‘THE BOYS.’

One thing the school, the war, and my regiment developed; that was a love of my comrades—’The Boys.’ What a delightful term! So human! So reminiscent of youth and fun and joy! Each day strengthened this love, till it became almost a passion. This was the true Democracy, for ‘The Boys’ have no social measures, only the simple standards of Faith, Hope, and Charity. When such comradeship is allied to regimental esprit de corps, there is created a moral which is invincible. Whatever pain and sorrow the war has brought me, I always gloried in this meeting of the waters. Stripped of the masks created by politicians and Who’s-Who snobs, we discovered common aims, common interests, and common ties of affection. Ginger Thomson, the hide-bound prophet of Imperialism, was the sworn comrade of Nobby Clarke, the ramping, raging lion of the Free Trade school; Tosher, the wild Canadian, walked arm-in-arm with Billy, the sweet and refined; and I, the dreamer, plugged along with Beefy, the full-chested Balzac of the camp. In our little hut we ragged with good feeling, and all seemed to look for an opportunity to do a good turn, like the proverbial Boy Scout. It was a manly, a noble, phase of life. Selfishness was absent. Love was triumphant.

But, oh, the sadness and the madness of the scheme! While our love was being developed, we were training to die. Now, death is nothing. But to one who loves mankind it seemed a scheme of the very devil to breed such god-like men for the shambles. Here were the cream of the race, the flower of strength, the pick of intellect, supermen—with the hand of Death upon them. But that is war as the Kaiser willed it. By a stroke of his pen this proud, inhuman monarch has caused the death and the madness of millions. Oh, cruel monster! If there be a God, then his punishment is assured.

Often I thought of this aspect of war. At night there passed before me the ghosts of my dead comrades—line after line of clean-limbed, open-eyed, fresh-faced heroes of battle. I had marched with them, supped with them, danced with them. Their lives were an open book. No deceit. No camouflage of the rouÉ or the sneak. Their dreams, their loves, their passions, good and bad, I had known. While few were saints in any sense of the term, none were hardened sinners. Their patriotism and self-sacrifice had ennobled them. And they had gone—gone, I believe, to higher and better realms. But what a passage! Crucified on the altar of Kultur—gassed, bludgeoned, mangled, tortured, and maddened by the German rules of war. I had seen them go; seen them fall in the trench, with that groan which tears the heart; seen them stagger back while attempting to go over the top. And in that awful No Man’s Land, where bullets hum like dragon-flies, and shells scream like drunken sirens, I had seen them stagger, clutch, and writhe in the agony of death.

How true they were! How brave! And of every class and calling. Duke’s son and cook’s son, charging, cheering, fighting, and dying in the breach. Ah, how glad I was to have met them, but how sad to part! True, they have not died in vain, but they have left on me, a youth, marks akin to those of sorrowful old age. I was haunted by their eyes, sometimes unnerved when I thought of their screams. And yet I was proud. They had played the game; played it as no troops of Clive or Wellington were ever asked to play it; played it against the most brutal foe this world has ever seen. Your Trojans and your Spartans are mere tyros compared with our men to-day. Far better to be clubbed and speared than suffer the horrors and the madness of modern war.

When I thought of this murdered manhood, the slaughtered genius, and the wiping out of such noble sires, I felt afraid—afraid for the Old Land, the Old Flag, the Old Home by the hillside. Would all these things remain? Could we still carry on? Would the hog-like Huns, who breed as the vulgar always breed, be able to win ‘the war after the war’? Beaten in the field, robbed of victory, would this coarse-grained tribe cunningly exploit the survivors of a finer race? I wondered. For this is a serious aspect of the war. There was no conclusion to my musings, but somehow I did believe that Providence protects the clean. The empires of Hannibal, Nero, Napoleon, and the Romanoffs are no more. They outraged the laws of peace and goodwill. So I believe that this unfailing law will cripple and dissolve the Empire of Wilhelm. Right is might. That has been our slogan in this great crusade.

Yet we are not a perfect people. The war has judged us and found us wanting. But the war can save us—if we are wise. We must search our hearts. The dear boys have died that we might live. How shall we live? Must we go back to the parish pump? Is there no avenue of escape from class war and the devilish tricks of the political machine? Shall the remnants of our army return to be tools of the men who never fought; tools of those who quarrelled for place instead of nobility; mere puppets, hounded to the polling-booth to vote for sneaks and rogues? God forbid! Our slaughtered boys must form the rampart wall against the selfishness and the pettiness which mar our otherwise beautiful country. The old order will not do. The eyes of ‘The Boys’ have been opened. They are thinking; and sometimes their thoughts are bitter. If these thoughts were printed in full our proconsuls would be staggered. There is no hope for Britain if soft-handed, soft-job mandarins retain the reins. Yet ‘The Boys’ are mute, for they have no Press. They require none. When they return they will sweep away the fools and build a happy land. They are not Bolsheviks, not ‘Tories’ or ‘Radicals.’ They are patriots. The patriotism born in suffering is a product of God. You cannot define it, and you can never master it. Do not attempt it. Should you warp, twist, or bend it for mere material ends, you will rouse a bitterness and a madness which may destroy you, as Trotsky has destroyed the real soul of a noble nation. Only honest men can deal with ‘The Boys.’ Brave men can lead them. Clean men can inspire them. But these leaders will not be found in great numbers amongst the old mandarins—the men who stayed at home. Ah, no! ‘The Boys’’ standard is bravery. ‘White men’ they know and understand. The puppets of the party whips they will blow away like chaff whirled before a storm. And out of their suffering will come sanity, peace, goodwill to men and nations.

This is no dream. Those who scoff misunderstand the mentality of our men. The men of Grade I. can dominate Grade II. and Grade III. The five million fighters are men of will. A will steeled in the furnace of ‘Hell’ can pierce and master the will created in the soft lounges of Mayfair or the I.L.P. halls of Clapham. The veterans of the American Civil War united, rejuvenated, created the wonderful America of to-day. Our veterans can also rebuild the suffering British Empire. Open out your arms when they come home. Do not disguise your aims. Speak like Lincoln or Emerson. Ask for the truth, and they will deliver it. Kill the fatted calf, and when the feast is done, place the laurels of power upon their brows. They will never deceive you. While they may smash old and useless traditions, they will guard the Flag, respect the Monarchy, and develop the finest, fairest Democracy this world has ever seen. Far better to have the Democracy of the trenches than the Anarchy of Trotsky. For Heaven’s sake, be wise!

Such is the mentality of our brave boys. Fools will fear it, but straight men will rejoice. The Church can take heart, for the university of war has quickened spiritual thought. Blind as many of these men are, they are seeking, groping for light. Their eyes are scanning the horizon for the idealism which can heal their sorrows and lighten the daily load. The madness of war is causing them to search for gladness. Old theological tricks will not suffice. A broad-based creed, aided by the finest music and social joys, may capture their souls. Women, too, must figure in the scheme. These men, many of them broken, desire to slip into an ivy-clad cottage where sweet Love shall reign, and the prattle of the child drown the memories of the shambles. From their windows they shall gaze in search of the beauties of the valley, the strength of the hill, and the soothing ripples of the ever-rumbling brook. This is the only cure for the horrors of war. Should you give them the pub. and the music-hall, you will perpetuate the follies of Bacchus and the creed of the courtesan.

All this I have learned in billets, camps, and the stricken field. From the stench of the trenches, the oozing blood of the shambles, and the agonised features of the dead I have plucked a moral and a great philosophy. The vanities have departed. Deceits are unfolded; Mammon is exposed. While horrors have unnerved, even unmanned, me, I have found a new Love—Love of ‘The Boys.’ It is a wonderful Love. It thrills and holds. It rouses and cheers. The soul is filled with better things. Great visions pass and repass before my eyes. One feels determined to leave the world a little better than one found it. Yea, one becomes resolved to fight, to suffer, be a martyr, if need be, for the men who have fought and won. Great is our opportunity, great our responsibility. We stand at the cross-roads of morality and materialism. Let us consecrate our lives for these brave men.

My heart swells with a bursting affection. My eyes are dimmed as I think of the dead. I am young, yet I feel old. But my soul is cleaner, stronger, greater through contact with—’The Boys.’

The Brave, Dear Boys.