G. R. S. Darroch

"La Mort n'est rien,

Vive la tombe,

Quand le pays en sort vivant,

En avant!"

Surely no one will deny to M. Paul DÉroulÈde, that eminent and talented French homme-de-lettres, to whose inspiring enthusiasm these lines are attributable, the right of his assertion that Death in the conditions which he mentions is a negligible quantity? Supreme as has been the sacrifice of those well-nigh countless scores of officers, non-commissioned officers, and men, who now "in glory shine," bitter too and crushing as undoubtedly is the sense of void occasioned by their absence beyond recall to those of their relatives and friends who remain, "where is Death's sting?" it may well be asked, "where, Grave, thy victory?" when the Country, struggling for all that she holds most dear, finally emerges triumphant, renascent, from the darkest hours of her existence; for underlying all, there is in this straightforward challenge a tinge of pride unquenchable, a ring of scorn unmistakable.

Granted then the truth of this dogma, granted too that nothing is more "dulce et decorum" than "pro patria mori," one cannot but bear in mind the fact also that Death is not infrequently a happy form of release from some lamentably pitiable condition of mind or body to another and altogether brighter degree of existence. "La douleur est un siÉcle, et la mort un moment;" one may even assume that the act of "passing away" is comparable to that merciful dawn of returning consciousness, to which the dreamer wakes from the vividly realistic, albeit imaginary, torture of some agonising nightmare. For who at one time or another of his or her enigmatic existence has not experienced this imaginary torture, of which the crazy sequence of headlong unreasoning realities wracks in topsy turvy torment the momentarily unbalanced brain, until in a frenzy of despair and faced with some climax, unprecedented and unparalleled, the dreamer wakes, bathed in profuse and clammy perspiration, breathless and bewildered, yet infinitely grateful to an all-powerful and protecting Deity that imaginings of so cruel and fantastic a conception should prove to be but phantoms of the night?

Yet of all the myriad atoms of trivial humanity who have survived the nightmare of Armageddon-up-to-date, what is the proportion of such who can honestly say that the life to which we have been restored is either brimful of promise or bright indeed with prospect? "Forward" undoubtedly must be the watchword; "en avant;" but whither?

Selecting as a suitable title "Plain Speaking," the writer of a leading article in the Times of August 13th, 1919, urges that "Ever since the Armistice Day they (the people) have been living in a fool's paradise, as though the cessation of armed hostilities had opened the door to a state of pure enjoyment according to every man's fancy.... The inevitable result is that Europe is drawing near, not merely to bankruptcy and financial ruin, but to actual starvation."

So pessimistic a pronouncement lends itself to the assumption that we are merely jumping out of the frying-pan of international strife into the fire of internal or domestic disruption. The writer of this article is, however, not quite so pessimistic as to be unable to offer any remedy, for as an alternative he insists that "this mad orgy of spending must cease from Government Departments downwards. All classes must turn to work.... Employers and employed must give up quarrelling and work together. Economy and work are the two watchwords for the nation."

"En avant," then. But first of all "let us examine things," as Mr. Lloyd George would have us do, "in the spirit of comradeship which has been created by the war, that spirit of comradeship which arose from a common sacrifice," and then, "let us demonstrate to the world once more that Britain, beyond all lands, has the traditional power of reaching a solution of her most baffling problems without resorting to anarchy, but merely by appeal to the commonsense of most, and in a spirit of fair play." Unhappily enough everybody was, however, "suffering from the terrible strain of the war; nerves were jagged and sore; the world was suffering from shell-shock on a great scale." The position, therefore, if not indeed dangerous was none the less serious and fraught with difficulty. Put in a nutshell, "we were spending more, we were earning less; we were consuming more, we were producing less; we were not paying our way. Before the war our National Debt was £645,000,000; to-day it is £7,800,000,000" (cp. the Times, August 19th, 1919).

"En avant!" But how to remedy the state of affairs? How to straighten out the tangle? What invariably happens when the blind lead the blind seemed bound to occur if the Coalition Ministry continued leading or misleading the people. "I make this indictment against the Ministry of the day," exclaimed Sir D. Maclean when addressing the House on August 12th, 1919, "that in this supreme financial crisis of the nation they are failing wholly in their duty to put a stop to extravagant expenditure." The Chancellor of the Exchequer estimated the then daily average expenditure at no less than £4,442,000; the Army, the Navy, and the Air Force accounting for £1,491,000 of this amount, notwithstanding the fact that since the Armistice a total of 3,087,973 of all ranks had been demobilised (cp. the Times, August 13th, 1919. Statement issued by the War Office).

There can be no doubt but that the opinion prevalent on all hands was that the great ship of State was in danger of being swamped in the maelstrom of Ministerial mismanagement; yet in spite of this we read that the Transport Bill (to take one solitary if salient instance) was proposing to "create a new and costly brand of bureaucracy, headed by titled dignitaries, and naval and military officers, with a whole Milky Way of attendant satellites" (cp. the Times, July 17th, 1919), and truth to tell, this "new and costly brand" seemed likely to afford as great or as little hope of salvation to the man-in-the-street as would a stone if thrown to a drowning man; it could but let him down. According to the Gospel of Experience, "State Control has never yet resulted in economy," and the present was certainly no time for "legislative megalomania."

Admittedly no inconsiderable amount of ink has been spilt over the question of transport, covering as it does so obviously wide a range. The railways, as we know, during the war and since the armistice have been run at the expense of, and under the nominal control of, the State; but even so democratic a chieftain as is the versatile Prime Minister had to confess that he had not noticed any apparent harmony under this particular rÉgime, and the subtle note of irony is by no means lacking when he reminds his hearers in the House of Commons "we have had, I think, a few strikes; and so long as strikes are prevalent, where," he asks, "is the promotion of harmony if you have State control and State ownership? I do not see the harmony that is to come under State control" (cp. the Times August 19th, 1919). No sooner had the outburst of cheering which greeted this remark subsided, than an Hon. Member (Lab.), chipping in, was heard to opine "these things will happen under private ownership," a theory which impelled Mr. Lloyd George promptly to retort, "I do not say it will be any worse under State ownership, but I say it will not be any better." To the average and impartial intelligence, therefore, the most satisfactory and logical Q.E.D. to this little argument might be summed up in the three words "as you were"; indeed, the "pros" in favour of so patent a usurpation of private interests as is embodied in State control or nationalisation of railways may be said to be far outweighed by the opposing "cons." During the period in which the nation was fighting for its life, there was evidently no time "for renewing machinery, there was hardly time for repairing, and there was quite inadequate time for cleaning," but the fact remains that during this period of State control the railways were run at a loss; and that loss, largely attributable to enormous increases in wages, diminution in working hours, and mathematically proportionate reduction in output, came straight from the taxpayers' pockets. Why then, it may be asked, this persistent demand for Ministerial megalomania-to-be? What the reason for this "new and costly brand of bureaucracy," which assuming the proportions of an octopus threatens to crush every vestige of individuality and private enterprise which happens within the deadly orb of its encircling and insatiable tentacles?

The explanation is not far to seek—"Sir Herbert Walker and his colleagues on the Railway Executive Committee have been too modest, the public do not know what they achieved" (cp. Engineering, January 17th, 1919, "The Railway Problem"). Further, unknown to the average man-in-the-street, "the individual organisations of the Railway Companies (during the war) remained intact, and the Boards of Directors continued to be responsible for the conduct of their affairs. The desire was to get the work done"—to deliver the goods—"with as little disturbance of the existing machinery as possible. The changes which were introduced and the high efficiency which was witnessed in the working of the traffic of the railways during the war was due far more to a patriotic determination on the part of all concerned to do their utmost to assist the country in a time of national emergency, regardless of corporate or personal interests, than to the direct imposition by the Government of its will upon the railway companies."

Ministerial axe-grinders, and disgruntled Labour members, were well aware of all this; they were faced, too, with the fact that "the control by a Committee of General Managers has really resulted in freeing the railways from the 'blighting effect' of State control, and the successful operation of British railways during the war is really a tribute to the efficiency of private (as distinct from State) ownership." Not only this, but a further fact which undoubtedly redounds to the credit of Sir Herbert Walker and his little band of colleagues could not be disregarded, for as we learn from the Times of July 17th, 1919, "the Railway Executive Committee controlled the whole railway system of these islands during the war from a few shabby rooms at Westminster with a staff of about eighteen clerks. The Committee was so modest that they did not commandeer a single hotel, or angle for the smallest honours, but they achieved wonders of transportation with steadily diminishing resources." Finally, and as voicing the opinion of the business community at large, we have only to observe that the Glasgow Chamber of Commerce emphatically records its belief that "Nationalisation (of railways) would be a national misfortune."

One misfortune not unusually leads to another, and logically enough it may be argued that one of the more immediate of the "blighting effects of State control" likely to become apparent is what may be termed "the passing of ingenuity," resulting in lack of incentive to individual enterprise, or, in a word, an inevitable stalemate. "Committed irrevocably to mass production, to specialisation, to rigs and jigs and standards, to gigantic industrial combines, to the suppression of individual merit, and the apotheosis of mass merit," a writer in the Engineer of April 25th, 1919, deplores the fact that "skill is being transferred from the man to the machine; knowledge is being replaced by the schedule; organisation by rule is taking the place of organisation by mother wit." Plainly too, but none the less regretfully, the same writer conjectures that "in another fifty years these things we now foresee dimly will be the commonplaces of industry"; and "oh tempora! oh mores!" let future generations beware, for "brought up in standard crÈches on standard feeding bottles with standard milk, we shall pass through a course of standard education, be dressed in standard clothes, carried in standard conveyances, live in standard dwellings, behave like standard citizens, and in due course be carried in standard coffins in a standard hearse to a standard crematorium."

Undoubtedly every one is entitled to his or her own opinion, apropos any particular subject of debate; but without prejudice it may be asked whether any one in his legitimate senses is capable of viewing this "standard" perspective, these "blighting effects of State control," with feelings other than of revolt and dismay. "Victory is nothing," so Napoleon is reputed to have declared, "if you do not profit by success"; and having achieved success regardless of the cost, having won through "non pour dominer"—to use the words of that great Commander of the Entente Armies, Marshal Foch—"mais pour Être libre," in what way are we endeavouring to profit?

"There is evidence of slackness; the effort has got to be quickened; all must put their backs into it to save the country. Our international trade is in peril, and our home trade is depressed by reduction of output and the increased cost of production. Words must be translated into action unless thousands of lives are to be sacrificed to hunger and cold; this is no hyperbole."

Such, as we know, are specimens of periodic if unpalatable pessimisms provided by prominent personalities. The experience of Sir Edward Grey, as he tells us, is that the difficulty is not so much to tell the truth, as to get the truth believed. Were we then really living in a fool's paradise? Could it truthfully be said that we as a community were consenting to become a "League of Dupes," as the Nations have been banded together as a League? Heaven forbid! for just as it would be idle to imagine that there will be no more strikes, no extremist incitement to anarchy, so too in the considered opinion of Mr. Lloyd George "it would be folly to assume that human nature will never give way to passion again, and that there will be no war. A nation that worked on that assumption might regret its conduct." Unfortunately, there is no denying the fact—as a captured German naval officer once tersely put it—that although they (the Germans) could never be gentlemen, we (the British) would ever be fools! Hence it comes about that at a time when "the most pressing interest of humanity is that the profit and loss account of a barbarous bid for world-power should show an impressive balance on the wrong side," it is open to argument whether the policy embodied in the Treaty of Versailles, of "tempering justice with mercy," was altogether prudent; mercy, that is, which "could not speak more eloquently than it does in the unmutilated landscape of German agriculture, and in the immunity of her civilians from all the horrors of her own practice as an invader" (cp. Pall Mall Gazette, June 28th, 1919).

Be that as it may, "once bitten" is proverbially and habitually "twice shy," so that it would seem well-nigh inconceivable that a lesson of such magnitude as the Nation has learnt during the long-drawn-out agony of the world-war can readily be forgotten; and whatever the future all unknown may hold in store for us, undimmed in the minds of succeeding generations will most surely shine as a guiding light the splendid record of private enterprise and of individual endeavour as exemplified by the great railway companies of the British Isles, amongst which pride of place can scarcely be withheld from the London and North-Western Railway, to whom the country, without doubt, owes a deep and lasting debt of gratitude.

"En avant!" then, as surely those who gave their all would have us do. "En avant!" that their sacrifice supreme shall not have been in vain. "En avant!" and may our thankfulness and pride go out to them in that "great unknown beyond," where they—