest phrase in history—childish attempts to sow suspicion between the Allies, and still more childish attempts to induce neutrals and simple-minded pacifists of allied nationality to save the face of Germany by initiating peace negotiations. But apart from their steady record and reminder of German brutalities and German aggression, the press organisations of the Allies have none of this definiteness in their task. The aim of the national intelligence in each of the allied countries is not to exalt one's own nation and confuse and divide the enemy, but to get a real understanding with the peoples and spirits of a number of different nations, an understanding that will increase and become a fruitful and permanent understanding between the allied peoples. Neither the English, the Russians, the Italians, nor the French, to name only the bigger European allies, are concerned in setting up a legend, as the Germans are concerned in setting up a legend of themselves to impose upon mankind. They are reality dealers in this war, and the Germans are effigy mongers. Practically the Allies are saying each to one another, "Pray come to me and see for yourself that I am very much the human stuff that you are. Come and see that I am doing my best—and I think that is not so very bad a best...." And with that is something else still more subtle, something rather in the form of, "And please tell me what you think of me—and all this."
So we have this curious byplay of the war, and one day I
find Mr. Nabokoff, the editor of the Retch, and Count Alexy Tolstoy, that
writer of delicate short stories, and Mr. Chukovsky, the subtle critic, calling
in upon me after braving the wintry seas to see the British fleet; M. Joseph
Reinach follows them presently upon the same errand; and then appear
photographs of Mr. Arnold Bennett wading in the trenches of Flanders, Mr. Noyes
becomes discreetly indiscreet about what he has seen among the submarines, and
Mr. Hugh Walpole catches things from Mr. Stephen Graham in the Dark Forest of
Russia. All this is quite over and above such writing of facts at first hand as
Mr. Patrick McGill and a dozen other real experiencing soldiers—not to mention
the soldiers' letters Mr. James Milne has collected, or the unforgettable and
immortal Prisoner of War of Mr. Arthur Green—or such admirable war
correspondents' work as Mr. Philip Gibbs or Mr. Washburne has done. Some of us
writers—I can answer for one—have made our Tour of the Fronts with a very
understandable diffidence. For my own part I did not want to go. I evaded a
suggestion that I should go in 1915. I travel badly, I
speak French and Italian with incredible atrocity, and am an extreme Pacifist.
I hate soldiering. And also I did not want to write anything "under
instruction". It is largely owing to a certain stiffness in the
composition of General Delme-Radcliffe is resolved that Italy shall not feel
neglected by the refusal of the invitation from the Comando Supremo by anyone
who from the perspective of Italy may seem to be a representative of British
opinion. If Herbert Spencer had been alive General Radcliffe would have
certainly made him come, travelling-hammock, ear clips and all—and I am not
above confessing that I wish that Herbert Spencer was alive—for this purpose. I
My own manner of testifying must be to tell what I have seen and what I have thought during this extraordinary experience. It has been my natural disposition to see this war as something purposeful and epic, as it is great, as an epoch, as "the War that will end War"—but of that last, more anon. I do not think I am alone in this inclination to a dramatic and logical interpretation. The caricatures in the French shops show civilisation (and particularly Marianne) in conflict with a huge and hugely wicked Hindenburg Ogre. Well, I come back from this tour with something not so simple as that. If I were to be tied down to one word for my impression of this war, I should say that this war is Queer. It is not like anything in a really waking world, but like something in a dream. It hasn't exactly that clearness of light against darkness or of good against ill. But it has the quality of wholesome instinct struggling under a nightmare. The world is not really awake. This vague appeal for explanations to all sorts of people, this desire to exhibit the business, to get something in the way of elucidation at present missing, is extraordinarily suggestive of the efforts of the mind to wake up that will sometimes occur at a deep crisis. My memory of this tour I have just made is full of puzzled-looking men. I have seen thousands of poilus sitting about in cafes, by the roadside, in tents, in trenches, thoughtful. I have seen Alpini sitting restfully and staring with speculative eyes across the mountain gulfs towards unseen and unaccountable enemies. I have seen trainloads of wounded staring out of the ambulance train windows as we passed. I have seen these dim intimations of questioning reflection in the strangest juxtapositions; in Malagasy soldiers resting for a spell among the big shells they were hoisting into trucks for the front, in a couple of khaki-clad Maoris sitting upon the step of a horse-van in Amiens station. It is always the same expression one catches, rather weary, rather sullen, inturned. The shoulders droop. The very outline is a note of interrogation. They look up as the privileged tourist of the front, in the big automobile or the reserved compartment, with his officer or so in charge, passes—importantly. One meets a pair of eyes that seems to say: "Perhaps you understand....
"In which case—-...?"
It is a part, I think, of this disposition to investigate
what makes everyone collect "specimens" of the war. Everywhere the
souvenir forces itself upon the attention. The homecoming permissionaire brings
with him invariably a considerable weight of broken objects, bits of shell,
cartridge clips, helmets; it is a peripatetic museum. It is as if he hoped for
a clue. It is almost impossible, I have found, to escape these pieces in
evidence. I am the least collecting of men, but I have brought home Italian
cartridges, Austrian cartridges, the fuse of an
Austrian shell, a broken Italian bayonet, and a note that is worth half a franc
within the confines of
I avow myself an extreme Pacifist. I am against the man who
first takes up the weapon. I carry my pacifism far beyond the ambiguous little
group of British and foreign sentimentalists who pretend so amusingly to be socialists
in the Labour Leader, whose conception of foreign policy is to give Germany now
a peace that would be no more than a breathing time for a fresh outrage upon
civilisation, and who would even make heroes of the crazy young assassins of
the Dublin crime. I do not understand those people. I do not merely want to
stop this war. I want to nail down war in its coffin. Modern war is an
intolerable thing. It is not a thing to trifle with in this Urban District
Council way, it is a thing to end forever. I have
always hated it, so far that is as my imagination enabled me to realise it; and
now that I have been seeing it, sometimes quite closely for a full month, I
hate it more than ever. I never imagined a quarter of its waste, its boredom,
its futility, its desolation. It is merely a destructive and dispersive instead
of a constructive and accumulative industrialism. It is a gigantic, dusty,
muddy, weedy, bloodstained silliness. It is the plain duty of every man to give
his life and all that he has if by so doing he may help to end it. I hate
It is my unshakeable belief that essentially the Allies
fight for a permanent world peace, that primarily they do not make war but
resist war, that has reconciled me to this not very congenial experience of
touring as a spectator all agog to see, through the war zones. At any rate
there was never any risk of my playing Balaam and blessing the enemy. This war
is tragedy and sacrifice for most of the world, for the Germans it is simply
the catastrophic outcome of fifty years of elaborate intellectual foolery.
Militarism, Welt Politik, and here we are! What else could have happened, with
Michael and his infernal War Machine in the very centre of
It is a disaster. It may be a necessary disaster; it may teach a lesson that could be learnt in no other way; but for all that, I insist, it remains waste, disorder, disaster.
There is a disposition, I know, in myself as well as in
others, to wriggle away from this verity, to find so much good in the collapse
that has come to the mad direction of
I am reminded of a story, or rather of the idea for a story
that I think I must have read in that curious collection of fantasies and
The elementary tales of the world are very few, and
One of the larger singularities of the great war is its failure to produce great and imposing personalities, mighty leaders, Napoleons, Caesars. I would indeed make that the essential thing in my reckoning of the war. It is a drama without a hero; without countless incidental heroes no doubt, but no star part. Even the Germans, with a national predisposition for hero-cults and living still in an atmosphere of Victorian humbug, can produce nothing better than that timber image, Hindenburg.
It is not that the war has failed to produce heroes so much as that it has produced heroism in a torrent. The great man of this war is the common man. It becomes ridiculous to pick out particular names. There are too many true stories of splendid acts in the past two years ever to be properly set down. The V.C.'s and the palms do but indicate samples. One would need an encyclopaedia, a row of volumes, of the gloriousness of human impulses. The acts of the small men in this war dwarf all the pretensions of the Great Man. Imperatively these multitudinous heroes forbid the setting up of effigies. When I was a young man I imitated Swift and posed for cynicism; I will confess that now at fifty and greatly helped by this war, I have fallen in love with mankind.
But if I had to pick out a single figure to stand for the
finest quality of the Allies' war, I should I think choose the figure of
General Joffre. He is something new in history. He is leadership without vulgar
ambition. He is the extreme antithesis to the Imperial boomster of
By great good luck I was able to see him. I was delayed in
Let me confess that de Tessin had had to persuade me to go to Headquarters. Partly that was because I didn't want to use up even ten minutes of the time of the French commanders, but much more was it because I have a dread of Personages.
There is something about these encounters with personages—as
if one was dealing with an effigy, with something tremendous put up to be seen.
As one approaches they become remoter; great unsuspected crevasses are
discovered. Across these gulfs one makes ineffective gestures. They do not meet
you, they pose at you enormously. Sometimes there is something more terrible
than dignity; there is condescension. They are affable. I had but recently had
an encounter with an imported Colonial statesman, who was being advertised like
a soap as the coming saviour of
The effect of these French commanders upon me was quite different from my encounter with that last belated adventurer in the effigy line. I felt indeed that I was a rather idle and flimsy person coming into the presence of a tremendously compact and busy person, but I had none of that unpleasant sensation of a conventional role, of being expected to play the minute worshipper in the presence of the Great Image. I was so moved by the common humanity of them all that in each case I broke away from the discreet interpretations of de Tessin and talked to them directly in the strange dialect which I have inadvertently made for myself out of French, a disemvowelled speech of epicene substantives and verbs of incalculable moods and temperaments, "Entente Cordiale." The talked back as if we had met in a club. General Pelle pulled my leg very gaily with some quotations from an article I had written upon the conclusion of the war. I think he found my accent and my idioms very refreshing. I had committed myself to a statement that Bloch has been justified in his theory that under modern conditions the defensive wins. There were excellent reasons, and General Pelle pointed them out, for doubting the applicability of this to the present war.
Both he and General Castelnau were anxious that I should see
a French offensive sector as well as
But of that I will write later. My present concern is with General Joffre as the antithesis of the Effigy. The effigy,
"Thou Prince of Peace,
Thou God of War,"
as Mr. Sylvester Viereck called him, prances on a great horse, wears a Wagnerian cloak, sits on thrones and talks of shining armour and "unser Gott." All Germany gloats over his Jovian domesticities; when I was last in Berlin the postcard shops were full of photographs of a sort of procession of himself and his sons, all with long straight noses and sidelong eyes. It is all dreadfully old-fashioned. General Joffre sits in a pleasant little sitting-room in a very ordinary little villa conveniently close to Headquarters. He sits among furniture that has no quality of pose at all, that is neither magnificent nor ostentatiously simple and hardy. He has dark, rather sleepy eyes under light eyelashes, eyes that glance shyly and a little askance at his interlocutor and then, as he talks, away—as if he did not want to be preoccupied by your attention. He has a broad, rather broadly modelled face, a soft voice, the sort of persuasive reasoning voice that many Scotchmen have. I had a feeling that if he were to talk English he would do so with a Scotch accent. Perhaps somewhere I have met a Scotchman of his type. He sat sideways to his table as a man might sit for a gossip in a cafe.
He is physically a big man, and in my memory he grows bigger and bigger. He sits now in my memory in a room like the rooms that any decent people might occupy, like that vague room that is the background of so many good portraits, a great blue-coated figure with a soft voice and rather tired eyes, explaining very simply and clearly the difficulties that this vulgar imperialism of Germany, seizing upon modern science and modern appliances, has created for France and the spirit of mankind.
He talked chiefly of the strangeness of this confounded war.
It was exactly like a sanitary engineer speaking of the unexpected difficulties
of some particularly nasty inundation. He made little stiff horizontal gestures
with his hands. First one had to build a dam and stop the rush of it, so; then
one had to organise the push that would send it back. He explained the
organisation of the push. They had got an organisation now that was working out
most satisfactorily. Had I seen a sector? I had seen the sector of
Neither he nor his two colleagues spoke of the Germans with
either hostility or humanity.
Is any greater contrast possible than between so implacable, patient, reasonable—and above all things capable—a being as General Joffre and the rhetorician of Potsdam, with his talk of German Might, of Hammer Blows and Hacking Through? Can there be any doubt of the ultimate issue between them?
There are stories that sound pleasantly true to me about
General Joffre's ambitions after the war. He is tired; then he will be very
tired. He will, he declares, spend his first free summer in making a tour of
the waterways of
If I were to set a frontispiece to a book about this War I would make General Joffre the frontispiece.
As we swung back along the dusty road to Paris at a pace of fifty miles an hour and upwards, driven by a helmeted driver with an aquiline profile fit to go upon a coin, whose merits were a little flawed by a childish and dangerous ambition to run over every cat he saw upon the road, I talked to de Tessin about this big blue-coated figure of Joffre, which is not so much a figure as a great generalisation of certain hitherto rather obscured French qualities, and of the impression he had made upon me. And from that I went on to talk about the Super Man, for this encounter had suddenly crystallised out a set of realisations that had been for some time latent in my mind.
How much of what follows I said to de Tessin at the time I do not clearly remember, but this is what I had in mind.
The idea of the superman is an idea that has been developed by various people ignorant of biology and unaccustomed to biological ways of thinking. It is an obvious idea that follows in the course of half an hour or so upon one's realisation of the significance of Darwinism. If man has evolved from something different, he must now be evolving onward into something sur-human. The species in the future will be different from the species of the past. So far at least our Nietzsches and Shaws and so on went right.
But being ignorant of the elementary biological proposition
that modification of a species means really a secular change in its average,
they jumped to a conclusion—to which the late Lord Salisbury also jumped years
ago at a very memorable British Association meeting—that a species is modified
by the sudden appearance of eccentric individuals here and there in the general
mass who interbreed—preferentially. Helped by a streak of antic egotism in
themselves, they conceived of the superman as a posturing personage,
misunderstood by the vulgar, fantastic, wonderful. But
the antic Personage, the thing I have called the Effigy, is not new but old,
the oldest thing in history, the departing thing. It
depends not upon the advance of the species but upon the uncritical
hero-worship of the crowd. You may see the monster drawn twenty times the size
of common men upon the oldest monuments of
And it is the peculiarity of this war, it is the most reassuring evidence that a great increase in general ability and critical ability has been going on throughout the last century, that no isolated great personages have emerged. Never has there been so much ability, invention, inspiration, leadership; but the very abundance of good qualities has prevented our focusing upon those of any one individual. We all play our part in the realisation of God's sanity in the world, but, as the strange, dramatic end of Lord Kitchener has served to remind us, there is no single individual of all the allied nations whose death can materially affect the great destinies of this war.
In the last few years I have developed a religious belief that has become now to me as real as any commonplace fact. I think that mankind is still as it were collectively dreaming and hardly more awakened to reality than a very young child. It has these dreams that we express by the flags of nationalities and by strange loyalties and by irrational creeds and ceremonies, and its dreams at times become such nightmares as this war. But the time draws near when mankind will awake and the dreams will fade away, and then there will be no nationality in all the world but humanity, and no kind, no emperor, nor leader but the one God of mankind. This is my faith. I am as certain of this as I was in 1900 that men would presently fly. To me it is as if it must be so.
So that to me this extraordinary refusal of the allied nations under conditions that have always hitherto produced a Great Man to produce anything of the sort, anything that can be used as an effigy and carried about for the crowd to follow, is a fact of extreme significance and encouragement. It seems to me that the twilight of the half gods must have come, that we have reached the end of the age when men needed a Personal Figure about which they could rally. The Kaiser is perhaps the last of that long series of crowned and cloaked and semi-divine personages which has included Caesar and Alexander and Napoleon the First—and Third. In the light of the new time we see the emperor-god for the guy he is. In the August of 1914 he set himself up to be the paramount Lord of the World, and it will seem to the historian to come, who will know our dates so well and our feelings, our fatigues and efforts so little, it will seem a short period from that day to this, when the great figure already sways and staggers towards the bonfire.
I had the experience of meeting a contemporary king upon
this journey. He was the first king I had ever met. The
I went to see him from
Addicted as I am to the cinematograph, in which the standard of study furniture is particularly rich and high, I found something very cooling and simple and refreshing in the sight of the king's study furniture. He sat down with me at a little useful writing table, and after asking me what I had seen in Italy and hearing what I had seen and what I was to see, he went on talking, very good talk indeed.
I suppose I did a little exceed the established tradition of courts by asking several questions and trying to get him to talk upon certain points as to which I was curious, but I perceived that he had had to carry on at least so much of the regal tradition as to control the conversation. He was, however, entirely un-posed. His talk reminded me somehow of Maurice Baring's books; it had just the same quick, positive understanding. And he had just the same detachment from the war as the French generals. He spoke of it—as one might speak of an inundation. And of its difficulties and perplexities.
Here on the Adriatic side there were political entanglements
that by comparison made our western after-the-war problems plain sailing. He
talked of the game of spellicans among the Balkan nationalities. How was that
difficulty to be met? In
He went on to talk of the strange contrasts of war, of such things as the indifference of the birds to gunfire and desolation. One day on the Carso he had been near the newly captured Austrian trenches, and suddenly from amidst a scattered mass of Austrian bodies a quail had risen that had struck him as odd, and so too had the sight of a pack of cards and a wine flask on some newly-made graves. The ordinary life was a very obstinate thing....
He talked of the courage of modern men. He was astonished at the quickness with which they came to disregard shrapnel. And they were so quietly enduring when they were wounded. He had seen a lot of the wounded, and he had expected much groaning and crying out. But unless a man is hit in the head and goes mad he does not groan or scream! They are just brave. If you ask them how they feel it is always one of two things: either they say quietly that they are very bad or else they say there is nothing the matter....
He spoke as if these were mere chance observations, but everyone tells me that nearly every day the king is at the front and often under fire. He has taken more risks in a week than the Potsdam War Lord has taken since the war began. He keeps himself acutely informed upon every aspect of the war. He was a little inclined to fatalism, he confessed. There were two stories current of two families of four sons, in each three had been killed and in each there was an attempt to put the fourth in a place of comparative safety. In one case a general took the fourth son in as an attendant and embarked upon a ship that was immediately torpedoed; in the other the fourth son was killed by accident while he was helping to carry dinner in a rest camp. From those stories we came to the question whether the uneducated Italians were more superstitious than the uneducated English; the king thought they were much less so. That struck me as a novel idea. But then he thought that English rural people believe in witches and fairies.
I have given enough of this talk to show the quality of this king of the new dispensation. It was, you see, the sort of easy talk one might hear from fine-minded people anywhere. When we had done talking he came to the door of the study with me and shook hands and went back to his desk—with that gesture of return to work which is very familiar and sympathetic to a writer, and with no gesture of regality at all.
Just to complete this impression let me repeat a pleasant story about this king and our Prince of Wales, who recently visited the Italian front. The Prince is a source of anxiety on these visits; he has a very strong and very creditable desire to share the ordinary risks of war. He is keenly interested, and unobtrusively bent upon getting as near the fighting as line as possible. But the King of Italy was firm upon keeping him out of anything more than the most incidental danger. "We don't want any historical incidents here," he said. I think that might well become an historical phrase. For the life of the Effigy is a series of historical incidents.
Manifestly one might continue to multiply portraits of fine people working upon this great task of breaking and ending the German aggression, the German legend, the German effigy, and the effigy business generally; the thesis being that the Allies have no effigy. One might fill a thick volume with pictures of men up the scale and down working loyally and devotedly upon the war, to make this point clear that the essential king and the essential loyalty of our side is the commonsense of mankind.
There comes into my head as a picture at the other extreme
of this series, a memory of certain trenches I visited on my last day in
I came round the corner upon a youngster with an intelligent face and steady eyes sitting up on the firing step, awake and thinking. We looked at one another. There are moments when mind leaps to mind. It is natural for the man in the trenches suddenly confronted by so rare a beast as a middle-aged civilian with an enquiring expression, to feel oneself something of a spectacle and something generalised. It is natural for the civilian to look rather in the vein of saying, "Well, how do you take it?" As I pushed past him we nodded slightly with an effect of mutual understanding. And we said with our nods just exactly what General Joffre had said with his horizontal gestures of the hand and what the King of Italy conveyed by his friendly manner; we said to each other that here was the trouble those Germans had brought upon us and here was the task that had to be done.
Our guide to these trenches was a short, stocky young man, a cob; with a rifle and a tight belt and projecting skirts and a helmet, a queer little figure that, had you seen it in a picture a year or so before the war, you would most certainly have pronounced Chinese. He belonged to a Northumbrian battalion; it does not matter exactly which. As we returned from this front line, trudging along the winding path through the barbed wire tangles before the smashed and captured German trench that had been taken a fortnight before, I fell behind my guardian captain and had a brief conversation wit this individual. He was a lad in the early twenties, weather-bit and with bloodshot eyes. He was, he told me, a miner. I asked my stock question in such cases, whether he would go back to the old work after the war. He said he would, and then added—with the events of overnight on his mind: "If A'hm looky."
Followed a little silence. Then I
tried my second stock remark for such cases. One does not talk to soldiers at
the front in this war of Glory or the "Empire on which the sun never
sets" or "the meteor flag of
"Well," I said, "it's got to be done."
"Aye," he said, easing the strap of his rifle a little; "it's got to be done."
My first impressions of the Italian war centre upon
My earlier rides in
And upon the roads and beside them was the enormous
equipment of a modern army advancing. Everywhere I saw new roads being made,
railways pushed up, vast store dumps, hospitals; everywhere the villages
swarmed with grey soldiers; everywhere our automobile was threading its way and
taking astonishing risks among interminable processions of motor lorries,
strings of ambulances or of mule carts, waggons with timber, waggons with wire,
waggons with men's gear, waggons with casks, waggons discreetly veiled, columns
of infantry, cavalry, batteries en route. Every waggon that goes up full comes
back empty, and many wounded were coming down and prisoners and troops
returning to rest. Goritzia had been taken a week or so before my arrival; the
Isonzo had been crossed and the Austrians driven back across the Carso for
several miles; all the resources of
One travelled through a choking dust under the blue sky, and
above the steady incessant dusty succession of lorry, lorry, lorry, lorry that
passed one by, one saw, looking up, the tree tops, house roofs, or the solid
Venetian campanile of this or that wayside village. Once as we were coming out
of the great grey portals of that beautiful old relic of a former school of
fortification, Palmanova, the traffic became suddenly bright yellow, and for a
kilometre or so we were passing nothing but Sicilian mule carts loaded with
hay. These carts seem as strange among the grey shapes of modern war transport
as a Chinese mandarin in painted silk would be. They are the most individual of
things, all two-wheeled, all bright yellow and the same size it is true, but
upon each there are they gayest of little paintings, such paintings as one sees
in England at times upon an ice-cream barrow. Sometimes the picture will
present a scriptural subject, sometimes a scene of opera, sometimes a dream
landscape or a trophy of fruits or flowers, and the harness—now much out of
repair—is studded with brass. Again and again I have passed strings of these
gay carts; all
Through the dust I came to
By devious routes I went on to certain batteries of big guns which had played their part in hammering the Austrian left above Monfalcone across an arm of the Adriatic, and which were now under orders to shift and move up closer. The battery was the most unobtrusive of batteries; its one desire seemed to be to appear a simple piece of woodland in the eye of God and the aeroplane. I went about the network of railways and paths under the trees that a modern battery requires, and came presently upon a great gun that even at the first glance seemed a little less carefully hidden than its fellows. Then I saw that it was a most ingenious dummy made of a tree and logs and so forth. It was in the emplacement of a real gun that had been located; it had its painted sandbags about it just the same, and it felt itself so entirely a part of the battery that whenever its companions fired t burnt a flash and kicked up a dust. It was an excellent example of the great art of camouflage which this war has developed.
I went on through the wood to a shady observation post high
in a tree, into which I clambered with my guide. I was able from this position
to get a very good idea of the lie of the Italian eastern front. I was in the
delta of the Isonzo. Directly in front of me were some marshes and the extreme
tip of the
As a consequence when I visited it I found it very little injured—compared, that is, with such other towns as have been fought through. Here and there the front of a house has been knocked in by an Austrian shell, or a lamp-post prostrated. But the road bridge had suffered a good deal; its iron parapet was twisted about by shell bursts and interwoven with young trees and big boughs designed to screen the passer-by from the observation of the Austrian gunners upon Monte Santo. Here and there were huge holes through which one could look down upon the blue trickles of water in the stony river bed far below. The driver of our automobile displayed what seemed to me an extreme confidence in the margins of these gaps, but his confidence was justified. At Sagrado the bridge had been much more completely demolished; no effort had been made to restore the horizontal roadway, but one crossed by a sort of timber switchback that followed the ups and downs of the ruins.
It is not in these places that one must look for the real
destruction of modern war. The real fight on the left of Goritzia went through
Yet into this wilderness the Italians are now thrusting a sort of order. The German is a wonderful worker, they say on the Anglo-French front that he makes his trenches by way of resting, but I doubt if he can touch the Italian at certain forms of toil. All the way up to San Martino and beyond, swarms of workmen were making one of those carefully graded roads that the Italians make better than any other people. Other swarms were laying water-pipes. For upon the Carso there are neither roads nor water, and before the Italians can thrust farther both must be brought up to the front.
As we approached San Martino an Austrian aeroplane made its
presence felt overhead by dropping a bomb among the tents of some workmen, in a
little scrubby wood on the hillside near at hand. One heard the report and
turned to see the fragments flying and the dust. Probably they got someone. And
then, after a little pause, the encampment began to spew out men; here, there
and everywhere they appeared among the tents, running like rabbits at
evening-time, down the hill. Soon after and probably in connection with this
signal, Austrian shells began to come over. They do not use shrapnel because
the rocky soil of
Along about four thousand miles of the various fronts this sort of thing was going on that morning....
This Carso front is the practicable offensive front of
The mountain warfare of
The legitimate war, so to speak, in this region is a
mountaineering war. The typical position is roughly as follows. The Austrians
occupy valley A which opens northward; the Italians occupy valley B which opens
southward. The fight is for the crest between A and B. The side that wins that
crest gains the power of looking down into, firing into and outflanking the
positions of the enemy valley. In most cases it is the Italians now who are
pressing, and if the reader will examine a map of the front and compare it with
the official reports he will soon realise that almost everywhere the Italians
are up to the head of the southward valleys and working over the crests so as
to press down upon the Austrian valleys. But in the Trentino the Austrians are
still well over the crest on the southward slopes. When I was in
Now it cannot be said that under modern conditions mountains
favour either the offensive or the defensive. But they certainly make
operations far more deliberate than upon a level. An engineered road or railway
in an Alpine valley is the most vulnerable of things; its curves and viaducts
may be practically demolished by shell fire or swept by shrapnel, although you
hold the entire valley except for one vantage point. All the mountains round
about a valley must be won before that valley is safe for the transport of an
advance. But on the other hand a surprise capture of some single mountain crest
and the hoisting of one gun into position there may block the retreat of guns
and material from a great series of positions. Mountain surfaces are
extraordinarily various and subtle. You may understand
Such briefly is the idea of mountain struggle. Its realities, I should imagine, are among the strangest and most picturesque in all this tremendous world conflict. I know nothing of the war in the east, of course, but there are things here that must be hard to beat. Happily they will soon get justice done to them by an abler pen than mine. I hear that Kipling is to follow me upon this ground; nothing can be imagined more congenial to his extraordinary power of vivid rendering than this struggle against cliffs, avalanches, frost and the Austrian.
To go the Italian round needs, among other things, a good
head. Everywhere it has been necessary to make roads where hitherto there have
been only mule tracks or no tracks at all; the roads are often still in the
making, and the automobile of the war tourist skirts precipices and takes
hairpin bends upon tracks of loose metal not an inch too broad for the
operation, or it floats for a moment over the dizzy edge while a train of mule
transport blunders by. The unruly imagination of man's heart (which is
"only evil continually") speculates upon what would be the
consequences of one good bump from the wheel of a mule cart. Down below, the
trees that one sees through a wisp of cloud look far too small and spiky and
scattered to hold out much hope for a fallen man of letters. And at the high
positions they are too used to the vertical life to understand the secret
feelings of the visitor from the horizontal. General Bompiani, whose writings
are well known to all English students of military matters, showed me the
Gibraltar he is making of a great mountain system east of the
"Let me show you," he said, and flung himself on to the edge of the precipice into exactly the position of a lady riding side-saddle. "You will find it more comfortable to sit down."
But anxious as I am abroad not to discredit my country by unseemly exhibitions I felt unequal to such gymnastics without a proper rehearsal at a lower level. I seated myself carefully at a yard (perhaps it was a couple of yards) from the edge, advanced on my trousers without dignity to the verge, and so with an effort thrust my legs over to dangle in the crystalline air.
"That," proceeded General Bompiani, pointing with a giddy flourish of his riding whip, "is Monte Tomba."
I swayed and half-extended my hand towards him. But he was still there—sitting, so to speak, on the half of himself.... I was astonished that he did not disappear abruptly during his exposition....
The fighting man in the Dolomites has been perhaps the most wonderful of all these separate campaigns. I went up by automobile as far as the clambering new road goes up the flanks of Tofana No. 2; thence for a time by mule along the flank of Tofana No. 1, and thence on foot to the vestiges of the famous Castelletto.
The aspect of these mountains is particularly grim and wicked; they are worn old mountains, they tower overhead in enormous vertical cliffs of sallow grey, with the square jointings and occasional clefts and gullies, their summits are toothed and jagged; the path ascends and passes round the side of the mountain upon loose screes, which descend steeply to a lower wall of precipices. In the distance rise other harsh and desolate-looking mountain masses, with shining occasional scars of old snow. Far below is a bleak valley of stunted pine trees through which passes the road of the Dolomites.
As I ascended the upper track two bandages men were coming down on led mules. It was mid-August, and they were suffering from frostbite. Across the great gap between the summits a minute traveller with some provisions was going up by wire to some post upon the crest. For everywhere upon the icy pinnacles are observation posts directing the fire of the big guns on the slopes below, or machine-gun stations, or little garrisons that sit and wait through the bleak days. Often they have no link with the world below but a precipitous climb or a "teleferic" wire. Snow and frost may cut them off absolutely for weeks from the rest of mankind. The sick and wounded must begin their journey down to help and comfort in a giddy basket that swings down to the head of the mule track below.
Originally all these crests were in Austrian hands; they were stormed by the Alpini under almost incredible conditions. For fifteen days, for example, they fought their way up these screes on the flanks of Tofana No. 2 to the ultimate crags, making perhaps a hundred metres of ascent each day, hiding under rocks and in holes in the daylight and receiving fresh provisions and ammunition and advancing by night. They were subjected to rifle fire, machine-gun fire and bombs of a peculiar sort, big iron balls of the size of a football filled with explosive that were just flung down the steep. They dodged flares and star shells. At one place they went up a chimney that would be far beyond the climbing powers of any but a very active man. It must have been like storming the skies. The dead and wounded rolled away often into inaccessible ravines. Stray skeletons, rags of uniform, fragments of weapons, will add to the climbing interest of these gaunt masses for many years to come. In this manner it was that Tofana No. 2 was taken.
Now the Italians are organising this prize, and I saw winding up far above me on the steep grey slope a multitudinous string of little things that looked like black ants, each carrying a small bright yellow egg. They were mules bringing back balks of timber....
But one position held out invincibly; this was the Castelletto, a great natural fortress of rock standing out at an angle of the mountain in such a position that it commanded the Italian communications (the Dolomite road) in the valley below, and rendered all their positions uncomfortable and insecure. This obnoxious post was practically inaccessible either from above or below, and it barred the Italians even from looking into the Val Travenanzes which it defended. It was, in fact, an impregnable position, and against it was pitted the invincible 5th Group of the Alpini. It was the old problem of the irresistible force in conflict with the immovable object. And the outcome has been the biggest military mine in all history.
The business began in January, 1916, with surveys of the rock in question. The work of surveying for excavations, never a very simple one, becomes much more difficult when the site is occupied by hostile persons with machine guns. In March, as the winter's snows abated, the boring machinery began to arrive, by mule as far as possible and then by hand. Altogether about half a kilometre of gallery had to be made to the mine chamber, and meanwhile the explosive was coming up load by load and resting first here, then there, in discreetly chosen positions. There were at the last thirty-five tons of it in the inner chamber. And while the boring machines bored and the work went on, Lieutenant Malvezzi was carefully working out the problem of "il massimo effetto dirompimento" and deciding exactly how to pack and explode his little hoard. On the eleventh of July, at 3.30, as he rejoices to state in his official report, "the mine responded perfectly both in respect of the calculations made and of the practical effects," that is to say, the Austrians were largely missing and the Italians were in possession of the crater of the Castelletto and looking down the Val Travenanzes from which they had been barred for so long. Within a month things had been so tidied up, and secured by further excavations and sandbags against hostile fire, that even a middle-aged English writer, extremely fagged and hot and breathless, could enjoy the same privilege. All this, you must understand, had gone on at a level to which the ordinary tourist rarely climbs, in a rarefied, chest-tightening atmosphere, with wisps of clouds floating in the clear air below and club-huts close at hand....
Among these mountains avalanches are frequent; and they come down regardless of human strategy. In many cases the trenches cross avalanche tracks; they and the men in them are periodically swept away and periodically replaced. They are positions that must be held; if the Italians will not face such sacrifices, the Austrians will. Avalanches and frostbite have slain and disabled their thousands; they have accounted perhaps for as many Italians in this austere and giddy campaign as the Austrians....
It seems to be part of the stern resolve of Fate that this,
the greatest of wars, shall be the least glorious; it is manifestly being
decided not by victories but by blunders. It is indeed a history of colossal
stupidities. Among the most decisive of these blunders, second only perhaps of
the blunder of the
There was only one good point about the Austrian thrust. No
one could have foretold it. And it did so completely surprise the Italians as
to catch them without any prepared line of positions in the rear. On the very
eve of the big Russian offensive, the Austrians thrust eighteen divisions hard
at the Trentino frontier. The Italian posts were then in Austrian territory;
they held on the left wing and the right, but they were driven by the sheer
weight of men and guns in the centre; they lost guns and prisoners because of
the difficulty of mountain retreats to which I have alluded, and the Austrians
pouring through reached not indeed the plain of Venetia, but to the upland valleys
immediately above it, to Asiago and Arsiero. They probably saw the Venetian
plain through gaps in the hills, but they were still separated from it even at
Arsiero by what are mountains to an English eye, mountains as high as
As one motors through these ripe and beautiful towns and through
the rich valleys that link them—it is a smiling land abounding in old castles
and villas, Vicenza is a rich museum of Palladio's architecture and Bassano is
full of irreplaceable painted buildings—one feels that the things was a narrow
escape, but from the military point of view it was merely an insane escapade.
The Austrians had behind them—and some way behind them—one little strangulated
railway and no good pass road; their right was held at Pasubio, their left was
similarly bent back. In front of them was between twice and three times their
number of first class troops, with an unlimited
equipment. If they had surmounted that last mountain crest they would have come
down to almost certain destruction in the plain. They could never have got
back. For a time it was said that General Cadorna considered that possibility.
From the point of view of purely military considerations, the Trentino
offensive should perhaps have ended in the capitulation of
I will confess I am glad it did not do so. This tour of the
fronts has made me very sad and weary with a succession of ruins. I can bear no
more ruins unless they are the ruins of
On the hills beyond Schio I walked out through the embrasure
of a big gun in a rock gallery, and saw the highest points upon the hillside to
which the Austrian infantry clambered in their futile last attacks. Below me
were the ruins of Arsiero and Velo d'Astico recovered, and across the broad
valley rose Monte Cimone with the Italian trenches
upon its crest and the Austrians a little below to the north. A very
considerable bombardment was going on and it reverberated finely. (It is only
among mountains that one hears anything that one can call the thunder of guns.
The heaviest bombardments I heard in
I have a peculiar affection for
All over Venetia the Austrian seaplanes are making the same
sort of idiot raid on lighted places that the Zeppelins have been making over
Except in the case of
But there is a return trade. Near
I doubt if English people fully realise either the economic
sturdiness or the political courage of their Italian ally.
I write of these things with the simplicity of an angel, but
without an angelic detachment. Here are questions into which one does not so
much rush as get reluctantly pushed. Currency and banking are dry distasteful
questions, but it is clear that they are too much in the hands of
mystery-mongers; it is as much the duty of anyone who talks and writes of
affairs, it is as much the duty of every sane adult, to bring his possibly poor
and unsuitable wits to bear upon these things, as it is for him to vote or
enlist or pay his taxes. Behind the simple ostensible spectacle of
Banking in a country undergoing so rapid and vigorous an
economic development as
It is a novelty to an English mind to find banking thus
mixed up with politics, but it is not a novelty in
The case of the individual Italian compactly is this:
"We do not like the Austrians and Germans. These Imperialisms look always
"After all," I said presently, after reflection,
"in that matter of Pecunia non olet; there used to be fusses about
European loans in
I incline on the whole to his point of view. Money is facile
cosmopolitan stuff. I think that any bank that settles down in
The reasonable uncommercial man would like to reject all this last sort of talk as "suspicion mania." So far as the Banca Commerciale Italiana goes, I at least find that easy enough; I quote that instance simply because it is a case where suspicion has been dispelled, but in regard to a score of other business veins it is not so easy to dispel suspicion. This war has been a shock to reasonable men the whole world over. They have been forced to realise that after all a great number of Germans have been engaged in a crack-brained conspiracy against the non-German world; that in a great number of cases when one does business with a German the business does not end with the individual German. We hated to believe that a business could be tainted by German partners or German associations. If now we err on the side of over-suspicion, it is the German's little weakness for patriotic disingenuousness that is most to blame....
But anyhow I do not think there is much good in a kind of
witch-smelling among Italian enterprises to find the hidden German. Certain
things are necessary for Italian prosperity and
I left my military guide at
"To-night," said my companion, "I think we
shall declare war upon
I asked intelligently why this had not been done before. I
forget the precise explanation he gave. A young soldier in uniform, who had
been dining at an adjacent table and whom I had not recognised before as a
writer I had met some years previously in
But indeed the matter of that declaration of war is as plain
as daylight; the Italian national consciousness has not at first that direct
sense of the German danger that exists in the minds of the three northern
Allies. To the Italian the traditional enemy is
I did my best to make it clear to my two friends that so far
In the train to Modane this old story recurred again. It is imperative that English readers should understand clearly how thoroughly these little matters have been worked by the enemy.
Some slight civilities led to a conversation that revealed
the Italian lady in the corner as an Irishwoman married to an Italian, and also
brought out the latent English of a very charming elderly lady opposite to her.
She had heard a speech, a wonderful speech from a railway train, by "the
Lord Runciman." He had said the most beautiful things about
I did my best to echo these beautiful things.
Then the Irishwoman remarked that Mr. Runciman had not
satisfied everybody. She and her husband had met a minister—I found afterwards
he was one of the members of the late Giolotti government—who had been talking
very loudly and scornfully of the bargain
"But," said the husband casually, "Mr. Runciman is a shipowner."
I explained that he was nothing of the sort. It was true that he came of a shipowning family—and perhaps inherited a slight tendency to see things from a shipowning point of view—but in England we did not suspect a man on such a score as that.
This incidental discussion is a necessary part of my
As I came out of the brightly lit Galleria Vittorio Emanuele into the darkened Piazza del Duomo I stopped under the arcade and stood looking up at the shadowy darkness of that great pinnacled barn, that marble bride-cake, which is, I suppose, the last southward fortress of the Franco-English Gothic.
"It was here," said my host, "that we burnt the German stuff."
"What German stuff?"
"Pianos and all sorts of things. From the shops. It is possible, you know, to buy things too cheaply—and to give too much for the cheapness."
If I had to present some particular scene as typical of the
peculiar vileness and mischief wrought by this modern warfare that
Before I visited the recaptured villages in the zone of the
actual fighting, I had an idea that their evacuation was only temporary, that
as soon as the war line moved towards
The villages of this wide battle region are not ruined; they are obliterated. It is just possible to trace the roads in them, because the roads have been cleared and repaired for the passing of the guns and ammunition. Fricourt is a tangle of German dug-outs. One dug-out in particular there promises to become a show place. It must be the masterpiece of some genius for dug-outs; it is made as if its makers enjoyed the job; it is like the work of some horrible badger among the vestiges of what were pleasant human homes. You are taken down a timbered staircase into its warren of rooms and passages; you are shown the places under the craters of the great British shells, where the wood splintered but did not come in. (But the arrival of those shells must have been a stunning moment.) There are a series of ingenious bolting shafts set with iron climbing bars. In this place German officers and soldiers have lived continually for nearly two years. This war is, indeed, a troglodytic propaganda. You come up at last at the far end into what was once a cellar of a decent Frenchman's home.
But there are stranger subterranean refuges than that at
Fricourt. At Dompierre the German trenches skirted the cemetery, and they
turned the dead out of their vaults and made lurking places of the tombs. I
walked with M. Joseph Reinach about this place, picking our way carefully amidst
the mud holes and the wire, and watched the shells bursting away over the
receding battle line to the west. The wreckage of the graves was Durereqsue.
And here would be a fragment of marble angle and here a split stone with an
inscription. Splinters of coffins, rusty iron crosses and the petals of tin
flowers were trampled into the mud, amidst the universal barbed wire. A little
distance down the slope is a brand new cemetery, with new metal wreaths and
even a few flowers; it is a disciplined array of uniform wooden crosses, each
with its list of soldiers' names. Unless I am wholly mistaken in
We walked over the mud heaps and litter that had once been
houses towards the centre of Dompierre village, and tried to picture to
ourselves what the place had been. Many things are recognisable in Dompierre
that have altogether vanished at Fricourt; for instance, there are quire large
triangular pieces of the church wall upstanding at Dompierre. And a mile away
perhaps down the hill on the road towards
There wasn't a dog left of the former life of Dompierre. There was not even much war traffic that morning on the worn and muddy road. The guns muttered some miles away to the west, and a lark sang. But a little way farther on up the road was an intermediate dressing station, rigged up with wood and tarpaulins, and orderlies were packing two wounded men into an ambulance. The men on the stretchers were grey faced, as though they had been trodden on by some gigantic dirty boot.
As we came back towards where our car waited by the cemetery
I heard the jingle of a horseman coming across the space behind us. I turned
and beheld one of the odd contrasts that seem always to be happening in this
incredible war. This man was, I suppose, a native officer of some cavalry force
from French north Africa. He was a handsome dark brown
Arab, wearing a long yellow-white robe and a tall cap about which ran a band of
sheepskin. He was riding one of those little fine lean horses with long tails
that I think are
About such towns as
Unless a very big attack is contemplated, I suppose there is
no advantage in an assault; across that narrow interval we should only get into
trenches that might be costly or impossible to hold, and so it would be for the
Germans on our side. But there is a kind of etiquette observed; loud vulgar
talking on either side of the four-metre gap leads at once to bomb throwing.
And meanwhile on both sides guns of various calibre
keep up an intermittent fire, the German guns register—I think that is the
right term—on the cross of
Amidst these pleasantries, the life of the town goes on. Le Lion d'Arras, an excellent illustrated paper, produces its valiant sheets, and has done so since the siege began.
The current number of Le Lion d'Arras had to report a local German success. Overnight they had killed a gendarme. There is to be a public funeral and much ceremony. It is rare for anyone now to get killed; everything is so systematised.
You may buy postcards with views of the destruction at
various angles, and send them off with the
The Hotel de Ville and the cathedral are now mostly heaps of
litter, but many streets of the town have suffered very little. Here and there
a house has been crushed and one or two have been bisected, the front reduced
to a heap of splinters and the back halves of the rooms left so that one sees
the bed, the hanging end of the carpet, the clothes cupboard yawning open, the
pictures still on the wall. In one place a lamp stands on a chest of drawers,
on a shelf of floor cut off completely from the world below....
Pheeee—-woooo—-Bang! One would be irresistibly reminded of a Sunday afternoon
in the city of
I went to the station, a dead railway station. A
notice-board requested us to walk around the silent square on the outside
pavement and not across it. The German sausage balloon had not been up for
days; it had probably gone off to the Somme; the
I went out and looked up and down the line; two deserted
goods trucks stood as if they sheltered under a footbridge. The grass poked out
through their wheels. The railway signals seemed uncertain in their
intimations; some were up and some were down. And it was as still and empty as
a summer afternoon in
We lunched in a sunny garden with various men who love
A certain liveliness marked our departure from the town. Possibly the Germans also listen for the rare infrequent automobile. At any rate, as we were just starting our way back—it is improper to mention the exact point from which we started—came "Pheeee—-woooo." Quite close. But there was no Bang! One's mind hung expectant and disappointed. It was a dud shell.
And then suddenly I became acutely aware of the personality
of our chauffeur. It was not his business to talk to us, but he turned his
head, showed a sharp profile, wry lips and a bright excited eye, and remarked,
"That was a near one—anyhow." He then cut a corner over the pavement
and very nearly cut it through a house. He bumped us over a shell hole and
began to toot his horn. At every gateway, alley, and cross road on this silent
and empty streets of
The organisation of
The cathedral at
They looked exactly like any other French bedroom windows, with neat, clean white lace curtains across them. The curtains had been put there, because they were the proper things to put there.
"Madame," said the hostess, "need not trouble
to open the glass. There is no more glass in
But there were curtains nevertheless. There was all the
precise delicacy of the neatly curtained home life of
And she told me too of the people at dinner, and how as the little serving-maid passed about a proud erection of cake and conserve and cream, came the familiar "Pheeee—-woooo—-Bang!"
"That must have been the Seminaire," said someone.
As one speaks of the weather or a passing cart.
"It was in the Rue de la Bueire, M'sieur," the little maid asserted with quiet conviction, poising the trophy of confectionery for Madame Huard with an unshaking hand.
So stoutly do the roots of French life hold beneath the tramplings of war.
The development of war has depended largely upon two
factors. One of these is invention. New weapons and new methods have become
available, and have modified tactics, strategy, the
relative advantage of offensive and defensive. The other chief factor in the
evolution of the war has been social organisation. As Machiavelli points out in
his Art of War, there was insufficient social stability in
A history of military method for the last few centuries would be a record of successive alternate steps in which offensive and defensive contrivances pull ahead, first one and then the other. Their relative fluctuations are marked by the varying length of campaigns. From the very outset we have the ditch and the wall; the fortified place upon a pass or main road, as a check to the advance. Artillery improves, then fortification improves. The defensive holds its own for a long period, wars are mainly siege wars, and for a century before the advent of Napoleon there are no big successful sweeping invasions, no marches upon the enemy capital and so on. There were wars of reduction, wars of annoyance. Napoleon developed the offensive by seizing upon the enthusiastic infantry of the republic, improving transport and mobile artillery, using road-making as an aggressive method. In spite of the successful experiment of Torres Vedras and the warning of Plevna the offensive remained dominant throughout the nineteenth century.
But three things were working quietly towards the rehabilitation of the defensive; firstly the increased range, accuracy and rapidity of rifle fire, with which we may include the development of the machine gun; secondly the increasing use of the spade, and thirdly the invention of barbed wire. By the end of the century these things had come so far into military theory as to produce the great essay of Bloch, and to surprise the British military people, who are not accustomed to read books or talk shop, in the Boer war. In the thinly populated war region of South Africa the difficulties of forcing entrenched positions were largely met by outflanking, the Boers had only a limited amount of barbed wire and could be held down in their trenches by shrapnel, and even at the beginning of the present war there can be little doubt that we and our Allies were still largely unprepared for the full possibilities of trench warfare, we attempted a war of manoeuvres, war at about the grade to which war had been brought in 1898, and it was the Germans who first brought the war up to date by entrenching upon the Aisne. We had, of course, a few aeroplanes at that time, but they were used chiefly as a sort of accessory cavalry for scouting; our artillery was light and our shell almost wholly shrapnel.
Now the grades of warfare that have been developed since the present war began, may be regarded as a series of elaborations and counter elaborations of the problem which begins as a line of trenches behind wire, containing infantry with rifles and machine guns. Against this an infantry attack with bayonet, after shrapnel fails. This we will call Grade A. To this the offensive replies with improved artillery, and particularly with high explosive shell instead of shrapnel. By this the wire is blown away, the trench wrecked and the defender held down as the attack charges up. This is Grade B. But now appear the dug-out elaborating the trench and the defensive battery behind the trench. The defenders, under the preliminary bombardment, get into the dug-outs with their rifles and machine guns, and emerge as fresh as paint as the attack comes up. Obviously there is much scope for invention and contrivance in the dug-out as the reservoir of counter attacks. Its possibilities have been very ably exploited by the Germans. Also the defensive batteries behind, which have of course the exact range of the captured trench, concentrate on it and destroy the attack at the moment of victory. The trench falls back to its former holders under this fire and a counter attack. Check again for the offensive. Even if it can take, it cannot hold a position under these conditions. This we will call Grade A2; a revised and improved A. What is the retort from the opposite side? Obviously to enhance and extend the range of the preliminary bombardment behind the actual trench line, to destroy or block, if it can, the dug-outs and destroy or silence the counter offensive artillery. If it can do that, it can go on; otherwise Bloch wins.
If fighting went on only at ground level Bloch would win at
this stage, but here it is that the aeroplane comes in. From the ground it
would be practically impossible to locate the enemies' dug-outs, secondary
defences, and batteries. But the aeroplane takes us immediately into a new
grade of warfare, in which the location of the defender's secondary trenches,
guns, and even machine-gun positions becomes a matter of extreme
precision—provided only that the offensive has secured command of the air and
can send his aeroplanes freely over the defender lines. Then the preliminary
bombardment becomes of a much more extensive character; the defender's
batteries are tackled by the overpowering fire of guns they are unable to
locate and answer; the secondary dug-outs and strong places are plastered down,
a barrage fire shuts off support from the doomed trenches, the men in these
trenches are held down by a concentrated artillery fire and the attack goes up
at last to hunt them out of the dug-outs and collect the survivors. Until the
attack is comfortably established in the captured trench, the fire upon the old
counter attack position goes on. This is the grade, Grade B2, to which modern
warfare has attained upon the
There is, I believe, only one grade higher possible. The
success of B2 depends upon the completeness of the aerial observation. The
invention of an anti-aircraft gun which would be practically sure of hitting
and bringing down an aeroplane at any height whatever up to 20,000 feet, would
restore the defensive and establish what I should think must be the final grade
of war, A3. But at present nothing of the sort exists and nothing of the sort
is likely to exist for a very long time; at present hitting an aeroplane by any
sort of gun at all is a rare and uncertain achievement. Such a gun is not
impossible and therefore we must suppose such a gun will some day be
constructed, but it will be of a novel type and character, unlike anything at
present in existence. The grade of fighting that I was privileged to witness on
But now having thus spread out the broad theory of the business, let me go on to tell some of the actualities of
The first phase, then, of the highest grade offensive, the ultimate development of war regardless of expense, is the clearance of the air. Such German machines as are up are put down by fighting aviators. These last fly high; in the clear blue of the early morning they look exactly like gnats; some trail a little smoke in the sunshine; they take their machine guns in pursuit over the German lines, and the German anti-aircraft guns, the Archibalds, begin to pattern the sky about them with little balls of black smoke. From below one does not see men nor feel that men are there; it is as if it were an affair of midges. Close after the fighting machines come the photographic aeroplanes, with cameras as long as a man is high, flying low—at four or five thousand feet that is—over the enemy trenches. The Archibald leaves these latter alone; it cannot fire a shell to explode safely so soon after firing; but they are shot at with rifles and machine guns. They do not mind being shot at; only the petrol tank and the head and thorax of the pilot are to be considered vital. They will come back with forty or fifty bullet holes in the fabric. They will go under this fire along the length of the German positions exposing plate after plate; one machine will get a continuous panorama of many miles and then come back straight to the aerodrome to develop its plates.
There is no waste of time about the business, the photographs are developed as rapidly as possible. Within an hour and a half after the photographs were taken the first prints are going back into the bureau for the examination of the photographs. Both British and French air photographs are thoroughly scrutinised and marked.
An air photograph to an inexperienced eye is not a very illuminating thing; one makes our roads, blurs of wood, and rather vague buildings. But the examiner has an eye that has been in training; he is a picked man; he has at hand yesterday's photographs and last week's photographs, marked maps and all sorts of aids and records. If he is a Frenchman he is only too happy to explain his ideas and methods. Here, he will point out, is a little difference between the German trench beyond the wood since yesterday. For a number of reasons he thinks that will be a new machine gun emplacement; here at the centre of the farm wall they have been making another. This battery here—isn't it plain? Well, it's a dummy. The grass in front of it hasn't been scorched, and there's been no serious wear on the road here for a week. Presently the Germans will send one or two waggons up and down that road and instruct them to make figures of eight to imitate scorching on the grass in front of the gun. We know all about that. The real wear on the road, compare this and this and this, ends here at this spot. It turns off into the wood. There's a sort of track in the trees. Now look where the trees are just a little displaced! (This lens is rather better for that.) That's one gun. You see? Here, I will show you another....
That process goes on two or three miles behind the front
line. Very clean young men in white overalls do it as if it were a labour of
love. And the Germans in the trenches, the German gunners, know it is going on.
They know that in the quickest possible way these observations of the aeroplane
that was over them just now will go to the gunners. The careful gunner, firing
by the map and marking by aeroplane, kite balloon or direct observation, will
be getting onto the located guns and machine guns in another couple of hours.
The French claim that they have located new batteries, got their tir de
demolition upon them in and destroyed them within five hours. The British I
told of that found it incredible. Every day the French print special maps
showing the guns, sham guns, trenches, everything of significance behind the
German lines, showing everything that has happened in the last four-and-twenty
hours. It is pitiless. It is indecent. The map-making
and printing goes on in the room next and most convenient to the examination of
the photographs. And, as I say, the German army knows of this, and knows that
it cannot prevent it because of its aerial weakness. That knowledge is not the
last among the forces that is crumpling up the German resistance upon the
I visited some French guns during the tir de demolition phase. I counted nine aeroplanes and twenty-six kite balloons in the air at the same time. There was nothing German visible in the air at all.
It is a case of eyes and no eyes.
The French attack resolves itself into a triple system of gunfire. First for a day or so, or two or three days, there is demolition fire to smash up all the exactly located batteries, organisation, supports, behind the front line enemy trenches; then comes barrage fire to cut off supplies and reinforcements; then, before the advance, the hammering down fire, "heads down," upon the trenches. When at last this stops and the infantry goes forward to rout out the trenches and the dug-outs, they go forward with a minimum of inconvenience. The first wave of attack fights, destroys, or disarms the surviving Germans and sends them back across the open to the French trenches. They run as fast as they can, hands up, and are shepherded farther back. The French set to work to turn over the captured trenches and organise themselves against any counter attack that may face the barrage fire.
That is the formula of the present fighting, which the French have developed. After an advance there is a pause, while the guns move up nearer the Germans and fresh aeroplane reconnaissance goes on. Nowhere on this present offensive has a German counter attack had more than the most incidental success; and commonly they have had frightful losses. Then after a few days of refreshment and accumulation, the Allied attack resumes.
That is the perfected method of the French offensive. I had the pleasure of learning its broad outlines in good company, in the company of M. Joseph Reinach and Colonel Carence, the military writer. Their talk together and with me in the various messes at which we lunched was for the most part a keen discussion of every detail and every possibility of the offensive machine; every French officer's mess seems a little council upon the one supreme question in France, how to do it best. M. Reinach has made certain suggestions about the co-operation of the French and British that I will discuss elsewhere, but one great theme was the constitution of "the ideal battery." For years French military thought has been acutely attentive to the best number of guns for effective common action, and has tended rather to the small battery theory. My two companies were playing with the idea that the ideal battery was a battery of one big gun, with its own aeroplane and kite balloon marking for it.
The British seem to be associated with the adventurous self-reliance needed in the air. The British aeroplanes do not simply fight the Germans out of the sky; they also make themselves an abominable nuisance by bombing the enemy trenches. For every German bomb that is dropped by aeroplane on or behind the British lines, about twenty go down on the heads of the Germans. British air bombs upon guns, stores and communications do some of the work that the French effect by their systematic demolition fire.
And the British aviator has discovered and is rapidly
developing an altogether fresh branch of air activity in the machine-gun attack
at a very low altitude. Originally I believe this was tried in western
Now a cavalry pursuit alone may easily come upon disaster, cavalry can be so easily held up by wire and a few machine guns. I think the Germans have reckoned on that and on automobiles, probably only the decay of their morale prevents their opening their lines now on the chance of the British attempting some such folly as a big cavalry advance, but I do not think the Germans have reckoned on the use of machine guns in aeroplanes, supported by and supporting cavalry or automobiles. At the present time I should imagine there is no more perplexing consideration amidst the many perplexities of the German military intelligence than the new complexion put upon pursuit by these low level air developments. It may mean that in all sorts of positions where they had counted confidently on getting away, they may not be able to get away—from the face of a scientific advance properly commanding and using modern material in a dexterous and intelligent manner.
I saw rather more of the British than of the French aviators
because of the vileness of the weather when I visited the latter. It is quite
impossible for me to institute comparisons between these two services. I should
think that the British organisation I saw would be hard to beat, and that none
but the French could hope to beat it. On the Western front the aviation has
been screwed up to a very much higher level than on the Italian line. In
This is true in spite of the fact that the Italians along of all the western powers have adopted a type of aeroplane larger and much more powerful than anything except the big Russian machines. They are not at all suitable for any present purpose upon the Italian front, but at a later stage, when the German is retiring and Archibald no longer searches the air, they would be invaluable on the western front because of their enormous bomb or machine gun carrying capacity. "But sufficient for the day is the swat thereof," as the British public schoolboy says, and no doubt we shall get them when we have sufficiently felt the need for them. The big Caproni machines which the Italians possess are of 300 h.p. and will presently be of 500 h.p. One gets up a gangway into them was one gets into a yacht; they wave a main deck, a forward machine gun deck and an aft machine gun; one may walk about in them; in addition to guns and men they carry a very considerable weight of bombs beneath. They cannot of course beget up with the speed nor soar to the height of our smaller aeroplanes; it is as carriers in raids behind a force of fighting machines that they should find their use.
The British establishment I visited was a very refreshing
and reassuring piece of practical organisation. The air force of
I have already mentioned and the newspapers have told abundantly of the pluck, daring, and admirable work of our aviators; what is still untellable in any detail is the energy and ability of the constructive and repairing branch upon whose efficiency their feats depend. Perhaps the most interesting thing I saw in connection with the air work was the hospital for damaged machines and the dump to which those hopelessly injured are taken, in order that they may be disarticulated and all that is sound in them used for reconstruction. How excellently this work is being done may be judged from the fact that our offensive in July started with a certain number of aeroplanes, a number that would have seemed fantastic in a story a year before the war began. These aeroplanes were in constant action; they fought, they were shot down, they had their share of accidents. Not only did the repair department make good every loss, but after three weeks of the offensive the army was fighting with fifty more machines than at the outset. One goes through a vast Rembrandtesque shed opening upon a great sunny field, in whose cool shadows rest a number of interesting patients; captured and slightly damaged German machines, machines of our own with scars of battle upon them, one or two cases of bad landing. The star case came over from Peronne. It had come in two days ago.
I examined this machine and I will tell the state it was in, but I perceive that what I have to tell will read not like a sober statement of truth but like strained and silly lying. The machine had had a direct hit from an Archibald shell. The propeller had been clean blown away; so had the machine gun and all its fittings. The engines had been stripped naked and a good deal bent about. The timber stay over the aviator had been broken, so that it is marvellous the wings of the machine did not just up at once like the wings of a butterfly. The solitary aviator had been wounded in the face. He had then come down in a long glide into the British lines, and made a tolerable landing....
One consequence of the growing importance of the aeroplane in warfare is the development of a new military art, the art of camouflage. Camouflage is humbugging disguise, it is making things—and especially in this connection, military things—seem not what they are, but something peaceful and rural, something harmless and quite uninteresting to aeroplane observers. It is the art of making big guns look like haystacks and tents like level patches of field.
Also it includes the art of making attractive models of
guns, camps, trenches and the like that are not bona-fide guns, camps, or
trenches at all, so that the aeroplane bomb-dropper and the aeroplane observer
may waste his time and energies and the enemy gunfire be misdirected. In
But camouflage or no camouflage, the bulk of both the French and British forces in the new won ground of the great offensive lay necessarily in the open. Only the big guns and the advanced Red Cross stations had got into pits and subterranean hiding places. The advance has been too rapid and continuous for the armies to make much of a toilette as they halted, and the destruction and the desolation of the country won afforded few facilities for easy concealment. Tents, transport, munitions, these all indicated an army on the march—at the rate of half a mile in a week or so, to Germany. If the wet and mud of November and December have for a time delayed that advance, the force behind has but accumulated for the resumption of the thrust.
A journey up from the base to the front trenches shows an
interesting series of phases. One leaves Amiens, in which the normal life
threads its way through crowds of resting men in khaki and horizon blue, in
which staff officers in automobiles whisk hither and thither, in which there
are nurses and even a few inexplicable ladies in worldly costume, in which
restaurants and cafes are congested and busy, through which there is a
perpetual coming and going of processions of heavy vans to the railway sidings.
One dodges past a monstrous blue-black gun going up to the British front behind
two resolute traction engines—the three sun-blistered young men in the cart that
trails behind lounge in attitudes of haughty pride that would shame the ceiling
It betrays no military secret to say that commonly the rare tourist to the British offensive passes through Albert, with its great modern red cathedral smashed to pieces and the great gilt Madonna and Child that once surmounted the tower now, as everyone knows, hanging out horizontally in an attitude that irresistibly suggests an imminent dive upon the passing traveller. One looks right up under it.
Presently we begin to see German prisoners. The whole lot look entirely contented, and are guarded by perhaps a couple of men in khaki. These German prisoners do not attempt to escape, they have not the slightest desire for any more fighting, they have done their bit, they say, honour is satisfied; they give remarkably little trouble. A little way further on perhaps we pass their cage, a double barbed-wire enclosure with a few tents and huts within.
A string of covered waggons passes by. I turn and see a
number of men sitting inside and looking almost as cheerful as a beanfeast in
These are part of the casualties of last night's fight.
The fields on either side are now more evidently in the war zone. The array of carts, the patches of tents, the coming and going of men increases. But here are three women harvesting, and presently in a cornfield are German prisoners working under one old Frenchman. Then the fields become trampled again. Here is a village, not so very much knocked about, and passing through it we go slowly beside a long column of men going up to the front. We scan their collars for signs of some familiar regiment. These are new men going up for the first time; there is a sort of solemn elation in many of their faces.
The men coming down are usually smothered in mud or dust, and unless there has been a fight they look pretty well done up. They stoop under their equipment, and some of the youngsters drag. One pleasant thing about this coming down is the welcome of the regimental band, which is usually at work as soon as the men turn off from the high road. I hear several bands on the British front; they do much to enhance the general cheerfulness. On one of these days of my tour I had the pleasure of seeing the —-th Blankshires coming down after a fight. As we drew near I saw that they combined an extreme muddiness with an unusual elasticity. They all seemed to be looking us in the face instead of being too fagged to bother. Then I noticed a nice grey helmet dangling from one youngster's bayonet, in fact his eye directed me to it. A man behind him had a black German helmet of the type best known in English illustrations; then two more grey appeared. The catch of helmets was indeed quite considerable. Then I perceived on the road bank above and marching parallel with this column, a double file of still muddier Germans. Either they wore caps or went bare-headed. There were no helmets among them. We do not rob our prisoners but—a helmet is a weapon. Anyhow, it is an irresistible souvenir.
Now and then one sees afar off an ammunition dump, many
hundreds of stacks of shells—without their detonators as yet—being unloaded
from railway trucks, transferred from the broad gauge to the narrow gauge line,
or loaded onto motor trolleys. Now and then one crosses a railway line. The
railway lines run everywhere behind the British front, the construction follows
the advance day by day. They go up as fast as the guns. One's
guide remarks as the car bumps over the level crossing, "That is one of
Haig's railways." It is an aspect of the Commander-in-Chief that
has much impressed and pleased the men. And at last we begin to enter the
region of the former Allied trenches, we pass the old German front line, we
pass ruined houses, ruined fields, and thick patches of clustering wooden
crosses and boards where the dead of the opening assaults lie. There are no
more reapers now, there is no more green upon the fields, there is no green
anywhere, scarcely a tree survives by the roadside, but only overthrown trunks
and splintered stumps; the fields are wildernesses of shell craters and coarse
weeds, the very woods are collections of blasted stems and stripped branches.
This absolutely ravaged and ruined battlefield country extends now along the
front of the
Then one sees an enemy shell drop among the little patch of trees on the crest to the right, and kick up a great red-black mass of smoke and dust. We see it, and then we hear the whine of its arrival and at last the bang. The Germans are blind now, they have lost the air, they are firing by guesswork and their knowledge of the abandoned territory.
"They think they have got divisional headquarters there," someone remarks.... "They haven't. But they keep on."
In this zone where shells burst the wise automobile stops and tucks itself away as inconspicuously as possible close up to a heap of ruins. There is very little traffic on the road now except for a van or so that hurries up, unloads, and gets back as soon as possible. Mules and men are taking the stuff the rest of the journey. We are in a flattened village, all undermined by dug-outs that were in the original German second line. We report ourselves to a young troglodyte in one of these, and are given a guide, and so set out on the last part of the journey to the ultimate point, across the land of shell craters and barbed wire litter and old and new trenches. We have all put on British steel helmets, hard but heavy and inelegant head coverings. I can write little that is printable about these aesthetic crimes. The French and German helmets are noble and beautiful things. These lumpish pans...
They ought to be called by the name of the man who designed them.
Presently we are advised to get into a communication trench. It is not a very attractive communication trench, and we stick to our track across the open. Three or four shells shiver overhead, but we decide they are British shells, going out. We reach a supporting trench in which men are waiting in a state of nearly insupportable boredom for the midday stew, the one event of interest in a day-long vigil. Here we are told imperatively to come right in at once, and we do.
All communication trenches are tortuous and practically endless. On an offensive front they have vertical sides of unsupported earth and occasional soakaways for rain, covered by wooden gratings, and they go on and on and on. At rare intervals they branch, and a notice board says "To Regent Street," or "To Oxford Street," or some such lie. It is all just trench. For a time you talk, but talking in single file soon palls. You cease to talk, and trudge. A great number of telephone wires come into the trench and cross and recross it. You cannot keep clear of them. Your helmet pings against them and they try to remove it. Sometimes you have to stop and crawl under wires. Then you wonder what the trench is like in really wet weather. You hear a shell burst at no great distance. You pass two pages of The Strand Magazine. Perhaps thirty yards on you pass a cigarette end. After these sensational incidents the trench quiets down again and continues to wind endlessly—just a sandy, extremely narrow vertical walled trench. A giant crack.
At last you reach the front line trench. On an offensive
sector it has none of the architectural interest of first line trenches at such
The Germans "strafed" this trench overnight, and the men are tired and sleepy. Our guns away
behind us are doing their best now to give them a rest by strafing the Germans.
One or two men are in each forward sap keeping a look out; the rest sleep, a
motionless sleep, in the earthy shelter pits that have been scooped out. One
officer sits by a telephone under an earth-covered tarpaulin, and a weary man
is doing the toilet of a machine gun. We go on to a shallow trench in which we must
stoop, and which has been badly knocked about.... Here we have to stop. The
My companion on this excursion is a man I have admired for years and never met until I came out to see the war, a fellow writer. He is a journalist let loose. Two-thirds of the junior British officers I met on this journey were really not "army men" at all. One finds that the apparent subaltern is really a musician, or a musical critic, or an Egyptologist, or a solicitor, or a cloth manufacturer, or a writer. At the outbreak of the war my guide dyed his hair to conceal its tell-tale silver, and having been laughed to scorn by the ordinary recruiting people, enlisted in the sportsmen's battalion. He was wounded, and then the authorities discovered that he was likely to be of more use with a commission and drew him, in spite of considerable resistance, out of the firing line. To which he always returns whenever he can get a visitor to take with him as an excuse. He now stood up, fairly high and clear, explaining casually that the Germans were no longer firing, and showed me the points of interest.
I had come right up to No Man's Land at last. It was under my chin. The skyline, the last skyline before the British could look down on Bapaume, showed a mangy wood and a ruined village, crouching under repeated gobbings of British shrapnel. "They've got a battery just there, and we're making it uncomfortable." No Man's Land itself is a weedy space broken up by shell craters, with very little barbed wire in front of us and very little in front of the Germans. "They've got snipers in most of the craters, and you see them at twilight hopping about from one to the other." We have very little wire because we don't mean to stay for very long in this trench, but the Germans have very little wire because they have not been able to get it up yet. They never will get it up now....
I had been led to believe that No Man's Land was littered with the unburied dead, but I saw nothing of the sort at this place. There had been no German counter attack since our men came up here. But at one point as we went along the trench there was a dull stench. "Germans, I think," said my guide, though I did not see how he could tell.
He looked at his watch and remarked reluctantly, "If you start at once, you may just do it."
I wanted to catch the
That night I was in my flat in
Such are the landscapes and method of modern war. It is more difficult in its nature from war as it was waged in the nineteenth century than that was from the nature of the phalanx or the legion. The nucleus fact—when I talked to General Joffre he was very insistent upon this point—is still as ever the ordinary fighting man, but all the accessories and conditions of his personal encounter with the fighting man of the other side have been revolutionised in a quarter of a century. The fighting together in a close disciplined order, shoulder to shoulder, which has held good for thousands of years as the best and most successful fighting, has been destroyed; the idea of breaking infantry formation as the chief offensive operation has disappeared, the cavalry charge and the cavalry pursuit are as obsolete as the cross-bow. The modern fighting man is as individualised as a half back or a centre forward in a football team. Personal fighting has become "scrapping" again, an individual adventure with knife, club, bomb, revolver or bayonet. In this war we are working out things instead of thinking them out, and these enormous changes are still but imperfectly apprehended. The trained and specialised military man probably apprehends them as feebly as anyone.
This is a thing that I want to state as emphatically as possible. It is the pith of the lesson I have learnt at the front. The whole method of war has been so altered in the past five and twenty years as to make it a new and different process altogether. Much the larger part of this alteration has only become effective in the last two years. Everyone is a beginner at this new game; everyone is experimenting and learning.
The idea has been put admirably by Punch. That excellent picture of the old-fashioned sergeant who complains to his officer of the new recruit; "'E's all right in the trenches, Sir; 'e's all right at a scrap; but 'e won't never make a soldier," is the quintessence of everything I am saying here. And were there not the very gravest doubts about General Smuts in British military circles because he had "had no military training"? A Canadian expressed the new view very neatly on being asked, in consequence of a deficient salute, whether he wanted to be a soldier, by saying, "Not I! I want to be a fighter!"
The professional officer of the old dispensation was a man specialised in relation to one of the established "arms." He was an infantryman, a cavalryman, a gunner or an engineer. It will be interesting to trace the changes that have happened to all these arms.
Before this war began speculative writers had argued that infantry drill in close formation had now no fighting value whatever, that it was no doubt extremely necessary for the handling, packing, forwarding and distribution of men, but that the ideal infantry fighter was now a highly individualised and self-reliant man put into a pit with a machine gun, and supported by a string of other men bringing him up supplies and ready to assist him in any forward rush that might be necessary.
The opening phases of the war seemed to contradict this. It did not at first suit the German game to fight on this most modern theory, and isolated individual action is uncongenial to the ordinary German temperament and opposed to the organised social tendencies of German life. To this day the Germans attack only in close order; they are unable to produce a real modern infantry for aggressive purposes, and it is a matter of astonishment to military minds on the English side that our hastily trained new armies should turn out to be just as good at the new fighting as the most "seasoned troops." But there is no reason whatever why they should not be. "Leading," in the sense of going ahead of the men and making them move about mechanically at the word of command, has ceased. On the British side our magnificent new subalterns and our equally magnificent new non-commissioned officers play the part of captains of football teams; they talk their men individually into an understanding of the job before them; they criticise style and performance. On the French side things have gone even farther. Every man in certain attacks has been given a large scale map of the ground over which he has to go, and has had his own individual job clearly marked and explained to him. All the Allied infantrymen tend to become specialised, as bombers, as machine-gun men, and so on. The unspecialised common soldier, the infantryman who has stood and marched and moved in ranks and ranks, the "serried lines of men," who are the main substance of every battle story for the last three thousand years, are as obsolete as the dodo. The rifle and bayonet very probably are becoming obsolete too. Knives and clubs and revolvers serve better in the trenches. The krees and the Roman sword would be as useful. The fine flourish of the bayonet is only possible in the rare infrequent open. Even the Zulu assegai would serve as well.
The two operations of the infantry attack now are the rush and the "scrap." These come after the artillery preparation. Against the rush, the machine gun is pitted. The machine gun becomes lighter and more and more controllable by one man; as it does so the days of the rifle draw to a close. Against the machine gun we are now directing the "Tank," which goes ahead and puts out the machine gun as soon as it begins to sting the infantry rush. We are also using the swooping aeroplane with a machine gun. Both these devices are of British origin, and they promise very well.
After the rush and the scrap comes the organisation of the captured trench. "Digging in" completes the cycle of modern infantry fighting. You may consider this the first or the last phase of an infantry operation. It is probably at present the least worked-out part of the entire cycle. Here lies the sole German superiority; they bunch and crowd in the rush, they are inferior at the scrap, but they do dig like moles. The weakness of the British is their failure to settle down. They like the rush and the scrap; they press on too far, they get outflanked and lost "in the blue"; they are not naturally clever at the excavating part of the work, and they are not as yet well trained in making dug-outs and shelter-pits rapidly and intelligently. They display most of the faults that were supposed to be most distinctively French before this war came to revolutionise all our conceptions of French character.
Now the operations of this modern infantry, which unlike any preceding infantry in the history of war does not fight in disciplined formations but as highly individualised specialists, are determined almost completely by the artillery preparation. Artillery is now the most essential instrument of war. You may still get along with rather bad infantry; you may still hold out even after the loss of the aerial ascendancy, but so soon as your guns fail you approach defeat. The backbone process of the whole art of war is the manufacture in overwhelming quantities, the carriage and delivery of shell upon the vulnerable points of the enemy's positions. That is, so to speak, the essential blow. Even the infantryman is now hardly more than the residuary legatee after the guns have taken their toll.
I have now followed nearly every phase in the life history
of a shell from the moment when it is a segment of steel bar just cut off, to
the moment when it is no more than a few dispersed and rusting rags and
fragments of steel—pressed upon the stray visitor to the battlefield as
souvenirs. All good factories are intensely interesting places to visit, but a
good munition factory is romantically satisfactory. It is as nearly free from
the antagonism of employer and employed as any factory can be. The busy sheds I
It would be very interesting if one could arrange a meeting
between any typical Allied munition maker on the one hand, and the Kaiser and
Hindenburg, those two dominant effigies of the German nationalists' dream of
"world might." Or failing that, Mr. Dyson might draw the encounter.
You imagine these two heroic figures got up for the interview, very magnificent
in shining helms and flowing cloaks, decorations, splendid swords, spurs.
"Here," one would say, "is the power that has held you. You were
bolstered up very loyally by the Krupp firm and so forth, you piled up shell,
guns, war material, you hoped to snatch your victory before the
industrialisation and invention of the world could turn upon you. But you
failed. You were not rapid enough. The battle of the
For example, there is M. Citroen. Before the war I understand he made automobiles; after the war he wants to turn to and make automobiles again. For the duration of the war he makes shell. He has been temporarily diverted from constructive to destructive industrialism. He did me the honours of his factory. He is a compact, active man in dark clothes and a bowler hat, with a pencil and notebook conveniently at hand. He talked to me in carefully easy French, and watched my face with an intelligent eye through his pince-nez for the signs of comprehension. Then he went on to the next point.
He took me through every stage of his process. In his office he showed me the general story. Here were photographs of certain vacant fields and old sheds—"this place"—he indicated the altered prospect from the window—"at the outbreak of the war." He showed me a plan of the first undertaking. "Now we have rather over nine thousand workpeople."
He showed me a little row of specimens. "These we make
Thence to the first stage, the chopping up of the iron bars, the furnace, the punching out of the first shape of the shell; all this is men's work. I had seen this sort of thing before in peace ironworks, but I saw it again with the same astonishment, the absolute precision of movement on the part of the half-naked sweating men, the calculated efficiency of each worker, the apparent heedlessness, the real certitude, with which the blazing hot cylinder is put here, dropped there, rolls to its next appointed spot, is chopped up and handed on, the swift passage to the cooling crude, pinkish-purple shell shape. Down a long line one sees in perspective a practical symmetry, of furnace and machine group and the shells marching on from this first series of phases to undergo the long succession of operations, machine after machine, across the great width of the shed in which eighty per cent of the workers are women. There is a thick dust of sounds in the air, a rumble of shafting, sudden thuddings, clankings, and M. Citroen has to raise his voice. He points out where he has made little changes in procedures, cut out some wasteful movement.... He has an idea and makes a note in the ever-ready notebook.
There is a beauty about all these women, there is extraordinary grace in their finely adjusted movements. I have come from an after-lunch coffee upon the boulevards and from watching the ugly fashion of our time; it is a relief to be reminded that most women can after all be beautiful—if only they would not "dress." these women wear simple overalls and caps. In the cap is a rosette. Each shed has its own colour of rosette.
"There is much esprit de corps here," says M. Citroen.
"And also," he adds, showing obverse as well as reverse of the world's problem of employment and discipline, "we can see at once if a woman is not in her proper shed."
Across the great sheds under the shafting—how fine it must look at night!—the shells march, are shaped, cut, fitted with copper bands, calibrated, polished, varnished....
Then we go on to another system of machines in which lead is reduced to plastic ribbons and cut into shrapnel bullets as the sweetstuff makers pull out and cut up sweetstuff. And thence into a warren of hot underground passages in which run the power cables. There is not a cable in the place that is not immediately accessible to the electricians. We visit the dynamos and a vast organisation of switchboards....
These things are more familiar to M. Citroen than they are to me. He wants me to understand, but he does not realise that I would like a little leisure to wonder. What is interesting him just now, because it is the newest thing, is his method of paying his workers. He lifts a hand gravely: "I said, what we must do is abolish altogether the counting of change."
At a certain hour, he explained, came pay-time. The people had done; it was to his interest and their that they should get out of the works as quickly as possible and rest and amuse themselves. He watched them standing in queues at the wickets while inside someone counted; so many francs, so many centimes. It bored him to see this useless, tiresome waiting. It is abolished. Now at the end of each week the worker goes to a window under the initial of his name, and is handed a card on which these items have been entered:
Balance from last week. So many hours at so much. Premiums.
The total is so many francs, so many centimes. This is divided into the nearest round number, 100, 120, 80 francs as the case may be, and a balance of the odd francs and centimes. The latter is carried forward to the next week's account. At the bottom of the card is a tear-off coupon with a stamp, coloured to indicate the round sum, green, let us say, for 100, blue for 130 francs. This is taken to a wicket marked 100 or 130 as the case may be, and there stands a cashier with his money in piles of 100 or 130 francs counted ready to hand; he sweeps in the coupon, sweeps out the cash. "Next!"
I became interested in the worker's side of this organisation. I insist on seeing the entrances, the clothes-changing places, the lavatories, and so forth of the organisation. As we go about we pass a string of electric trolleys steered by important-looking girls, and loaded with shell, finished as far as these works are concerned and on their way to the railway siding. We visit the hospital, for these works demand a medical staff. It is not only that men and women faint or fall ill, but there are accidents, burns, crushings, and the like. The war casualties begin already here, and they fall chiefly among the women. I saw a wounded woman with a bandaged face sitting very quietly in the corner.
The women here face danger, perhaps not quite such obvious danger as the women who, at the next stage in the shell's career, make and pack the explosives in their silk casing, but quite considerable risk. And they work with a real enthusiasm. They know they are fighting the Bloches as well as any men. Certain of them wear Russian decorations. The women of this particular factory have been thanked by the Tsar, and a number of decorations were sent by him for distribution among them.
The shell factory and the explosives shed stand level with the drill yard as the real first stage in one of the two essential punches in modern war. When one meets the shell again it is being unloaded from the railway truck into an ammunition dump. And here the work of control is much more the work of a good traffic manager than of the old-fashioned soldier.
The dump I best remember I visited on a wet and windy day.
Over a great space of ground the sidings of the rail-head spread, the normal
gauge rail-head spread out like a fan and interdigitated with the narrow gauge
lines that go up practically to the guns. And also at the sides camions were
loading, and an officer from the
And next the visitor meets the shell coming up upon a little trolley to the gun. He sees the gunners, as drilled and precise as the men he saw at the forges, swing out the breech block and run the shell, which has met and combined with its detonators and various other industrial products since it left the main dump, into the gun. The breech closes like a safe door, and hides the shell from the visitor. It is "good-bye." He receives exaggerated warning of the danger to his ears, stuffs his fingers into them, and opens his mouth as instructed, hears a loud but by no means deafening report, and sees a spit of flame near the breech. Regulations of a severe character prevent his watching from an aeroplane the delivery of the goods upon the customers opposite.
I have already described the method of locating enemy guns and so forth by photography. Many of the men at this work are like dentists rather than soldiers; they are busy in carefully lit rooms, they wear white overalls, they have clean hands and laboratory manners. The only really romantic figure in the whole of this process, the only figure that has anything of the old soldierly swagger about him still, is the aviator. And, as one friend remarked to me when I visited the work of the British flying corps, "The real essential strength of this arm is the organisation of its repairs. Here is one of the repair vans through which our machine guns go. It is a motor workshop on wheels. But at any time all this park, everything, can pack up and move forward like Barnum and Bailey's Circus. The machine guns come through this shop in rotation; they go out again, cleaned, repaired, made new again. Since we got all that working we have heard nothing of a machine gun jamming in any air fight at all."...
The rest of the career of the shell after it has left the gun one must imagine chiefly from the incoming shell from the enemy. You see suddenly a flying up of earth and stones and anything else that is movable in the neighbourhood of the shell-burst, the instantaneous unfolding of a dark cloud of dust and reddish smoke, which comes very quickly to a certain size and then begins slowly to fray out and blow away. Then, after seeing the cloud of the burst you hear the hiss of the shell's approach, and finally you are hit by the sound of the explosion. This is the climax and end of the life history of any shell that is not a dud shell. Afterwards the battered fuse may serve as some journalist's paper-weight. The rest is scrap iron.
Such is, so to speak, the primary process of modern warfare.
I will not draw the obvious pacifist moral of the intense folly of human
concentration upon such a process. The Germans willed it. We Allies have but
obeyed the German will for warfare because we could not do otherwise, we have
taken up this simple game of shell delivery, and we are teaching them that we
can play it better, in the hope that so we and the world may be freed from the
German will-to-power and all its humiliating and disgusting consequences
henceforth for ever.
Now the whole of this process of the making and delivery of
a shell, which is the main process of modern warfare, is one that can be far
better conducted by a man accustomed to industrial organisation or transit work
than by the old type of soldier. This is a thing that cannot be too plainly
stated or too often repeated.
We have discovered that the modern economic organisation is
in itself a fighting machine. It is so much so that it is capable of taking on
and defeating quite easily any merely warrior people that is so rash as to pit
itself against it. Within the last sixteen years methods of fighting have been
elaborated that have made war an absolutely hopeless adventure for any barbaric
or non-industrialised people. In the rush of larger events few people have
realised the significance of the rapid squashing of the Senussi in western
Occasionally into the writer's study there come to hand drifting fragments of the American literature upon the question of "preparedness," and American papers discussing the Mexican situation. In none of these is there evident any clear realisation of the fundamental revolution that has occurred in military methods during the last two years. It looks as if a Mexican war, for example, was thought of as an affair of rather imperfectly trained young men with rifles and horses and old-fashioned things like that. A Mexican war on that level might be as tedious as the South African war. But if the United States preferred to go into Mexican affairs with what I may perhaps call a 1916 autumn outfit instead of the small 1900 outfit she seems to possess at present, there is no reason why America should not clear up any and every Mexican guerilla force she wanted to in a few weeks.
To do that she would need a plant of a few hundred
aeroplanes, for the most part armed with machine guns, and the motor repair
vans and so forth needed to go with the aeroplanes; she would need a
comparatively small army of infantry armed with machine guns, with motor
transport, and a few small land ironclads. Such a force could locate, overtake,
destroy and disperse any possible force that a country in the present
industrial condition of
The practical political consequence of the present
development of warfare, of the complete revolution in the conditions of warfare
since this century began, is to make war absolutely hopeless for any peoples
not able either to manufacture or procure the very complicated appliances and
munitions now needed for its prosecution. Countries like
Infantrymen with automobile transport, plentiful machine guns, Tanks and such-like accessories; that is the first Arm in modern war. The factory hand and all the material of the shell route from the factory to the gun constitute the second Arm. Thirdly comes the artillery, the guns and the photographic aeroplanes working with the guns. Next I suppose we must count sappers and miners as a fourth Arm of greatly increased importance. The fifth and last combatant Arm is the modern substitute for cavalry; and that also is essentially a force of aeroplanes supported by automobiles. Several of the French leaders with whom I talked seemed to be convinced that the horse is absolutely done with in modern warfare. There is nothing, they declared, that cavalry ever did that cannot now be done better by aeroplane.
This is something to break the hearts of the Prussian
junkers and of old-fashioned British army people. The hunt across the English
countryside, the preservation of the fox as a sacred animal, the race meeting,
the stimulation of betting in all classes of the public; all these things
depend ultimately upon the proposition that the "breed of horses" is
of vital importance to the military strength of Great Britain. But if the
arguments of these able French soldiers are sound, the cult of the horse ceases
to be of any more value to
To what possible use can cavalry be put? Can it be used in attack? Not against trenches; that is better done by infantrymen following up gunfire. Can it be used against broken infantry in the open? Not if the enemy has one or two machine guns covering their retreat. Against expose infantry the swooping aeroplane with a machine gun is far more deadly and more difficult to hit. Behind it your infantry can follow to receive surrenders; in most circumstances they can come up on cycles if it is a case of getting up quickly across a wide space. Similarly for pursuit the use of wire and use of the machine gun have abolished the possibility of a pouring cavalry charge. The swooping aeroplane does everything that cavalry can do in the way of disorganising the enemy, and far more than it can do in the way of silencing machine guns. It can capture guns in retreat much more easily by bombing traction engines and coming down low and shooting horses and men. An ideal modern pursuit would be an advance of guns, automobiles full of infantry, motor cyclists and cyclists, behind a high screen of observation aeroplanes and a low screen of bombing and fighting aeroplanes. Cavalry might advance across fields and so forth, but only as a very accessory part of the general advance....
And what else is there for the cavalry to do?
It may be argued that horses can go over country that is impossible for automobiles. That is to ignore altogether what has been done in this war by such devices as caterpillar wheels. So far from cavalry being able to negotiate country where machines would stick and fail, mechanism can now ride over places where any horse would flounder.
I submit these considerations to the horse-lover. They are not my original observations; they have been put to me and they have convinced me. Except perhaps as a parent of transport mules I see no further part henceforth for the horse to play in war.
The form and texture of the coming warfare—if there is still warfare to come—are not yet to be seen in their completeness upon the modern battlefield. One swallow does not make a summer, nor a handful of aeroplanes, a "Tank" or so, a few acres of shell craters, and a village here and there, pounded out of recognition, do more than foreshadow the spectacle of modernised war on land. War by these developments has become the monopoly of the five great industrial powers; it is their alternative to end or evolve it, and if they continue to disagree, then it must needs become a spectacle of majestic horror such as no man can yet conceive. It has been wise of Mr. Pennell therefore, who has recently been drawing his impressions of the war upon stone, to make his pictures not upon the battlefield, but among the huge industrial apparatus that is thrusting behind and thrusting up through the war of the gentlemen in spurs. He gives us the splendours and immensities of forge and gun pit, furnace and mine shaft. He shows you how great they are and how terrible. Among them go the little figures of men, robbed of all dominance, robbed of all individual quality. He leaves it for you to draw the obvious conclusion that presently, if we cannot contrive to put an end to war, blacknessess like these, enormities and flares and towering threats, will follow in the track of the Tanks and come trampling over the bickering confusion of mankind.
There is something very striking in these insignificant and incidental men that Mr. Pennell shows us. Nowhere does a man dominate in all these wonderful pictures. You may argue perhaps that that is untrue to the essential realities; all this array of machine and workshop, all this marshalled power and purpose, has been the creation of inventor and business organiser. But are we not a little too free with that word "creation"? Falstaff was a "creation" perhaps, or the Sistine sibyls; there we have indubitably an end conceived and sought and achieved; but did these inventors and business organisers do more than heed certain unavoidable imperatives? Seeking coal they were obliged to mine in a certain way; seeking steel they had to do this and this and not that and that; seeking profit they had to obey the imperative of the economy. So little did they plan their ends that most of these manufacturers speak with a kind of astonishment of the deadly use to which their works are put. They find themselves making the new war as a man might wake out of some drugged condition to find himself strangling his mother.
So that Mr. Pennell's sketchy and transient human figures seem altogether right to me. He sees these forges, workshops, cranes and the like, as inhuman and as wonderful as cliffs or great caves or icebergs or the stars. They are a new aspect of the logic of physical necessity that made all these older things, and he seizes upon the majesty and beauty of their dimensions with an entire impartiality. And they are as impartial. Through all these lithographs runs one present motif, the motif of the supreme effort of western civilisation to save itself and the world from the dominance of the reactionary German Imperialism of modern science. The pictures are arranged to shape out the life of a shell, from the mine to the great gun; nothing remains of their history to show except the ammunition dump, the gun in action and the shell-burst. Upon this theme all these great appearances are strung to-day. But to-morrow they may be strung upon some other and nobler purpose. These gigantic beings of which the engineer is the master and slave, are neither benevolent nor malignant. To-day they produce destruction, they are the slaves of the spur; to-morrow we hope they will bridge and carry and house and help again.
For that peace we struggle against the dull inflexibility of the German Will-to-Power.
It is the British who have produced the "land
ironclad" since I returned from
Since my return I have been able to see the Tank at home, through the courtesy of the Ministry of Munitions. They have progressed far beyond any recognisable resemblance to the initiatives of Mr. Diplock; they have approximated rather to the American caterpillar. As I suspected when first I heard of these devices, the War Office and the old army people had practically nothing to do with their development. They took to it very reluctantly—as they have taken to every novelty in this war. One brilliant general scrawled over an early proposal the entirely characteristic comment that it was a pity the inventor could not use his imagination to better purpose. (That foolish British trick of sneering at "imagination" has cost us hundreds of thousands of useless casualties and may yet lose us the war.) Tanks were first mooted at the front about a year and a half ago; Mr. Winston Churchill was then asking questions about their practicability; he filled many simple souls with terror; they thought him a most dangerous lunatic. The actual making of the Tanks arose as an irregular side development of the armoured-car branch of the Royal Naval Air Service work. The names most closely associated with the work are (I quote a reply of Dr. Macnamara's in the House of Commons) Mr. d'Eyncourt, the Director of Naval Construction, Mr. W. O. Tritton, Lieut. Wilson, R.N.A.S., Mr. Bussell, Lieut. Stern, R.N.A.S., who is now Colonel Stern, Captain Symes, and Mr. F. Skeens. There are many other claims too numerous to mention in detail.
But however much the Tanks may disconcert the gallant Colonel Newcomes who throw an air of restraint over our victorious front, there can be no doubt that they are an important as well as a novel development of the modern offensive. Of course neither the Tanks nor their very obvious next developments going to wrest the decisive pre-eminence from the aeroplane. The aeroplane remains now more than ever the instrument of victory upon the western front. Aerial ascendancy, properly utilised, is victory. But the mobile armoured big gun and the Tank as a machine-gun silencer must enormously facilitate an advance against the blinded enemy. Neither of them can advance against properly aimed big gun fire. That has to be disposed of before they make their entrance. It remains the function of the aeroplane to locate the hostile big guns and to direct the tir de demolition upon them before the advance begins—possibly even to bomb them out. But hitherto, after the destruction of driving back of the defender's big guns has been effected, the dug-out and the machine gun have still inflicted heavy losses upon the advancing infantry until the fight is won. So soon as the big guns are out, the tanks will advance, destroying machine guns, completing the destruction of the wire, and holding prisoners immobile. Then the infantry will follow to gather in the sheaves. Multitudinously produced and—I write it with a defiant eye on Colonel Newcome—properly handled, these land ironclads are going to do very great things in shortening the war, in pursuit, in breaking up the retreating enemy. Given the air ascendancy, and I am utterly unable to imagine any way of conclusively stopping or even greatly delaying an offensive thus equipped.
The young of even the most horrible beasts have something piquant and engaging about them, and so I suppose it is in the way of things that the land ironclad which opens a new and more dreadful and destructive phase in the human folly of warfare, should appear first as if it were a joke. Never has any such thing so completely masked its wickedness under an appearance of genial silliness. The Tank is a creature to which one naturally flings a pet name; the five or six I was shown wandering, rooting and climbing over obstacles, round a large field near X, were as amusing and disarming as a little of lively young pigs.
At first the War Office prevented the publication of any pictures or descriptions of these contrivances except abroad; then abruptly the embargo was relaxed, and the press was flooded with photographs. The reader will be familiar now with their appearance. They resemble large slugs with an underside a little like the flattened rockers of a rocking-horse, slugs between 20 and 40 feet long. They are like flat-sided slugs, slugs of spirit, who raise an enquiring snout, like the snout of a dogfish, into the air. They crawl upon their bellies in a way that would be tedious to describe to the general reader and unnecessary to describe to the enquiring specialists. They go over the ground with the sliding speed of active snails. Behind them trail two wheels, supporting a flimsy tail, wheels that strike one as incongruous as if a monster began kangaroo and ended doll's perambulator. (These wheels annoy me.) They are not steely monsters; they are painted with drab and unassuming colours that are fashionable in modern warfare, so that the armour seems rather like the integument of a rhinoceros. At the sides of the head project armoured checks, and from above these stick out guns that look like stalked eyes. That is the general appearance of the contemporary tank.
It slides on the ground; the silly little wheels that so detract from the genial bestiality of its appearance dandle and bump behind it. It swings about its axis. It comes to an obstacle, a low wall let us say, or a heap of bricks, and sets to work to climb it with its snout. It rears over the obstacle, it raises its straining belly, it overhangs more and more, and at last topples forward; it sways upon the heap and then goes plunging downwards, sticking out the weak counterpoise of its wheeled tail. If it comes to a house or a tree or a wall or such-like obstruction it rams against it so as to bring all its weight to bear upon it—it weighs some tons—and then climbs over the debris. I saw it, and incredulous soldiers of experience watched it at the same time, cross trenches and wallow amazingly through muddy exaggerations of small holes. Then I repeated the tour inside.
Again the Tank is like a slug. The slug, as every biological student knows, is unexpectedly complicated inside. The Tank is as crowded with inward parts as a battleship. It is filled with engines, guns and ammunition, and in the interstices men.
"You will smash your hat," said Colonel Stern. "No; keep it on, or else you will smash your head."
Only Mr. C. R. W. Nevinson could do justice to the interior of a Tank. You see a hand gripping something; you see the eyes and forehead of an engineer's face; you perceive that an overall bluishness beyond the engine is the back of another man. "Don't hold that," says someone; "it is too hot. Hold on to that." The engines roar, so loudly that I doubt whether one could hear guns without; the floor begins to slope and slopes until one seems to be at forty-five degrees or thereabouts; then the whole concern swings up and sways and slants the other way. You have crossed a bank. You heel sideways. Through the door which has been left open you see the little group of engineers, staff officers and naval men receding and falling away behind you. You straighten up and go up hill. You halt and begin to rotate. Through the open door, the green field, with its red walls, rows of worksheds and forests of chimneys in the background, begins a steady processional movement. The group of engineers and officers and naval men appears at the other side of the door and farther off. Then comes a sprint down hill. You descend and stretch your legs.
About the field other Tanks are doing their stunts. One is struggling in an apoplectic way in the mud pit with a cheek half buried. It noses its way out and on with an air of animal relief.
They are like jokes by Heath Robinson. One forgets that these things have already saved the lives of many hundreds of our soldiers and smashed and defeated thousands of Germans.
Said one soldier to me: "In the old attacks you used to see the British dead lying outside the machine-gun emplacements like birds outside a butt with a good shot inside. Now, these things walk through."
I saw other things that day at X. The Tank is only a beginning in a new phase of warfare. Of these other things I may only write in the most general terms.
But though Tanks and their collaterals are being made upon a very considerable scale in X, already I realised as I walked through gigantic forges as high and marvellous as cathedrals, and from workshed to workshed where gun carriages, ammunition carts and a hundred such things were flowing into existence with the swelling abundance of a river that flows out of a gorge, that as the demand for the new developments grows clear and strong, the resources of Britain are capable still of a tremendous response. If only we do not rob these great factories and works of their men.
Upon this question certain things need to be said very
plainly. The decisive factor in the sort of war we are now waging is production
and right use of mechanical material; victory in this war depends now upon
three things: the aeroplane, the gun, and the Tank developments. These—and not
crowds of men—are the prime necessity for a successful offensive. Every man we
draw from munition making to the ranks brings our western condition nearer to
the military condition of
In X, in the forges and machine shops, I saw already too large a proportion of boys and grey heads.
War is a thing that changes very rapidly, and we have in the Tanks only the first of a great series of offensive developments. They are bound to be improved, at a great pace. The method of using them will change very rapidly. Any added invention will necessitate the scrapping of old types and the production of the new patterns in quantity. It is of supreme necessity to the Allies if they are to win this war outright that the lead in inventions and enterprise which the British have won over the Germans in this matter should be retained. It is our game now to press the advantage for all it is worth. We have to keep ahead to win. We cannot do so unless we have unstinted men and unstinted material to produce each new development as its use is realised.
Given that much, the Tank will enormously enhance the advantage of the new offensive method on the French front; the method that is of gun demolition after aerial photography, followed by an advance; it is a huge addition to our prospect of decisive victory. What does it do? It solves two problems. The existing Tank affords a means of advancing against machine-gun fire and of destroying wire and machine guns without much risk of loss, so soon as the big guns have done their duty by the enemy guns. And also behind the Tank itself, it is useless to conceal, lies the possibility of bringing up big guns and big gun ammunition, across nearly any sort of country, as fast as the advance can press forward. Hitherto every advance has paid a heavy toll to the machine gun, and every advance has had to halt after a couple of miles or so while the big guns (taking five or six days for the job) toiled up to the new positions.
It is impossible to restrain a note of sharp urgency from what one has to say about these developments. The Tanks remove the last technical difficulties in our way to decisive victory and a permanent peace; they also afford a reason for straining every nerve to bring about a decision and peace soon. At the risk of seeming an imaginative alarmist I would like to point out the reasons these things disclose for hurrying this war to a decision and doing our utmost to arrange the world's affairs so as to make another war improbable. Already these serio-comic Tanks, weighing something over twenty tons or so, have gone slithering around and sliding over dead and wounded men. That is not an incident for sensitive minds to dwell upon, but it is a mere little child's play anticipation of what the big land ironclads that are bound to come if there is no world pacification, are going to do.
What lies behind the Tank depends upon this fact; there is no definable upward limit of mass. Upon that I would lay all the stress possible, because everything turns upon that.
You cannot make a land ironclad so big and heavy but that you cannot make a caterpillar track wide enough and strong enough to carry it forward. Tanks are quite possible that will carry twenty-inch or twenty-five inch guns, besides minor armament. Such Tanks may be undesirable; the production may exceed the industrial resources of any empire to produce; but there is no inherent impossibility in such things. There are not even the same limitations as to draught and docking accommodation that sets bounds to the size of battleships. It follows, therefore, as a necessary deduction that if the world's affairs are so left at the end of the war that the race of armaments continues, that Tank will develop steadily into a tremendous instrument of warfare, driven by engines of scores of thousands of horse-power, tracking on a track scores of hundreds of yards wide and weighing hundreds or thousands of tons. Nothing but a world agreement not to do so can prevent this logical development of the land ironclad. Such a structure will make wheel-ruts scores of feet deep; it will plough up, devastate and destroy the country it passes over altogether.
For my own part I never imagined the land ironclad idea
would get loose into war. I thought that the military intelligence was
essentially unimaginative and that such an aggressive military power as
After one has seen the actual Tanks it is not very difficult
to close one's eyes and figure the sort of Tank that may be arguing with
Germany in a few months' time about the restoration of Belgium and Serbia and
France, the restoration of the sunken tonnage, the penalties of the various
Zeppelin and submarine murders, the freedom of seas and land alike from piracy,
the evacuation of all Poland including Posen and Cracow, and the guarantees for
the future peace of Europe. The machine will be perhaps as big as a destroyer
and more heavily armed and equipped. It will swim over and through the soil at
a pace of ten or twelve miles an hour. In front of it will be corn, land, neat
woods, orchards, pasture, gardens, villages and towns. It will advance upon its
belly with a swaying motion, devouring the ground beneath it. Behind it masses
of soil and rock, lumps of turf, splintered wood, bits of houses, occasional
streaks of red, will drop from its track, and it will leave a wake, six or
seven times as wide as a high road, from which all soil, all cultivation, all
semblance to cultivated or cultivatable land will have disappeared. It will not
even be a track of soil. It will be a track of subsoil laid bare. It will be a
flayed strip of nature. In the course of its fighting the monster may have to
turnabout. It will then halt and spin slowly round, grinding out an arena of
desolation with a diameter equal to its length. If it has to retreat and
advance again these streaks and holes of destruction will increase and
multiply. Behind the fighting line these monsters will manoeuvre to and fro,
destroying the land for all ordinary agricultural purposes for ages to come.
The first imaginative account of the land ironclad that was ever written
concluded with the words, "They are the reductio ad absurdum of war."
They are, and it is to the engineers, the ironmasters, the workers and the
inventive talent of
For forty years Frankenstein Germany invoked war, turned
every development of material and social science to aggressive ends, and at
last when she felt the time was ripe she let loose the new monster that she had
made of war to cow the spirit of mankind. She set the thing trampling through
This logical development of the Tank idea may seem a gloomy
prospect for mankind. But it is open to question whether the tremendous
development of warfare that has gone on in the last two years does after all
open a prospect of unmitigated gloom. There has been a good deal of cheap and
despondent sneering recently at the phrase, "The war that will end
war." It is still possible to maintain that that may be a correct
description of this war. It has to be remembered that war, as the aeroplane and
the Tank have made it, has already become an impossible luxury for any barbaric
or uncivilised people. War on the grade that has been achieved on the
So that after all the cheerful amusement the sight of a Tank causes may not be so very unreasonable. These things may be no more than one of those penetrating flashes of wit that will sometimes light up and dispel the contentions of an angry man. If they are not that, then they are the grimmest jest that ever set men grinning. Wait and see, if you do not believe me.
All human affairs are mental affairs; the bright ideas of to-day are the realities of to-morrow. The real history of mankind is the history of how ideas have arisen, how they have taken possession of men's minds, how they have struggled, altered, proliferated, decayed. There is nothing in this war at all but a conflict of ideas, traditions, and mental habits. The German Will clothed in conceptions of aggression and fortified by cynical falsehood, struggles against the fundamental sanity of the German mind and the confused protest of mankind. So that the most permanently important thing in the tragic process of this war is the change of opinion that is going on. What are people making of it? Is it producing any great common understandings, any fruitful unanimities?
No doubt it is producing enormous quantities of cerebration, but is it anything more than chaotic and futile cerebration? We are told all sorts of things in answer to that, things without a scrap of evidence or probability to support them. It is, we are assured, turning people to religion, making them moral and thoughtful. It is also, we are assured with equal confidence, turning them to despair and moral disaster. It will be followed by (1) a period of moral renascence, and (2) a debauch. It is going to make the workers (1) more and (2) less obedient and industrious. It is (1) inuring men to war and (2) filling them with a passionate resolve never to suffer war again. And so on. I propose now to ask what is really happening in this matter? How is human opinion changing? I have opinions of my own and they are bound to colour my discussion. The reader must allow for that, and as far as possible I will remind him where necessary to make his allowance.
Now first I would ask, is any really continuous and thorough mental process going on at all about this war? I mean, is there any considerable number of people who are seeing it as a whole, taking it in as a whole, trying to get a general idea of it from which they can form directing conclusions for the future? Is there any considerable number of people even trying to do that? At any rate let me point out first that there is quite an enormous mass of people who—in spite of the fact that their minds are concentrated on aspects of this war, who are at present hearing, talking, experiencing little else than the war—are nevertheless neither doing nor trying to do anything that deserves to be called thinking about it at all. They may even be suffering quite terribly by it. But they are no more mastering its causes, reasons, conditions, and the possibility of its future prevention than a monkey that has been rescued in a scorching condition from the burning of a house will have mastered the problem of a fire. It is just happening to and about them. It may, for anything they have learnt about it, happen to them again.
A vast majority of people are being swamped by the
spectacular side of the business. It was very largely my fear of being so
swamped myself that made me reluctant to go as a spectator to the front. I knew
that my chances of being hit by a bullet were infinitesimal, but I was
extremely afraid of being hit by some too vivid impression. I was afraid that I
might see some horribly wounded man or some decayed dead body that would so
scar my memory and stamp such horror into me as to reduce me to a mere useless,
gibbering, stop-the-war-at-any-price pacifist. Years ago my mind was once darkened
very badly for some weeks with a kind of fear and distrust of life through a
sudden unexpected encounter one tranquil evening with a drowned body. But in
this journey in
For example, there is this business of the Zeppelin raids in
I find over the
"First," they say, "you saw a little round red glow that spread. Then you saw the whole Zeppelin glowing. Oh, it was beautiful! Then it began to turn over and come down, and it flames and pieces began to break away. And then down it came, leaving flaming pieces all up the sky. At last it was a pillar of fire eight thousand feet high.... Everyone said, 'Ooooo!' And then someone pointed out the little aeroplane lit up by the flare—such a leetle thing up there in the night! It is the greatest thing I have ever seen. Oh! the most wonderful—most wonderful!"
There is a feeling that the Germans really must after all be a splendid people to provide such magnificent pyrotechnics.
Some people in
The spectacular side of the war is really an enormous distraction from thought. And against thought there also fights the native indolence of the human mind. The human mind, it seems, was originally developed to think about the individual; it thinks reluctantly about the species. It takes refuge from that sort of thing if it possibly can. And so the second great preventive of clear thinking is the tranquillising platitude.
The human mind is an instrument very easily fatigued. Only a few exceptions go on thinking restlessly—to the extreme exasperation of their neighbours. The normal mind craves for decisions, even wrong or false decisions rather than none. It clutches at comforting falsehoods. It loves to be told, "There, don't you worry. That'll be all right. That's settled." This war has come as an almost overwhelming challenge to mankind. To some of us it seems as it if were the Sphynx proffering the alternative of its riddle or death. Yet the very urgency of this challenge to think seems to paralyse the critical intelligence of very many people altogether. They will say, "This war is going to produce enormous changes in everything." They will then subside mentally with a feeling of having covered the whole ground in a thoroughly safe manner. Or they will adopt an air of critical aloofness. They will say, "How is it possible to foretell what may happen in this tremendous sea of change?" And then, with an air of superior modesty, they will go on doing—whatever they feel inclined to do. Many others, a degree less simple in their methods, will take some entirely partial aspect, arrive at some guesswork decision upon that, and then behave as though that met every question we have to face. Or they will make a sort of admonitory forecast that is conditional upon the good behaviour of other people. "Unless the Trade Unions are more reasonable," they will say. Or, "Unless the shipping interest is grappled with and controlled." Or, "Unless England wakes up." And with that they seem to wash their hands of further responsibility for the future.
One delightful form of put-off is the sage remark, "Let us finish the war first, and then let us ask what is going to happen after it." One likes to think of the beautiful blank day after the signing of the peace when these wise minds swing round to pick up their deferred problems....
I submit that a man has not done his duty by himself as a rational creature unless he has formed an idea of what is going on, as one complicated process, until he has formed an idea sufficiently definite for him to make it the basis of a further idea, which is his own relationship to that process. He must have some notion of what the process is going to do to him, and some notion of what he means to do, if he can, to the process. That is to say, he must not only have an idea how the process is going, but also an idea of how he wants it to go. It seems so natural and necessary for a human brain to do this that it is hard to suppose that everyone has not more or less attempted it. But few people, in Great Britain at any rate, have the habit of frank expression, and when people do not seem to have made out any of these things for themselves there is a considerable element of secretiveness and inexpressiveness to be allowed for before we decide that they have not in some sort of fashion done so. Still, after all allowances have been made, there remains a vast amount of jerry-built and ready-made borrowed stuff in most of people's philosophies of the war. The systems of authentic opinion in this world of thought about the war are like comparatively rare thin veins of living mentality in a vast world of dead repetitions and echoed suggestions. And that being the case, it is quite possible that history after the war, like history before the war, will not be so much a display of human will and purpose as a resultant of human vacillations, obstructions, and inadvertences. We shall still be in a drama of blind forces following the line of least resistance.
One of the people who is often spoken of as if he were doing an enormous amount of concentrated thinking is "the man in the trenches." We are told—by gentlemen writing for the most part at home—of the most extraordinary things that are going on in those devoted brains, how they are getting new views about the duties of labour, religion, morality, monarchy, and any other notions that the gentleman at home happens to fancy and wished to push. Now that is not at all the impression of the khaki mentality I have reluctantly accepted as correct. For the most part the man in khaki is up against a round of tedious immediate duties that forbid consecutive thought; he is usually rather crowded and not very comfortable. He is bored.
The real horror of modern war, when all is said and done, is
the boredom. To get killed our wounded may be unpleasant, but it is at any rate
interesting; the real tragedy is in the desolated fields, the desolated houses,
the desolated hours and days, the bored and desolated minds that hang behind
the melee and just outside the melee. The peculiar beastliness of the German
crime is the way the German war cant and its consequences have seized upon and
paralysed the mental movement of
In such talks as I could get with men close up to the front I found beyond this great boredom and attempts at distraction only very specialised talk about changes in the future. Men were keen upon questions of army promotion, of the future of conscription, of the future of the temporary officer, upon the education of boys in relation to army needs. But the war itself was bearing them all upon its way, as unquestioned and uncontrolled as if it were the planet on which they lived.
Among the minor topics that people are talking about behind the western fronts is the psychology of the Yielding Pacifist and the Conscientious Objector. Of course, we are all pacifists nowadays; I know of no one who does not want not only to end this war but to put an end to war altogether, except those blood-red terrors Count Reventlow, Mr. Leo Maxse—how he does it on a vegetarian dietary I cannot imagine!—and our wild-eyed desperados of The Morning Post. But most of the people I meet, and most of the people I met on my journey, are pacifists like myself who want to make peace by beating the armed man until he gives in and admits the error of his ways, disarming him and reorganising the world for the forcible suppression of military adventures in the future. They want belligerency put into the same category as burglary, as a matter of forcible suppression. The Yielding Pacifist who will accept any sort of peace, and the Conscientious Objector who will not fight at all, are not of that opinion.
One interlocutor near
"Here," he said, "are sixty or seventy young Englishmen, all fit for military service.... Of course they go under fire, but it is not like being junior officers in the trenches. Not one of them has been killed or wounded."
He reflected. "One, I think, has been decorated," he said....
My French and Italian are only for very rough common jobs; when it came to explaining the Conscientious Objector sympathetically they broke down badly. I had to construct long parenthetical explanations of our antiquated legislative methods to show how it was that the "conscientious objector" had been so badly defined. The foreigner does not understand the importance of vague definition in British life. "Practically, of course, we offered to exempt anyone who conscientiously objected to fight or serve. Then the Pacifist and German people started a campaign to enrol objectors. Of course every shirker, every coward and slacker in the country decided at once to be a conscientious objector. Anyone but a British legislator could have foreseen that. Then we started Tribunals to wrangle with the objectors about their bona fides. Then the Pacifists and the Pro-Germans issued little leaflets and started correspondence courses to teach people exactly how to lie to the Tribunals. Trouble about freedom of the pamphleteer followed. I had to admit—it has been rather a sloppy business. The people who made the law knew their own minds, but we English are not an expressive people."
These are not easy things to say in Elementary (and slightly Decayed) French or in Elementary and Corrupt Italian.
"But why do people support the sham conscientious objector and issue leaflets to help him—when there is so much big work clamouring to be done?"
"That," I said, "is the Whig tradition."
When they pressed me further, I said: "I am really the questioner. I am visiting your country, and you have to tell me things. It is not right that I should do all the telling. Tell me all about Romain Rolland."
And so I pressed them about the official socialists in
But the general drift of such talks as did seem to penetrate the question was this, that among these stop-the-war people there are really three types. First there is a type of person who hates violence and the infliction of pain under any circumstances, and who have a mystical belief in the rightness (and usually the efficacy) of non-resistance. These are generally Christians, and then their cardinal text is the instruction to "turn the other cheek." Often they are Quakers. If they are consistent they are vegetarians and wear Lederlos boots. They do not desire police protection for their goods. They stand aloof from all the force and conflict of life. They have always done so. This is an understandable and respectable type. It has numerous Hindu equivalents. It is a type that finds little difficulty about exemptions—provided the individual has not been too recently converted to his present habits. But it is not the prevalent type in stop-the-war circles. Such genuine ascetics do not number more than a thousand or so, all three of our western allied countries. The mass of the stop-the-war people is made up quite other elements.
In the complex structure of the modern community there are
two groups or strata or pockets in which the impulse of social obligation, the
gregarious sense of a common welfare, is at its lowest; one of these is the
class of the Resentful Employee, the class of people who, without explanation,
adequate preparation or any chance, have been shoved at an early age into
uncongenial work and never given a chance to escape, and the other is the class
of people with small fixed incomes or with small salaries earnt by routine
work, or half independent people practising some minor artistic or literary
craft, who have led uneventful, irresponsible lives from their youth up, and
never came at any point into relations of service to the state. This latter
class was more difficult to define than the former—because it is more various
within itself. My French friends wanted to talk of the "Psychology of the
Rentier." I was for such untranslatable phrases as the "Genteel
Whig," or the "Donnish Liberal." But I lit up an Italian—he is a
Milanese manufacturer—with "these Florentine English who would keep
He becomes an employee between thirteen and fifteen; he is made to do work he does not like for no other purpose that he can see except the profit and glory of a fortunate person called his employer, behind whom stand church and state blessing and upholding the relationship. He is not allowed to feel that he has any share whatever in the employer's business, or that any end is served but the employer's profit. He cannot see that the employer acknowledges any duty to the state. Neither church nor state seems to insist that the employer has any public function. At no point does the employee come into a clear relationship of mutual obligation with the state. There does not seem to be any way out for the employee from a life spent in this subordinate, toilsome relationship. He feels put upon and cheated out of life. He is without honour. If he is a person of ability or stubborn temper he struggles out of his position; if he is a kindly and generous person he blames his "luck" and does his work and lives his life as cheerfully as possible—and so live the bulk of our amazing European workers; if he is a being of great magnanimity he is content to serve for the ultimate good of the race; if he has imagination, he says, "Things will not always be like this," and becomes a socialist or a guild socialist, and tries to educate the employer to a sense of reciprocal duty; but if he is too human for any of these things, then he begins to despise and hate the employer and the system that made him. He wants to hurt them. Upon that hate it is easy to trade.
A certain section of what is called the Socialist press and
the Socialist literature in
Such a typical paper as the British Labour Leader, for example, may be read in vain, number after number, for any sound and sincere constructive proposal. It is a prolonged scream of extreme individualism, a monotonous repetition of incoherent discontent with authority, with direction, with union, with the European effort. It wants to do nothing. It just wants effort to stop—even at the price of German victory. If the whole fabric of society in western Europe were to be handed over to those pseudo-socialists to-morrow, to be administered for the common good, they would fly the task in terror. They would make excuses and refuse the undertaking. They do not want the world to go right. The very idea of the world going right does not exist in their minds. They are embodied discontent and hatred, making trouble, and that is all they are. They want to be "rebels"—to be admired as "rebels".
That is the true psychology of the Resentful Employee. He is a de-socialised man. His sense of the State has been destroyed.
The Resentful Employees are the outcome of our social injustices. They are the failures of our social ad educational systems. We may regret their pitiful degradation, we may exonerate them from blame; none the less they are a pitiful crew. I have seen the hardship of the trenches, the gay and gallant wounded. I do a little understand what our soldiers, officers and men alike, have endured and done. And though I know I ought to allow for all that I have stated, I cannot regard these conscientious objectors with anything but contempt. Into my house there pours a dismal literature rehearsing the hardships of these men who set themselves up to be martyrs for liberty; So and So, brave hero, has been sworn at—positively sworn at by a corporal; a nasty rough man came into the cell of So and So and dropped several h's; So and So, refusing to undress and wash, has been undressed and washed, and soap was rubbed into his eyes—perhaps purposely; the food and accommodation are not of the best class; the doctors in attendance seem hasty; So and So was put into a damp bed and has got a nasty cold. Then I recall a jolly vanload of wounded men I saw out there....
But after all, we must be just. A church and state that
permitted these people to be thrust into dreary employment in their early 'teens, without hope or pride, deserves such citizens as
these. The marvel is that there are so few. There are a poor thousand or so of
these hopeless, resentment-poisoned creatures in
If the Resentful Employee provides the emotional impulse of the resisting pacifist, whose horizon is bounded by his one passionate desire that the particular social system that has treated him so ill should collapse and give in, and its leaders and rulers be humiliated and destroyed, the intellectual direction of a mischievous pacifism comes from an entirely different class.
The Genteel Whig, though he differs very widely in almost
every other respect from the Resentful Employee, has this much in common, that
he has never been drawn into the whirl of collective life in any real and
assimilative fashion. This is what is the matter with both of
them. He is a little loose, shy, independent person. Except for eating
and drinking—in moderation, he has never done anything real from the day he was
born. He has frequently not even faced the common challenge of matrimony. Still
more frequently is he childless, or the daring parent of one particular child.
He has never traded nor manufactured. He has drawn his dividends or his salary
with an entire unconsciousness of any obligations to policemen or navy for
these punctual payments. Probably he has never ventured even to reinvest his
little legacy. He is acutely aware of possessing an exceptionally fine
intelligence, but he is entirely unconscious of a fundamental unreality.
Nothing has ever occurred to him to make him ask why the mass of men were
either not possessed of his security or discontented with it. The impulses that
took his school friends out upon all sorts of odd feats and adventures struck
him as needless. As he grew up he turned with an equal distrust from passion or
ambition. His friends went out after love, after adventure, after power, after
knowledge, after this or that desire, and became men. But he noted merely that
they became fleshly, that effort strained them, that they were sometimes angry
or violent or heated. He could not but feel that theirs were vulgar
experiences, and he sought some finer exercise for his exceptional quality. He
pursued art or philosophy or literature upon their more esoteric levels, and
realised more and more the general vulgarity and coarseness of the world about
him, and his own detachment. The vulgarity and crudity of the things nearest
him impressed him most; the dreadful insincerity of the Press, the
meretriciousness of success, the loudness of the rich, the baseness of common
people in his own land. The world overseas had by comparison a
certain glamour. Except that when you said "
Nobody took him by the collar and shook him.
If our world had considered the advice of William James and insisted upon national service from everyone, national service in the drains or the nationalised mines or the nationalised deep-sea fisheries if not in the army or navy, we should not have had any such men. If it had insisted that wealth and property are no more than a trust for the public benefit, we should have had no genteel indispensables. These discords in our national unanimity are the direct consequence of our bad social organisation. We permit the profiteer and the usurer; they evoke the response of the Reluctant Employee, and the inheritor of their wealth becomes the Genteel Whig.
But that is by the way. It was of course natural and
inevitable that the German onslaught upon
Of all the strange freaks of distressed thinking that this
war has produced, the freaks of the Genteel Whig have been among the most
remarkable. With an air of profound wisdom he returns perpetually to his
proposition that there are faults on both sides. To say that is his conception
of impartiality. I suppose that if a bull gored his sister he would say that
there were faults on both sides; his sister ought not to have strayed into the
field, she was wearing a red hat of a highly provocative type; she ought to
have been a cow and then everything would have been different. In the face of
the history of the last forty years, the Genteel Whig struggles persistently to
minimise the German outrage upon civilisation and to find excuses for
A Frenchman I talked to knew better than that. "What
will happen to
"She will take to Anglomania," he said, and added after a flash of reflection, "In the long run it will be the worse for you."
One of the indisputable things about the war, so far as
Britain and France go—and I have reason to believe that on a lesser scale
things are similar in Italy—is that it has produced a very great volume of
religious thought and feeling. About
Now in no sort of general popular mental activity is there so much froth and waste as in religious excitements. This has been the case in all periods of religious revival. The number who are rather impressed, who for a few days or weeks take to reading their Bibles or going to a new place of worship or praying or fasting or being kind and unselfish, is always enormous in relation to the people whose lives are permanently changed. The effort needed if a contemporary is to blow off the froth, is always very considerable.
Among the froth that I would blow off is I think most of the
tremendous efforts being made in
Organisation is the life of material and the death of mental
and spiritual processes. There could be no more melancholy exemplification of
this than the spectacle of the Anglican and Catholic churches at the present
time, one using the tragic stresses of war mainly for pew-rent touting, and the
other paralysed by its Austrian and South German political connections from any
clear utterance upon the moral issues of the war. Through the opening phases of
the war the Established Church of England was inconspicuous; this is no longer
the case, but it may be doubted whether the change is altogether to its
advantage. To me this is a very great disappointment. I have always had a very
high opinion of the intellectual values of the leading divines of both the
Anglican and Catholic communions. The self-styled Intelligentsia of Great
Britain is all too prone to sneer at their equipment; but I do not see how any
impartial person can deny that Father Bernard Vaughn is in mental energy,
vigour of expression, richness of thought and variety of information fully the
equal of such an influential lay publicist as Mr. Horatio Bottomley. One might
search for a long time among prominent laymen to find the equal of the Bishop
of London. Nevertheless it is impossible to conceal the impression of
tawdriness that this latter gentleman's work as head of the National Mission
has left upon my mind. Attired in khaki he has recently been preaching in the
open air to the people of
We have a multitude of people chastened by losses, ennobled
by a common effort, needing support in that effort, perplexed by the reality of
evil and cruelty, questioning and seeking after God. What does the National
Mission offer? On Tower Hill the bishop seems to have been chiefly busy with a
wrangling demonstration that ten thousand a year is none too big a salary for a
man subject to such demands and expenses as his see involves. So far from
making anything out of his see he was, he declared, two thousand a year to the
bad. Some day, when the church has studied efficiency, I suppose that bishops
will have the leisure to learn something about the general state of opinion and
education in their dioceses. The Bishop of London was evidently unaware of the
almost automatic response of the sharp socialists among his hearers. Their
first enquiry would be to learn how he came by that mysterious extra two
thousand a year with which he supplemented his stipend. How did he earn that?
And if he didn't earn it—-! And secondly, they would probably have pointed out
to him that his standard of housing, clothing, diet and entertaining was
probably a little higher than theirs. It is really no proof of virtuous purity
that a man's expenditure exceeds his income. And finally some other of his
hearers were left unsatisfied by his silence with regard to the current
proposal to pool all clerical stipends for the common purposes of the church.
It is a reasonable proposal, and if bishops must dispute about stipends instead
of preaching the
In his Piccadilly contribution to the National Mission of Repentance and Hope the bishop did not talk politics but sex. He gave his hearers the sort of stuff that is handed out so freely by the Cinema Theatres, White Slave Traffic talk, denunciations of "Night Hawks"—whatever "Night Hawks" may be—and so on. One this or another occasion the bishop—he boasts that he himself is a healthy bachelor—lavished his eloquence upon the Fall in the Birth Rate, and the duty of all married people, from paupers upward, to have children persistently. Now sex, like diet, is a department of conduct and a very important department, but it isn't religion! The world is distressed by international disorder, by the monstrous tragedy of war; these little hot talks about indulgence and begetting have about as much to do with the vast issues that concern us as, let us say, a discussion of the wickedness of eating very new and indigestible bread. It is talking round and about the essential issue. It is fogging the essential issue, which is the forgotten and neglected kingship of God. The sin that is stirring the souls of men is the sin of this war. It is the sin of national egotism and the devotion of men to loyalties, ambitions, sects, churches, feuds, aggressions, and divisions that are an outrage upon God's universal kingdom.
The common clergy of
There can be no doubt that the behaviour of the French
priests in this war has enormously diminished anti-clerical bitterness in
I trench on no theological discussion when I record the unfavourable impression made upon all western Europe by the failure of the Holy Father to pronounce definitely upon the rights and wrongs of the war. The church has abrogated its right of moral judgement. Such at least seemed to be the opinion of the Frenchmen with whom I discussed a remarkable interview with Cardinal Gasparri that I found one morning in Le Journal.
It was not the sort of interview to win the hearts of men who were ready to give their lives to set right what they believe to be the greatest outrage that has ever been inflicted upon Christendom, that is to say the forty-three years of military preparation and of diplomacy by threats that culminated in the ultimatum to Serbia, the invasion of Belgium and the murder of the Vise villagers. It was adorned with a large portrait of "Benoit XV.," looking grave and discouraging over his spectacles, and the headlines insisted it was "La Pensee du Pape." Cross-heads sufficiently indicated the general tone. One read:
"Le Saint Siege impartial... Au-dessus de la
bataille...." The good Cardinal would have made a good lawyer. He had as
little to say about God and the general righteousness of things as the Bishop
of London. But he got in some smug reminders of the severance of diplomatic
relations with the
The next column of Le Journal contained an account of the Armenian massacres; the blood of the Armenian cries out past the Holy Father to heaven; but then Armenians are after all heretics, and here again the principle of Audiatur et altera pars comes in. Communications are not open with the Turks. Moreover, Armenians, like Serbs, are worse than infidels; they are heretics. Perhaps God is punishing them....
Audiatur et altera pars, and the
It is the most astounding renunciation in history.
Indubitably the Christian church took a wide stride from the
kingship of God when it placed a golden throne for the unbaptised
Thought about the great questions of life, thought and reasoned direction, this is what the multitude demands mutely and weakly, and what the organised churches are failing to give. They have not the courage of their creeds. Either their creeds are intellectual flummery or they are the solution to the riddles with which the world is struggling. But the churches make no mention of their creeds. They chatter about sex and the magic effect of church attendance and simple faith. If simple faith is enough, the churches and their differences are an imposture. Men are stirred to the deepest questions about life and God, and the Anglican church, for example, obliges—as I have described.
It is necessary to struggle against the unfavourable
impression made by these things. They must not blind us to the deeper movement
that is in progress in a quite considerable number of minds in
What I conceive to be the reality of the religious revival
is to be found in quarters remote from the religious professionals. Let me give
but one instance of several that occur to me. I met soon after my return from
France a man who has stirred my curiosity for years, Mr. David Lubin, the prime
mover in the organisation of the International Institute of Agriculture in
He is a man rather after the type of
At first we talked of his Institute and its work. Then we
came to shipping and transport. Whenever one talks now of human affairs one
comes presently to shipping and transport generally. In
But that is by the way in the present discussion. As we talked, the prospect broadened out from a prospect of the growing and distribution of food to a general view of the world becoming one economic community.
I talked of various people I had been meeting in the previous few weeks. "So many of us," I said, "seem to be drifting away from the ideas of nationalism and faction and policy, towards something else which is larger. It is an idea of a right way of doing things for human purposes, independently of these limited and localised references. Take such things as international hygiene for example, take this movement. We are feeling our way towards a bigger rule."
"The rule of Righteousness," said Mr. Lubin.
I told him that I had been coming more and more to the idea—not as a sentimentality or a metaphor, but as the ruling and directing idea, the structural idea, of all one's political and social activities—of the whole world as one state and community and of God as the King of that state.
"But I say that," cried Mr. Lubin, "I have put my name to that. And—it is here!"
He struggled up, seized an Old Testament that lay upon a
side table. He stood over it and rapped its cover. "It is here," he
said, looking more like
That is all I mean to tell at present of that conversation.
We talked of religion for two hours. Mr. Lubin sees things
in terms of
The other day I was talking to an eminent Anglican among various other people and someone with an eye to him propounded this remarkable view.
"There are four stages between belief and utter unbelief. There are those who believe in God, those who doubt like Huxley the Agnostic, those who deny him like the Atheists but who do at least keep his place vacant, and lastly those who have set up a Church in his place. That is the last outrage of unbelief."
All the French people I met in
There can be no doubt in any reasonable mind that this war
So there is not much to say about how the British think
about the French. They do not think. They feel. At the outbreak of the war,
when the performance of
There was a good deal of doubt in
Now first the French have been enormously astonished by the quality of the ordinary British soldiers in our new armies. One Colonial colonel said something almost incredible to me—almost incredible as coming as from a Frenchman; it was a matter to solemn for any compliments or polite exaggerations; he said in tones of wonder and conviction, "They are as good as ours." It was his acme of all possible praise.
That means any sort of British soldier. Unless he is
assisted by a kilt the ordinary Frenchman is unable to distinguish between one
sort of British soldier and another. He cannot tell—let the ardent nationalist
mark the fact!—a Cockney from an Irishman or the
But I will not expand further upon the general impression made
by the English in
But when it comes to British methods then the polite
Frenchman's difficulties begin. Translating hints into statements and guessing
at reservations, I would say that the French fall very short of admiration of
the way in which our higher officers set about their work, they are
disagreeably impressed by a general want of sedulousness and close method in
our leading. They think we economise brains and waste blood. They are shocked
at the way in which obviously incompetent or inefficient men of the old army
class are retained in their positions even after serious failures, and they
were profoundly moved by the bad staff work and needlessly heavy losses of our
opening attacks in July. They were ready to condone the blunderings and
flounderings of the 1915 offensive as the necessary penalties of an
"amateur" army, they had had to learn their own lesson in
No Frenchman said as much as this to me, but their meaning was as plain as daylight. I tackled one of my guides on this matter; I said that it was the plain duty of the French military people to criticise British military methods sharply if they thought they were wrong. "It is not easy," he said. "Many British officers do not think they have anything to learn. And English people do not like being told things. What could we do? We could hardly send a French officer or so to your headquarters in a tutorial capacity. You have to do things in your own way." When I tried to draw General Castelnau into this dangerous question by suggesting that we might borrow a French general or so, he would say only, "There is only one way to learn war, and that is to make war." When it was too late, in the lift, I thought of the answer to that. There is only one way to make war, and that is by the sacrifice of incapables and the rapid promotion of able men. If old and tried types fail now, new types must be sought. But to do that we want a standard of efficiency. We want a conception of intellectual quality in performance that is still lacking....
M. Joseph Reinach, in whose company I visited the French
part of the
"Have I ever told you the story of compulsory Greek at
"What has that to do with it?"
"Or how two undistinguished civil service commissioners can hold up the scientific education of our entire administrative class?"
M. Reinach protested further.
"Because you are proposing to loosen the grip of a
certain narrow and limited class upon British affairs,
and you propose it as though it were a job as easy as rearranging railway fares
or sending a van to
The antagonistic relations of the Anglican oligarchy with
the greater and greater-spirited
All military people—people, that is, professionally and primarily military—are inclined to be conservative. For thousands of years the military tradition has been a tradition of discipline. The conception of the common soldier has been a mechanically obedient, almost dehumanised man, of the of officer a highly trained autocrat. In two years all this has been absolutely reversed. Individual quality, inventive organisation and industrialism will win this war. And no class is so innocent of these things as the military caste. Long accustomed as they are to the importance of moral effect they put a brave face upon the business; they save their faces astonishingly, but they are no longer guiding and directing this war, they are being pushed from behind by forces they never foresaw and cannot control. The aeroplanes and great guns have bolted with them, the tanks begotten of naval and civilian wits, shove them to victory in spite of themselves.
Wherever I went behind the British lines the officers were going about in spurs. These spurs at last got on my nerves. They became symbolical. They became as grave an insult to the tragedy of the war as if they were false noses. The British officers go for long automobile rides in spurs. They walk about the trenches in spurs. Occasionally I would see a horse; I do not wish to be unfair in this matter, there were riding horses sometimes within two or three miles of the ultimate front, but they were rarely used.
I do not say that the horse is entirely obsolescent in this war. In was nothing is obsolete. In the trenches men fight with sticks. In the Pasubio battle the other day one of the Alpini silenced a machine gun by throwing stones. In the West African campaign we have employed troops armed with bows and arrows, and they have done very valuable work. But these are exceptional cases. The military use of the horse henceforth will be such an exceptional case. It is ridiculous for these spurs still to clink about the modern battlefield. What the gross cost of the spurs and horses and trappings of the British army amount to, and how many men are grooming and tending horses who might just as well be ploughing and milking at home, I cannot guess; it must be a total so enormous as seriously to affect the balance of the war.
And these spurs and their retention are only the outward and
visible symbol of the obstinate resistance of the Anglican intelligence to the
clear logic of the present situation. It is not only the external equipment of
our leaders that falls behind the times; our political and administrative
services are in the hands of the same desolatingly inadaptable class. The
British are still wearing spurs in
It becomes more and more imperative that the foreign
observer should distinguish between this narrower, older official
Nothing is more illuminating and self-educational than to
explain one's home politics to an intelligent foreigner enquirer; it strips off
all the secondary considerations, the allusiveness, the merely tactical
considerations, the allusiveness, the merely tactical considerations. One sees
the forest not as a confusion of trees but as something with a definite shape
and place. I was asked in
I found it M. Joseph Reinach particularly penetrating and
persistent. It is an amusing but rather difficult exercise to recall what I
tried to convey to him by way of a theory of
This inner Britain, I went on to explain, holds tenaciously to its positions of advantage, from which it is difficult to dislodge it without upsetting the whole empire, and it insists upon treating the rest of the four hundred millions who constitute that empire as outsiders, foreigners, subject races and suspected persons.
"To you," I said, "it bears itself with an
appearance of faintly hostile, faintly contemptuous apathy. It is still so
entirely insular that it shudders at the thought of the Channel Tunnel. This is
I descended from my rhetoric to find M. Reinach asking how
and when this greater
"Nothing will be the same after the war." This is one of the consoling platitudes with which people cover over voids of thought. They utter it with an air of round-eyed profundity. But to ask in reply, "Then how will things be different?" is in many cases to rouse great resentment. It is almost as rude as saying, "Was that thought of yours really a thought?"
Let us in this chapter confine ourselves to the
social-economic processes that are going on. So far as I am able to distinguish
among the things that are being said in these matters, they may be classified
out into groups that centre upon several typical questions. There is the
question of "How to pay for the war?" There is the question of the
behaviour of labour after the war. "Will there be a Labour Truce or a
violent labour struggle?" There is the question of the reconstruction of
European industry after the war in the face of an
There seem to be two distinct ways of answering the first of the questions I have noted. They do not necessarily contradict each other. Of course the war is being largely paid for immediately out of the accumulated private wealth of the past. We are buying off the "hold-up" of the private owner upon the material and resources we need, and paying in paper money and war loans. This is not in itself an impoverishment of the community. The wealth of individuals is not the wealth of nations; the two things may easily be contradictory when the rich man's wealth consists of land or natural resources or franchises or privileges the use of which he reluctantly yields for high prices. The conversion of held-up land and material into workable and actively used material in exchange for national debt may be indeed a positive increase in the wealth of the community. And what is happening in all the belligerent countries is the taking over of more and more of the realities of wealth from private hands and, in exchange, the contracting of great masses of debt to private people. The nett tendency is towards the disappearance of a reality holding class and the destruction of realities in warfare, and the appearance of a vast rentier class in its place. At the end of the war much material will be destroyed for evermore, transit, food production and industry will be everywhere enormously socialised, and the country will be liable to pay every year in interest, a sum of money exceeding the entire national expenditure before the war. From the point of view of the state, and disregarding material and moral damages, that annual interest is the annual instalment of the price to be paid for the war.
Now the interesting question arises whether these great
belligerent states may go bankrupt, and if so to what extent. States may go
bankrupt to the private creditor without repudiating their debts or seeming to
pay less to him. They can go bankrupt either by a
depreciation of their currency or—without touching the gold standard—through
a rise in prices. In the end both these things work out to the same end; the
creditor gets so many loaves or pairs of boots or workman's hours of labour for
his pound less than he would have got under the previous conditions. One may
imagine this process of price (and of course wages) increase going on to a
limitless extent. Many people are inclined to look to such an increase in
prices as a certain outcome of the war, and just so far as it goes, just so far
will the burthen of the rentier class, their call, tat is,
for goods and services, be lightened. This expectation is very generally
entertained, and I can see little reason against it. The
intensely stupid or dishonest "labour" press, however, which in the
interests of the common enemy misrepresents socialism and seeks to misguide
But now comes the second way of meeting the after-the-war obligations. This second way is by increasing the wealth of the state and by increasing the national production to such an extent that the payment of the rentier class will not be an overwhelming burthen. Rising prices bilk the creditor. Increased production will check the rise in prices and get him a real payment. The outlook for the national creditor seems to be that he will be partly bilked and partly paid; how far he will be bilked and how far depends almost entirely upon this possible increase in production; and there is consequently a very keen and quite unprecedented desire very widely diffused among intelligent and active people, holding War Loan scrip and the like, in all the belligerent countries, to see bold and hopeful schemes for state enrichment pushed forward. The movement towards socialism is receiving an impulse from a new and unexpected quarter, there is now a rentier socialism, and it is interesting to note that while the London Times is full of schemes of great state enterprises, for the exploitation of Colonial state lands, for the state purchase and wholesaling of food and many natural products, and for the syndication of shipping and the great staple industries into vast trusts into which not only the British but the French and Italian governments may enter as partners, the so-called socialist press of Great Britain is chiefly busy about the draughts in the cell of Mr. Fenner Brockway and the refusal of Private Scott Duckers to put on his khaki trousers. The New Statesman and the Fabian Society, however, display a wider intelligence.
There is a great variety of suggestions for this increase of
public wealth and production. Many of them have an extreme reasonableness. The
extent to which they will be adopted depends, no doubt, very largely upon the
politician and permanent official, and both these classes are prone to panic in
the presence of reality. In spite of its own interests in restraining a rise in
prices, the old official "salariat" is likely to be obstructive to
any such innovations. It is the resistance of spurs and red tabs to military
innovations over again. This is the resistance of quills and red tape. On the
other hand the organisation of
But here comes in the question whether this common-sense
course is inevitable. Suppose the mental energy left in
It does not follow that because a course is the manifestly
right and advantageous course for the community that it will be taken. I am
reminded of this by a special basket in my study here, into which I pitch
letters, circulars, pamphlets and so forth as they come to hand from a
gentleman named Gattie, and his friends Mr. Adrian Ross, Mr. Roy Horniman, Mr.
Henry Murray and others. His particular project is the construction of a
Railway Clearing House for
In that fashion nothing will ever get done. There is no prosecution, but for all that I do not agree with Mr. Murray about the men he names. These gentlemen are just comfortable gentlemen, own brothers to these old generals of ours who will not take off their spurs. They are probably quite charming people except that they know nothing of that Fear of God which searches by heart. Why should they bother?
So many of these after-the-war problems bring one back to the question of how far the war has put the Fear of God into the hearts of responsible men. There is really no other reason in existence that I can imagine why they should ask themselves the question, "Have I done my best?" and that still more important question, "Am I doing my best now?" And so while I hear plenty of talk about the great reorganisations that are to come after the war, while there is the stir of doubt among the rentiers whether, after all, they will get paid, while the unavoidable stresses and sacrifices of the war are making many people question the rightfulness of much that they did as a matter of course, and of much that they took for granted, I perceive there is also something dull and not very articulate in this European world, something resistant and inert, that is like the obstinate rolling over of a heavy sleeper after he has been called upon to get up. "Just a little longer.... Just for my time."
One thought alone seems to make these more intractable people anxious. I thrust it in as my last stimulant when everything else has failed. "There will be frightful trouble with labour after the war," I say.
They try to persuade themselves that military discipline is breaking in labour....
What does British labour think of the outlook after the war?
As a distinctive thing British labour does not think.
"Class-conscious labour," as the Marxists put it, scarcely exists in
Labour feels very suspicious of private gain. For that suspicion a certain rather common type of employer is mainly to blame. Labour believes that employers is mainly to blame. Labour believes that employers as a class cheat workmen as a class, plan to cheat them of their full share in the common output, and drive hard bargains. It believes that private employers are equally ready to sacrifice the welfare of the nation and the welfare of the workers for mere personal advantage. It has a traditional experience to support these suspicions.
In no department of morals have ideas changed so completely during the last eight years as in relation to "profits". Eighty years ago everyone believed in the divine right of property to do what it pleased its advantages, a doctrine more disastrous socially than the divine right of kings. There was no such sense of the immorality of "holding up" as pervades the public conscience to-day. The worker was expected not only to work, but to be grateful for employment. The property owner held his property and handed it out for use and development or not, just as he thought fit. These ideas are not altogether extinct today. Only a few days ago I met a magnificent old lady of seventy nine or eighty, who discoursed upon the wickedness of her gardener in demanding another shilling a week because of war prices.
She was a valiant and handsome personage. A face that had still a healthy natural pinkness looked out from under blond curls, and an elegant and carefully tended hand tossed back some fine old lace to gesticulate more freely. She had previously charmed her hearers by sweeping aside certain rumours that were drifting about.
"Germans invade Us!" she cried. "Who'd let 'em, I'd like to know? Who'd let 'em?"
And then she reverted to her grievance about the gardener.
"I told him that after the war he'd be glad enough to get anything. Grateful! They'll all be coming back after the war—all of 'em, glad enough to get anything. Asking for another shilling indeed!"
Everyone who heard her looked shocked. But that was the tone
of everyone of importance in the dark years that followed the Napoleonic wars.
That is just one survivor of the old tradition. Another is Blight the
solicitor, who goes about bewailing the fact that we writers are "holding
out false hopes of higher agricultural wages after the war." But these are
both exceptions. They are held to be remarkable people even by their own class.
The mass of property owners and influential people in
War is an evil thing, but most people who will not learn from reason must have an ugly teacher. This war has brought home to everyone the supremacy of the public need over every sort of individual claim.
One of the most remarkable things in the British war press is the amount of space given to the discussion of labour developments after the war. This in its completeness peculiar to the British situation. Nothing on the same scale is perceptible in the press of the Latin allies. A great movement on the part of capitalists and business organisers is manifest to assure the worker of a change of heart and a will to change method. Labour is suspicious, not foolishly but wisely suspicious. But labour is considering it.
"National industrial syndication," say the business organisers.
"Guild socialism," say the workers.
There is also a considerable amount of talking and writing about "profit-sharing" and about giving the workers a share in the business direction. Neither of these ideas appeals to the shrewder heads among the workers. So far as direction goes their disposition is to ask the captain to command the ship. So far as profits go, they think the captain has no more right than the cabin boy to speculative gains; he should do his work for his pay whether it is profitable or unprofitable work. There is little balm for labour discontent in these schemes for making the worker also an infinitesimal profiteer.
During my journey in
I like N's ideas. "Practically," I said, "you've been a public official. You've treated your business like a public service."
That was his idea.
"Would you mind if it was a public service?"
He reflected, and some disagreeable memory darkened his face. "Under the politicians?" he said.
I took the train of thought N had set going abroad with me
next day. I had the good luck to meet men who were interesting industrially.
Captain Pirelli, my guide in
I met a British officer in
"How much land?" I asked.
"Just over nine thousand acres," he said.
"But you could manage forty or fifty thousand with little more trouble."
"If I had it. In some ways it would be easier."
"What a waste!" I said. "Of course you ought not to own these acres; what you ought to be is the agricultural controller of just as big an estate of the public lands as you could manage—with a suitable salary."
He reflected upon that idea. He said he did not get much of a salary out of his land as it was, and made a regrettable allusion to Mr. Lloyd George. "When a man tries to do his duty by his land," he said...
But here running through the thoughts of the Englishman and the Italian and the Frenchman and the American alike one finds just the same idea of a kind of officialdom in ownership. It is an idea that pervades our thought and public discussion to-day everywhere, and it is an idea that is scarcely traceable at all in the thought of the early half of the nineteenth century. The idea of service and responsibility in property has increased and is increasing, the conception of "hold-up," the usurer's conception of his right to be bought out of the way, fades. And the process has been enormously enhanced by the various big-scale experiments in temporary socialism that have been forced upon the belligerent powers. Men of the most individualistic quality are being educated up to the possibilities of concerted collective action. My friend and fellow-student Y, inventor and business organiser, who used to make the best steam omnibuses in the world, and who is now making all sorts of things for the army, would go pink with suspicious anger at the mere words "inspector" or "socialism" three or four years ago. He does not do so now.
A great proportion of this sort of man, this energetic
directive sort of man in
The impression I have of the present mental process in the European communities is that while the official class and the rentier class is thinking very poorly and inadequately and with a merely obstructive disposition; while the churches are merely wasting their energies in futile self-advertisement; while the labour mass is suspicious and disposed to make terms for itself rather than come into any large schemes of reconstruction that will abolish profit as a primary aim in economic life, there is still a very considerable movement towards such a reconstruction. Nothing is so misleading as a careless analogy. In the dead years that followed the Napoleonic wars, which are often quoted as a precedent for expectation now, the spirit of collective service was near its minimum; it was never so strong and never so manifestly spreading and increasing as it is to-day.
But service to what?
I have my own very strong preconceptions here, and since my
temperament is sanguine they necessarily colour my view. I believe that this
impulse to collective service can satisfy itself only under the formula that
mankind is one state of which God is the undying king, and that the service of
men's collective needs is the true worship of God. But eagerly as I would grasp
at any evidence that this idea is being developed and taken up by the general
consciousness, I am quite unable to persuade myself that anything of the sort
is going on. I do perceive a search for large forms into which the prevalent
impulse to devotion can be thrown. But the organised religious bodies, with
their creeds and badges and their instinct for self-preservation at any cost,
stand between men and their spiritual growth in just the same way the
forestallers stand between men and food. Their activities at present are an
almost intolerable nuisance. One cannot say "God" but some tout is
instantly seeking to pluck one into his particular cave of flummery and
orthodoxy. What a rational man means by God is just God. The more you define
and argue about God the more he remains the same simple thing. Judaism,
Christianity, Islam, modern Hindu religious thought, all agree in declaring
that there is one God, master and leader of all mankind, in unending conflict
with cruelty, disorder, folly and waste. To my mind, it follows immediately
that there can be no king, no government of any sort, which is not either a
subordinate or a rebel government, a local usurpation, in the
This conviction that the world kingdom of God is the only true method of human service, is so clear and final in my own mind, it seems so inevitably the conviction to which all right-thinking men must ultimately come, that I feel almost like a looker-on at a game of blind-man's bluff as I watch the discussion of synthetic political ideas. The blind man thrusts his seeking hands into the oddest corners, he clutches at chairs and curtains, but at last he must surely find and hold and feel over and guess the name of the plainly visible quarry.
Some of the French and Italian people I talked to said they
were fighting for "Civilisation." That is one name for the
Not at all. But because otherwise
this strange sprawling empire of ours will drop back into a secondary place in
the world. These two writers really seem to think that the slack workman, the
slacker wealthy man, the negligent official, the conservative schoolmaster, the
greedy usurer, the comfortable obstructive, confronted with this alternative,
terrified at this idea of something or other called the Empire being
"eclipsed," eager for the continuance of this undefined glory over
their fellow-creatures called "Empire," will perceive the error of
their ways and become energetic, devoted, capable. They think an ideal of that
sort is going to change the daily lives of men.... I sympathise with their
purpose, and I deplore their conception of motives. If men will not give
themselves for righteousness, they will not give themselves for a geographical
score. If they will not work well for the hatred of bad work, they will not
work well for the hatred of Germans. This "Empire" idea has been
cadging about the
The blind man must lunge again.
For when the right answer is seized it answers not only the question why men should work for their fellow-men but also why nation should cease to arm and plan and contrive against nation. The social problem is only the international problem in retail, the international problem is only the social one in gross.
My bias rules me altogether here. I see men in social, in
economic and in international affairs alike, eager to put an end to conflict,
inexpressibly weary of conflict and the waste and pain and death it involves.
But to end conflict one must abandon aggressive or uncordial pretensions.
Labour is sick at the idea of more strikes and struggles after the war,
industrialism is sick of competition and anxious for service, everybody is sick
of war. But how can they end any of these clashes except by the definition and
recognition of a common end which will establish a standard for the trial of
every conceivable issue, to which, that is, every other issue can be
subordinated; and what common end can there be in all the world except this
idea of the world kingdom of God? What is the good of orienting one's devotion
to a firm, or to class solidarity, or La Republique Francais, or Poland, or
Albania, or such love and loyalty as people profess for King George or King
Albert or the Duc d'Orleans—it puzzles me why—or any such intermediate object
of self-abandonment? We need a standard so universal that the platelayer may
say to the barrister or the duchess, or the Red Indian to the Limehouse sailor,
or the Anzac soldier to the Sinn Feiner or the Chinaman, "What are we two
doing for it?" And to fill the place of that "it," no other idea
is great enough or commanding enough, but only the world
However long he may have to hunt, the blind man who is seeking service and an end to bickerings will come to that at last, because of all the thousand other things he may clutch at, nothing else can satisfy his manifest need.
About the end of the war there are two chief ways of thinking, there is a simpler sort of mind which desires merely a date, and a more complex kind which wants particulars. To the former class belong most of the men out at the front. They are so bored by this war that they would welcome any peace that did not definitely admit defeat—and examine the particulars later. The "tone" of the German army, to judge by its captured letters, is even lower. It would welcome peace in any form. Never in the whole history of the world has a war been so universally unpopular as this war.
The mind of the soldier is obsessed by a vision of home-coming for good, so vivid and alluring that it blots out nearly every other consideration. The visions of people at home are of plenty instead of privation, lights up, and the cessation of a hundred tiresome restrictions. And it is natural therefore that a writer rather given to guesses and forecasts should be asked very frequently to guess how long the war has still to run.
All such forecasting is the very wildest of shooting. There
are the chances of war to put one out, and of a war that changes far faster
than the military intelligence. I have made various forecasts. At the outset I
thought that military
Since then I have made some other attempts. I did not
prophesy at all in 1915, so far as I can remember. If I had I should certainly
have backed the Gallipoli attempt to win. It was the right thing to do, and it
was done abominably. It should have given us Constantinople and brought
There can be no doubt that the Western allies are playing a winning game upon the western front, and that this is the front of decision now. It is not in doubt that they are beating the Germans and shoving them back. The uncertain factor is the rate at which they are shoving them back. If they can presently get to so rapid an advance as to bring the average rate since July 1st up to two or three miles a day, then we shall still see the Allies dictating terms. But if the shove drags on at its present pace of less than a mile and four thousand prisoners a week over the limited Somme front only, if nothing is attempted elsewhere to increase the area of pressure, [*This was written originally before the French offensive at Verdun.] then the intolerable stress and boredom of the war will bring about a peace long before the Germans are decisively crushed. But the war, universally detested, may go on into 1918 or 1919. Food riots, famine, and general disorganisation will come before 1920, if it does. The Allies have a winning game before them, but they seem unable to discover and promote the military genius needed to harvest an unquestionable victory. In the long run this may not be an unmixed evil. Victory, complete and dramatic, may be bought too dearly. We need not triumphs out of this war but the peace of the world.
This war is altogether unlike any previous war, and its
ending, like its development, will follow a course of its own. For a time
people's minds ran into the old grooves, the Germans were going nach
None of the combatants expected such a war as this, and the
consequence is that the world at large has no idea how to get out of it. The
war may stay with us like a schoolboy caller, because it does not know how to
go. The Italians said as much to me. "Suppose we get to
There is the clearest evidence that nearly everyone is
anxious to get out of the war now. Nobody at all, except perhaps a few people
who may be called to account, and a handful of greedy profit-seekers, wants to
keep it going. Quietly perhaps and unobtrusively, everyone I know is now trying
to find the way out of the war, and I am convinced that the same is the case in
At present three programmes are before the world of the way
in which the war can be ended. The first of these assumes a complete
predominance of our Allies. It has been stated in general terms by Mr. Asquith.
Evacuation, reparation, due punishment of those responsible
for the war, and guarantees that nothing of the sort shall happen again.
There is as yet no mention of the nature of these guarantees. Just exactly what
is to happen to
Yet it is hard to say how they can be modified on either
side, if the war is to be decided only between the belligerents and by
standards of national interest only, without reference to any other
considerations. Our Allies would be insane to leave the Hohenzollern at the end
of the war with a knife in his hand, after the display he has made of his
quality. To surrender his knife means for the Hohenzollern the abandonment of
his dreams, the repudiation of the entire education and training of
That is what the finer intelligences of
A point of departure for very much thinking in this matter
is the recent speech of President Wilson that heralded the present discussion.
All Europe was impressed by the truth, and by President Wilson's recognition of
the truth, that from any other great war after this
And further I would go on to ask, is not this present exchange of Notes, appealing to the common sense of the world, really the beginning, and the proper beginning, of the unprecedented Peace Negotiations to end this unprecedented war? And, I submit, the longer this open discussion goes on before the doors close upon the secret peace congress the better for mankind.
Let me sketch out here what I conceive to be the essentials
of a world settlement. Some of the items are the mere commonplaces of everyone
who discusses this question; some are less frequently insisted upon. I have
been joining up one thing to another, suggestions I have heard from this man
and that, and I believe that it is really possible to state a solution that
will be acceptable to the bulk of reasonable men all about the world. Directly
we put the panic-massacres of Dinant and
In the first place, it is agreed that there would have to be an identical treaty between all the great powers of the world binding them to certain things. It would have to provide:—
That the few great industrial states capable of producing modern war equipment should take over and control completely the manufacture of all munitions of war in the world. And that they should absolutely close the supply of such material to all the other states in the world. This is a far easier task than many people suppose. War has now been so developed on its mechanical side that the question of its continuance or abolition rests now entirely upon four or five great powers.
Next comes the League of Peace idea; that there should be an International Tribunal for the discussion and settlement of international disputes. That the dominating powers should maintain land and sea forces only up to a limit agreed upon and for internal police use only or for the purpose of enforcing the decisions of the Tribunal. That they should all be bound to attack and suppress any power amongst them which increases its war equipment beyond its defined limits.
That much has already been broached in several quarters. But
so far is not enough. It ignores the chief processes of that economic war that
aids and abets and is inseparably a part of modern international conflicts. If
we are to go as far as we have already stated in the matter of international
controls, then we must go further and provide that the International Tribunal
should have power to consider and set aside all tariffs and localised
privileges that seem grossly unfair or seriously irritating between the various
states of the world. It should have power to pass or revise all new tariff, quarantine, alien exclusion, or the like legislation
affecting international relations. Moreover, it should take over and extend the
work of the International Bureau of Agriculture at
Now upon this issue people do not seem to me to be yet
thinking very clearly. It is the exception to find anyone among the peace
talkers who really grasps how inseparably the necessity for free access for
everyone to natural products, to coal and tropical products, e.g. free shipping
at non-discriminating tariffs, and the recognition by a Tribunal of the
principle of common welfare in trade matters, is bound up with the ideal of a
permanent world peace. But any peace that does not provide for these things
will be merely laying down of the sword in order to take up the cudgel. And a
"peace" that did not rehabilitate industrial
These things being arranged for the future, it would be
further necessary to set up an International Boundary Commission, subject to
certain defining conditions agreed upon by the belligerents, to re-draw the map
of Europe, Asia, and
Moreover this International Tribunal, if it was indeed to prevent war, would need also to have power to intervene in the affairs of any country or region in a state of open and manifest disorder, for the protection of foreign travellers and of persons and interests localised in that country but foreign to it.
Such an agreement as I have here sketched out would at once
lift international politics out of the bloody and hopeless squalor of the
present conflict. It is, I venture to assert, the
peace of the reasonable man in any country whatever. But it needs the attention
of such a disengaged people as the American people to work it out and supply it
with—weight. It needs putting before the world with some sort of authority
greater than its mere entire reasonableness. Otherwise it will not come before
the minds of ordinary men with the effect of a practicable proposition. I do
not see any such plant springing from the European battlefields. It is
In throwing out the suggestion that
I do not know how far Americans are aware of the trend of
I set these things down plainly. There is a very strong
disposition in all the European countries to believe
Let me relate two trivial anecdotes.
X came to my hotel in
"Oh! These Americans!" said X with a gesture.
And as I returned to
My companions were French writers and French military men, and they were discussing with very keen interest that persistent question, "the ideal battery." But that ambulance sent a shaft of light into our carriage, and we stared together.
Then Colonel Z pointed with two fingers and remarked to us, without any excess of admiration:
Then he shrugged his shoulders and pulled down the corners of his mouth.
We felt there was nothing more to add to that, and after a little pause the previous question was resumed.
I state these things in order to make it clear that
And I will further confess that when Viscount Grey answered
the intimations of President Wilson and ex-President Taft of an American
initiative to found a World League for Peace, by asking if
Every country is a mixture of many strands. There is a Base
America, there is a Dull America, there is an Ideal
and Heroic America. And I am convinced that at present
All about the world to-day goes a certain
freemasonry of thought. It is an impalpable and hardly conscious union of
intention. It thinks not in terms of national but human experience; it falls
into directions and channels of thinking that lead inevitably to the idea of a
world-state under the rule of one righteousness. In no
part of the world is this modern type of mind so abundantly developed, less
impeded by antiquated and perverse political and religious forms, and nearer
the sources of political and administrative power, than in
The idea that the settlement of this war must be what one might call an unimpassioned settlement or, if you will, a scientific settlement or a judicial and not a treaty settlement, a settlement, that is, based upon some conception of what is right and necessary rather than upon the relative success or failure of either set of belligerents to make its Will the standard of decision, is one that, in a great variety of forms and partial developments, I find gaining ground in the most different circles. The war was an adventure, it was the German adventure under the Hohenzollern tradition, to dominate the world. It was to be the last of the Conquests. It has failed. Without calling upon the reserve strength of America the civilised world has defeated it, and the war continues now partly upon the issue whether it shall be made for ever impossible, and partly because Germany has no organ but its Hohenzollern organisation through which it can admit its failure and develop its latent readiness for a new understanding on lines of mutual toleration. For that purpose nothing more reluctant could be devised than Hohenzollern imperialism. But the attention of every new combatant—it is not only Germany now—has been concentrated upon military necessities; every nation is a clenched nation, with its powers of action centred in its own administration, bound by many strategic threats and declarations, and dominated by the idea of getting and securing advantages. It is inevitable that a settlement made in a conference of belligerents alone will be shortsighted, harsh, limited by merely incidental necessities, and obsessed by the idea of hostilities and rivalries continuing perennially; it will be a trading of advantages for subsequent attacks. It will be a settlement altogether different in effect as well as in spirit from a world settlement made primarily to establish a new phase in the history of mankind.
Let me take three instances of the impossibility of complete victory on either side giving a solution satisfactory to the conscience and intelligence of reasonable men.
The first—on which I will not expatiate, for everyone knows
of its peculiar difficulty—is
The second is a little one, but one that has taken hold of
my imagination. In the settlement of boundaries preceding this war the boundary
For my third instance I would step from a matter as small as
three market towns and the grazing of a few thousand head of sheep to a matter
as big as the world. What is going to happen to the shipping of the world after
this war? The Germans, with that combination of cunning and stupidity which
baffles the rest of mankind, have set themselves to destroy the mercantile
marine not merely of
It has been the peculiar boast of
Now how in any of these three cases can the bargaining and
trickery of diplomatists and the advantage-hunting of the belligerents produce
any stable and generally beneficial solution? What all the neutrals want, what
every rational and far-sighted man in the belligerent countries wants, what the
common sense of the whole world demands, is neither the "ascendancy"
of Germany nor the "ascendancy" of Great Britain nor the
"ascendancy" of any state or people or interest in the shipping of
the world. The plain right thing is a world shipping control, as impartial as
the Postal Union. What right and reason and the welfare of coming generations
I sketch out these ideas of a world pacification from a
third-party standpoint, because I find them crystallising out in men's minds. I
note how men discuss the suggestion that
The most dangerous thing in the business so far is concerned
is the wide disregard of the fact that national economic fighting is bound to
cause war, and the almost universal ignorance of the necessity of subjecting
shipping and overseas and international trade to some kind of international
control. These two things, restraint of trade and advantage of shipping, are
the chief material causes of anger between modern states. But they would not be
in themselves dangerous things if it were not for the exaggerated delusions of
kind and difference, and the crack-brained "loyalties" arising out of
these, that seem still to rule men's minds. Years ago I came to the conviction
that much of the evil in human life was due to the inherent vicious disposition
of the human mind to intensify classification.[*See my
"First and Last Things," Book
There is in all of us an indolent capacity for suffering evil and dangerous things, that I contemplate each year of my life with a deepening incredulity. I perceive we suffer them; I record the futile protests of the intelligence. It seems to me incredible that men should not rise up out of this muddy, bloody, wasteful mess of a world war, with a resolution to end for ever the shams, the prejudices, the pretences and habits that have impoverished their lives, slaughtered our sons, and wasted the world, a resolution so powerful and sustained that nothing could withstand it.
But it is not apparent that any such will arises. Does it
appear at all? I find it hard to answer that question because my own answer
varies with my mood. There are moods when it seems to me that nothing of the
sort is happening. This war has written its warning in letters of blood and
flame and anguish in the skies of mankind for two years and a half. When I look
for the collective response to that warning, I see a multitude of little chaps
crawling about their private ends like mites in an old cheese. The kings are
still in their places, not a royal prince has been killed in this otherwise universal
slaughter; when the fatuous portraits of the monarchs flash upon the screen the
widows and orphans still break into loyal song. The ten thousand religions of
mankind are still ten thousand religions, all busy at keeping men apart and
hostile. I see scarcely a measurable step made anywhere towards that world
And then on the other hand I am aware of much quiet talking. This book tells of how I set out to see the war, and it is largely conversation.... Perhaps men have always expected miracles to happen; if one had always lived in the night and only heard tell of the day, I suppose one would have expected dawn to come as a vivid flash of light. I suppose one would still think it was night long after the things about one had crept out of the darkness into visibility. In comparison with all previous wars there has been much more thinking and much more discussion. If most of the talk seems to be futile, if it seems as if everyone were talking and nobody doing, it does not follow that things are not quietly slipping and sliding out of their old adjustments amidst the babble and because of the babble. Multitudes of men must be struggling with new ideas. It is reasonable to argue that there must be reconsideration, there must be time, before these millions of mental efforts can develop into a new collective purpose and really show—in consequences.
But that they will do so is my hope always and, on the
whole, except in moods of depression and impatience, my belief. When one has
travelled to a conviction so great as mine it is
difficult to doubt that other men faced by the same universal facts will not
come to the same conclusion. I believe that only through a complete
simplification o religion to its fundamental idea, to a world-wide realisation
of God as the king of the heart and of all mankind, setting aside monarchy and
national egotism altogether, can mankind come to any certain happiness and
security. The precedent of Islam helps my faith in the creative inspiration of
such a renascence of religion. The Sikh, the Moslem, the Puritan have shown
that men can fight better for a Divine Idea than for any flag or monarch in the
world. It seems to me that illusions fade and effigies lose credit everywhere.
It is a very wonderful thing to me that