The Glory of the Trenches | Page 2

the windows and a
fire-escape. This public appreciation of his message indicated a value in
it which he had not suspected, and led him to recognise that what he
had to say was worthy of more than a fugitive utterance on a public
platform. He at once took up the task of writing this book, with a
genuine and delighted surprise that he had not lost his love of
authorship. He had but a month to devote to it, but by dint of daily
diligence, amid many interruptions of a social nature, he finished his
task before he left. The concluding lines were actually written on the
last night before he sailed for England.
We discussed several titles for the book. The Religion of Heroism was
the title suggested by Mr. John Lane, but this appeared too didactic and
restrictive. I suggested Souls in Khaki, but this admirable title had
already been appropriated. Lastly, we decided on The Glory of the
Trenches, as the most expressive of his aim. He felt that a great deal too
much had been said about the squalor, filth, discomfort and suffering of
the trenches. He pointed out that a very popular war-book which we
were then reading had six paragraphs in the first sixty pages which
described in unpleasant detail the verminous condition of the men, as if
this were the chief thing to be remarked concerning them. He held that
it was a mistake for a writer to lay too much stress on the horrors of
war. The effect was bad physiologically--it frightened the parents of

soldiers; it was equally bad for the enlisted man himself, for it created a
false impression in his mind. We all knew that war was horrible, but as
a rule the soldier thought little of this feature in his lot. It bulked large
to the civilian who resented inconvenience and discomfort, because he
had only known their opposites; but the soldier's real thoughts were
concerned with other things. He was engaged in spiritual acts. He was
accomplishing spiritual purposes as truly as the martyr of faith and
religion. He was moved by spiritual impulses, the evocation of duty,
the loyal dependence of comradeship, the spirit of sacrifice, the
complete surrender of the body to the will of the soul. This was the side
of war which men needed most to recognise. They needed it not only
because it was the true side, but because nothing else could kindle and
sustain the enduring flame of heroism in men's hearts.
While some erred in exhibiting nothing but the brutalities of war, others
erred by sentimentalising war. He admitted that it was perfectly
possible to paint a portrait of a soldier with the aureole of a saint, but it
would not be a representative portrait. It would be eclectic, the result of
selection elimination. It would be as unlike the common average as
Rupert Brooke, with his poet's face and poet's heart, was unlike the
ordinary naval officers with whom he sailed to the AEgean.
The ordinary soldier is an intensely human creature, with an "endearing
blend of faults and virtues." The romantic method of portraying him not
only misrepresented him, but its result is far less impressive than a
portrait painted in the firm lines of reality. There is an austere grandeur
in the reality of what he is and does which needs no fine gilding from
the sentimentalist. To depict him as a Sir Galahad in holy armour is as
serious an offence as to exhibit him as a Caliban of marred clay; each
method fails of truth, and all that the soldier needs to be known about
him, that men should honour him, is the truth.
What my son aimed at in writing this book was to tell the truth about
the men who were his comrades, in so far as it was given him to see it.
He was in haste to write while the impression was fresh in his mind, for
he knew how soon the fine edge of these impressions grew dull as they
receded from the immediate area of vision. "If I wait till the war is over,

I shan't be able to write of it at all," he said. "You've noticed that old
soldiers are very often silent men. They've had their crowded hours of
glorious life, but they rarely tell you much about them. I remember you
used to tell me that you once knew a man who sailed with Napoleon to
St Helena, but all he could tell you was that Napoleon had a fine leg
and wore white silk stockings. If he'd written down his impressions of
Napoleon day by day as he watched him walking the deck of the
Bellerophon, he'd have told you a great deal more about him