NOT UNDERSTOOD.

Do not believe that we of the New Army are blood-thirsty Bernhardis, always talking about offensives and what not. Not a bit of it! Ninety-nine per cent. of us loathe the whole business, and seventy-five per cent. are opponents of militarism. Indeed, I think we may rightly be described as an army of pacifists in defence of our beliefs. No decent-minded Briton desires to compete with the brutal philosophy of the Hun. The man who says he likes war is either a liar or a Shylock in the supply department. The best way to end war is for the German nation to reduce the German General Staff to the ranks, and let them suffer such a bombardment as we gave the German Tommies prior to the battle of the Somme.

Shell-fire kills militarism.

The great New Army is a successful army, because it has a cause. Its moral is largely based on our love of freedom, truth, ease, and peace at our own fireside. We are a peace-loving people. A navy we have always regarded as an expensive business, the army as a luxury, war as a d—— nuisance and a most uncomfortable affair. War interferes with our commerce, our studies, our games, and our pleasures. War kills and mangles men who have been made in the image of God. It wrecks nations, countries, and homes; brings into millions of lives suffering, poverty, anger, despair, madness, and soul-racking sorrow. It is the most foul, ghastly, ungodly thing that man ever created.

War is hell—a suffering hell, a grisly hell.

Every man in the New Army thinks that. And it is most important you should realise our point of view; otherwise you will be unable to understand our psychology, and the reason for our carrying on. Of course, you may never have heard that side before. You are not to blame. Newspaper correspondents at the front send home the most awful ‘tripe’ about us. They actually dare to say we ‘like it.’ When we read such things we laugh. Perhaps the poor devils are not entirely at fault. Some bright gent who is director-general of moral may consider it necessary that they should produce this piffle. But such a view is rather an insult to our education. We can penetrate official camouflage, sometimes enjoy it, but all the same this sort of stuff is not good for the army or the nation. It breeds illusions. Illusions of this order eventually become a danger to the State. Much better to speak the truth, to show war in all its vile nakedness—show it in operation with blood, bayonets, and a brutal barrage blowing horses and men to bits, and motor-cars sky-high. Britishers can face this, for we are a race of stoics. But what Britishers cannot understand is that extraordinary diplomacy which says we must camouflage heavy casualties, hide disasters, whitewash blunders, and instil in the minds of a shivering British public that the Front is really ‘not so bad as they say.’ The Front is a vile and a hellish place.

But it was the Germans who made it so.

That is the whole alphabet of our cause. We are in this military business because we hate it. The position is such that if we refuse to fight, our lives, our homes, our businesses, our mothers, wives, and sweethearts, will be at the mercy of that awful devil who says he is the image of God—the Kaiser. We must fight, or fizzle out. Snowden, Ramsay Macdonald, and men of that kidney are foolish and dangerous counsellors. Their methods, if successful, mean that Pacifism—the true Pacifism—is dead for ever, and we should be compelled to deify the sword and applaud the philosophy which condones rape, murder, burglary, and all the abominable dogmas of Berlin.

And yet our instructors never took up that line.

Very few of the Old Army men have plumbed the depths of the New Army. Privately, we think many of them are afraid of our intellects. They seldom get down to earth with us, and often seek refuge in the discipline which can hold us off. They are brave men, and, with a few exceptions, are gentlemen. But they believe we are swashbuckling imperialists, when in reality we are pacifists fighting for peace now and—for ever. The professional military mind is in many ways admirable. It is honest, direct, and cannot compromise. When it damns, it damns. But it is not elastic; it takes in slowly. Even now, after four years of war, you will not get 50 per cent. of Old Army men to give you a correct analysis of our psychology. This is a pity, and accounts for any friction of which you may hear.

At the school we were not understood.

Apparently it is considered indispensable to give ‘the new fellows’ a lot of talk about the King, the Empire, the Cause, and ‘the Correct Thing.’ This is quite all right when presented by capable men, who will at least recognise that we have been to school. But when an old red-cheeked blunderbuss pops into the school on a visit of inspection, and commences to ladle out this stuff like a Jingo orator on a soap-box, we squirm and silently rebel. We hate all this empty talk. Our King, our Empire, and ‘the Correct Thing’ have nothing to do with the making of this war. It is the Germans’ war—the Kaiser’s war. Lip-service is of little use to the monarchy or the Empire. We are not flag-waggers. We are plain, home-loving shopkeepers in arms. We do not question the right of King George or ignore the Empire’s existence; but we are all determined, with the aid of God, bayonet, and high explosive, to root out the Kaiser, his chiefs, and all their works, because they and their foul gospel mean the moral ruin and the brutal domination of the world. On enlistment, when we held up our hands and swore by Almighty God ‘to defend His Majesty, his heirs and successors,’ we meant it; but we do think that in our terms of service there should be a contract that we be understood.

For all that, you must not believe that we New Army men resent intelligent discipline or intelligent superiors. Oh no! We, I think, have the ability to distinguish between the system and the men who live under it. While we hate militarism, we have a deep and lasting affection for many of the professional soldiers. And it is this personal bond between officers and men that has helped to make the New Army effective. Their views are not our views, but their personal devotion and example are priceless assets in such a war. Indeed, the good officer is usually a good man. What always impressed us was the strong religious convictions of men like Maude, Kitchener, and Robertson. Example is the keynote of the true British officer. There are many instances to prove my contention. General Maude in Mesopotamia ordered all his officers and men to refrain from drinking or eating anything offered by a native. Yet, when receiving a native deputation, who offered him the hospitality of the country, he, like a courteous gentleman, realising how hurt and offended these simple natives would be if he refused, took the proffered cup, which reeked of cholera, and—DIED. There is no greater example of chivalry, and it is just that sort of chivalry which has endeared the best men of the Old Army to all in the New.

Again, there is that noble story of an air-raid on London when our barrage was rotten, and somebody in the War Office phoned to an aerodrome for some one to go up.

‘We can’t. The weather’s against us. It’s suicide,’ replied the air commander.

‘You must do something,’ was the final order.

The air commander, realising that it simply meant ordering a junior to go to his death, went up himself, and was KILLED!

In Mesopotamia, a naval cutter was ordered to rush a bridge and break the boom across the river. The commander knew it meant death to the man who did it. So he took the hatchet himself, jumped over the bow, and commenced to hack at the hawsers. He was shot DEAD.

Now, this sort of thing, and this sort of man, we appreciate. Personal bravery is a quality which can stir and develop the best in tyros at the military game. It was these glorious soldiers who gave the New Army the confidence to go on, the ability to stick it, and showed us the need for some sort of discipline, and the use of comradeship and esprit de corps to effect our purpose. What I want you to appreciate thoroughly is this: Militarism is a hateful creed, but the military life does show whether a man has ‘guts.’ War is not our business as a nation, but in war we, I think, are one of the toughest and bravest peoples on earth. The forte of the New Army is its intelligent grasp of the principles for which we are fighting. But only one British general has said we are out to destroy the brutal doctrines of war.

That general was Sir William Robertson.

Now, at the school we got all sorts of excellent technical stuff which was absolutely necessary, and which we thoroughly appreciated. But we did not get what I have been writing about. We often talked about this. And all of us were agreed that it is dangerous to neglect the frank discussion of the principles, the politics, and the creeds which affect a nation in arms. War to-day is a complicated business. An officer must not only have mastered the technicalities of the military profession; he must be acquainted with the broad principles of high policy which guide the action of his army. He must appreciate the value of moral, and the need of educating it and sustaining it. But he cannot do so if he ignores the principles for which five millions have enlisted. It is all very well to know how to ‘form fours’ and ‘slope arms;’ but if an officer cannot distinguish Hindenburg from Liebknecht, Lloyd George from Lenin, Enver Pasha from the simple Turk, or Clemenceau from Bolo, then he is NOT educated. This knowledge can be given either in pamphlet form or in a couple of lectures. At present the voice of the New Army man is drowned by the louder cries of ‘the old school.’

I am only a youthful person at this business, but I do feel that in this great and terrible war we should have an opportunity to pop our ideas into a collecting-box which will be taken direct to the War Office and opened by a bright, sympathetic young soldier of the General Staff.

Sir Henry Wilson will agree.

He, like General Maude, is a man of imagination.