Out To Win | Page 8

foes are war-haters--war-haters to such an extent
that their principles at times have almost shipwrecked their careers. In
England our example is Lloyd George. Throughout the Anglo-Saxon
world the slumbering spirit of Cromwell's Ironsides has sprung to life,
reminding the British Empire and the United States of their common
ancestry. After a hundred and forty years of drifting apart, we stand
side by side like our forefathers, the fighting pacifists at Naseby; like
them, having failed to make men good with words, we will hew them
into virtue with the sword.
At the end of June I went back to Blighty wounded. One of my most
vivid recollections of the time that followed is an early morning in July;
it must have been among the first of the days that I was allowed out of
hospital. London was green and leafy. The tracks of the tramways
shone like silver in the sunlight. There was a spirit of release and
immense good humour abroad. My course followed the river on the
south side, all a-dance with wind and little waves. As I crossed the
bridge at Westminster I became aware of an atmosphere of expectation.
Subconsciously I must have been noticing it for some time. Along
Whitehall the pavements were lined with people, craning their necks,
joking and jostling, each trying to better his place. Trafalgar Square
was jammed with a dense mass of humanity, through which mounted
police pushed their way solemnly, like beadles in a vast unroofed
cathedral. Then for the first time I noticed what I ought to have noticed
long before, that the Stars and Stripes were exceptionally prevalent.
Upon inquiry I was informed that this was the day on which the first of
the American troops were to march. I picked up with a young officer or
the Dublin Fusiliers and together we forced our way down Pall Mall to
the office of The Cecil Rhodes Oxford Scholars' Foundation. From here
we could watch the line of march from Trafalgar Square to
Marlborough House. While we waited, I scanned the
group-photographs on the walls, some of which contained portraits of

German Rhodes Scholars with whom I had been acquainted. I
remembered how they had always spent their vacations in England,
assiduously bicycling to the most unexpected places. In the light of
later developments I thought I knew the reason.
Suddenly, far away bands struck up. We thronged the windows, leaning
out that we might miss nothing. Through the half mile of people that
stretched between us and the music a shudder of excitement was
running. Then came cheers--the deep-throated babel of men's voices
and the shrill staccato of women's. "They're coming," some one cried;
then I saw them.
I forget which regiment lead. The Coldstreams were there, the Scotch
and Welsh Guards, the Irish Guards with their saffron kilts and green
ribbons floating from their bag-pipes. A British regimental band
marched ahead of each American regiment to do it honour. Down the
sunlit canyon of Pall Mall they swung to the tremendous cheering of
the crowd. Quite respectable citizens had climbed lamp-posts and
railings, and were waving their hats. I caught the words that were being
shouted, "Are we downhearted?" Then, in a fierce roar of denial, "No!"
It was a wonderful ovation--far more wonderful than might have been
expected from a people who had grown accustomed to the sight of
troops during the last three years. The genuineness of the welcome was
patent; it was the voice of England that was thundering along the
pavements.
I was anxious to see the quality of the men which America had sent.
They drew near; then I saw them plainly. They were fine strapping
chaps, broad of shoulder and proudly independent. They were not
soldiers yet; they were civilians who had been rushed into khaki. Their
equipment was of every kind and sort and spoke eloquently of the hurry
in which they had been brought together. That meant much to us in
London-much more than if they had paraded with all the "spit and
polish" of the crack troops who led them. It meant to us that America
was doing her bit at the earliest date possible.
The other day, here in France, I met an officer of one of those
battalions; he told me the Americans' side of the story. They were
expert railroad troops, picked out of civilian life and packed off to
England without any pretence at military training. When they were
informed that they were to be the leading feature in a London

procession, many of them even lacked uniforms. With true American
democracy of spirit, the officers stripped their rank-badges from their
spare tunics and lent them to the privates, who otherwise could not
have marched.
"I'm satisfied," my friend said, "that there were Londoners