Out To Win | Page 3

giving becomes a habit. One becomes eager to be allowed to give
all--to keep none of life's small change. The fury of an ideal enfevers us.
We become fanatical to outdo our own best record in self-surrender.
Many of us, if we are alive when peace is declared, will feel an uneasy
reproach that perhaps we did not give enough.
This being the spirit of our soldiers, it is easy to understand their
contempt for those civilians who go on strike, prate of weariness,
scream their terror when a few Hun planes sail over London, devote
columns in their papers to pin-prick tragedies of food-shortage, and
cloud the growing generosity between England and America by
cavilling criticisms and mean reflections. Their contempt is not that of
the fighter for the man of peace; but the scorn of the man who is doing
his duty for the shirker.

A Tommy is reading a paper in a muddy trench. Suddenly he scowls,
laughs rather fiercely and calls to his pal, jerking his head as a sign to
him to hurry. "'Ere Bill, listen to wot this 'ere cry-baby says. 'E thinks
we're losin' the bloomin' war 'cause 'e didn't get an egg for breakfast.
Losin' the war! A lot 'e knows abart it. A blinkin' lot 'e's done either to
win or lose it. Yus, I don't think! Thank Gawd, we've none of 'is sort up
front."
To men who have gazed for months with the eyes of visionaries on
sudden death, it comes as a shock to discover that back there, where life
is so sweetly certain, fear still strides unabashed. They had thought that
fear was dead--stifled by heroism. They had believed that personal
littleness had given way before the magnanimity of martyrdom.
In this plea, then, for a firmer Anglo-American friendship I address the
civilian populations of both countries. The fate of such a friendship is
in their hands. In the Eden of national destinies God is walking; yet
there are those who bray their ancient grievances so loudly that they all
but drown the sound of His footsteps.
Being an Englishman it will be more courteous to commence with the
fools of my own flesh and blood. Let me paint a contrast.
Last October I sailed back from New York with a company of
American officers; they consisted in the main of trained airmen, Navy
experts and engineers. Before my departure the extraordinary sternness
of America, her keenness to rival her allies in self-denial, her willing
mobilisation of all her resources, had confirmed my optimism gained in
the trenches, that the Allies must win; the mere thought of compromise
was impossible and blasphemous. This optimism was enhanced on the
voyage by the conduct of the officers who were my companions. They
carried their spirit of dedication to an excess that was almost irksome.
They refused to play cards. They were determined not to relax. Every
minute they could snatch was spent in studying text-books. Their
country had come into the war so late that they resented any moment
lost from making themselves proficient. When expostulated with they
explained themselves by saying, "When we've done our bit it will be
time to amuse ourselves." They were dull company, but, in a time of
war, inspiring. All their talk was of when they reached England. Their
enthusiasm for the Britisher was such that they expected to be swept
into a rarer atmosphere by the closer contact with heroism.

We had an Englishman with us--obviously a consumptive. He typified
for them the doggedness of British pluck. He had been through the
entire song and dance of the Mexican Revolution; a dozen times he had
been lined up against a wall to be shot. From Mexico he had escaped to
New York, hoping to be accepted by the British military authorities.
Not unnaturally he had been rejected. The purpose of his voyage to the
Old Country was to try his luck with the Navy. He held his certificate
as a highly qualified marine engineer. No one could persuade him that
he was not wanted. "I could last six months," he said, "it would be
something. Heaps of chaps don't last as long."
This man, a crock in every sense, hurrying back to help his country,
symbolised for every American aboard the unconquerable courage of
Great Britain. If you hadn't the full measure of years to give, give what
was left, even though it were but six months. I may add that in England
his services were accepted. His persistence refused to be disregarded.
When red-tape stopped his progress, he used back-stairs strategy. No
one could bar him from his chance of serving.
In believing that he represented the Empire at its best, my Americans
were not mistaken. There are thousands fighting to-day who share