XVII
POISONOUS GAS
November, 1917
I am developing into a regular stump orator these days. Of course it is not at all difficult. One has plenty of information about the war, and the more simply this is given the better it seems to me. However, it is all very interesting and I am supplied with the opportunity of meeting hundreds of American men. They are all awfully kind to me. I generally speak at club luncheons and dinners.
One night I had to speak at a splendid dinner given by the neighbourhood club of Bala-Cynwyd, a suburb of Philadelphia. Of many delightful evenings spent in America I think this night was the most enjoyable. My turn came towards the end of the programme. There had been many fine talks by famous Philadelphians as well as by other British officers, and I felt very diffident about saying any thing at all. However, I stood up and saw several hundred cheery men all looking up at me with kindness and encouragement shining from their faces. I told them a few funny stories and said that I liked them an awful lot; that I liked them so much that I wanted them to like my countrymen. I forget exactly what I did say.
A few days afterwards I received a letter from the secretary of the club, which I shall always keep, for it assures me of their friendship and affection.
I do not think that the American people have done their duty by us. When the early Christians were given a big thing they started missions which had for their object the conversion of the heathen. Why has not America realised her responsibility to us? Why hasn't she sent a mission to England, with the object of converting middle-aged and elderly Britons to that attitude of mind, so prevalent here, which makes every American man over thirty desire to help and encourage enthusiastic young men? At the moment, the meeting of American enthusiasm and British conservatism always suggests to my mind the alliance of the Gulf Stream with the Arctic current. There is an awful lot of fog when these two meet and some shipwrecks.
Quite often I talk at Rotary Clubs. Every city or town has a Rotary Club over here. The members consist of one man from each of the leading business houses in the town or city. They meet at lunch once a week and endeavour to learn things from one another. One member generally talks for twenty minutes about his particular business, then an alarm clock goes off; and sometimes an outsider gives an address. I rather love the Rotarians. The milk of human kindness flows very freely, and the members behave to one another like nice people in decent books. At any rate many cordial remarks are made, and it always seems to me that the thought, even if it is an affected one, which produces a decent remark helps to swell the amount of brotherly love in the world. The Rotarians are keen business men and are obviously the survivors of the fittest in the business world.
Sometimes I have spoken for the Red Cross at large public meetings. I even addressed a society affair in the house of a charming Philadelphia lady. This was very interesting. There were about one hundred people present and my host, an adopted uncle, endeavoured to introduce me in a graceful manner with a few well chosen words, but he forgot his lines. At this function one felt one's self to be present at a social gathering described by Thackeray. There were many men and women present with the sweetest and most gracious manners in the world. They were all descendants of the people who lived in Philadelphia before the Revolution, and something of the atmosphere that must have prevailed in a fashionable drawing-room or "Assembly" during those romantic days seemed to be in the air.
Of course my first experience of public speaking was in Bethlehem. It happened at the Eagle Hotel. One of the Vice-Presidents of the Steel Company called me up and said. "Mac, will you give us a short talk at the Red Cross luncheon to-day?" "But yes, Mr. B——, I'll be delighted, though I am no orator."
So I found myself decked out in uniform on my way to the Eagle in Mr. B——'s car. With tact he urged me to be careful. "Y'know, Mac, the people in this burgh have not quite realised the situation. Many are of German origin and there are some Irish, and one or two are not fond of England. They are a fine crowd of men and are working like Trojans to get money for the Red Cross."
"May I damn the Kaiser, Mr. B——?" I meekly asked. "Sure! Sure! Mac; give him hell. Every mother's son will be with you in that."
After lunch, Mr. B——, as General of the Army of Collection, stood up. (He is a ripping chap, a little embonpoint perhaps, as befits his age. He is about forty-five and looks thirty. He has a round, cheery face, hasn't lost a hair from his head, and when he talks, suggests a small boy of twelve successfully wheedling a dime from his mother for the circus.)
He said: "We have had with us in Bethlehem men of the Entente Allies, men who have heard the whi——stling of the shrapnel, and who have seen the burs——ting of the high explosives, and to-day one of these heroes will address you."
The "whistling of the shrapnel" thrilled me. It brought back to my mind a night in an Infantry dugout in France, when dear old Banbury of the Rifle Brigade was wearying me and three other subs with a story of one of his stunts in "No Man's Land." We heard a bounding, whipping sound and then a massed chorus of whistling, and we all breathed a sigh of relief as Banbury jumped up, and grabbing his gun muttered, "Whizz bang," and disappeared up the dugout steps. That was all. He switched on to cricket when he returned. And yet they call the Boche frightful.
Then the "bursting of the high explosives." I hate high explosives. They are so definite, and extremely destructive; and so awkward when you're up a chimney and it hits somewhere near the base, and you slide down the rope and burn your poor hands.
I stood up, feeling like ten cents, and commenced to tell my audience about the Red Cross à la guerre. Whenever I tried to thrill them they all laughed, and then I guessed that my accent was the cause of all the trouble. I tried to talk like an American, I thought, with some success. I called the Kaiser a "poor fish," but when I discussed America and the war and said "By Jove, we need you awful badly over there," they all collapsed and I sat down.
Afterwards they came up, fine chaps that they are, and all shook hands.
It seems to be an art developed by certain persons to be able to introduce speakers. If you are the fellow who has got to talk, the chairman gets up and commences to praise you for all he is worth. A fellow told me at a dinner the other night that while visiting his home town he had been compelled to address the townsmen. The deacon mounted a small platform and commenced to eulogize. He had only got the first versicle of the "Te Deum" off his chest, when his set of teeth fell out and landed on the bald head of my friend, giving him a nasty bite. This was a great help.
About this eulogizing—my Highland blood helps me to understand; my English education tells me that it is—well, displaying all your goods in the front window, and I'm not sure that it "is done." Eddy Grey says "Hector, it is just 'slinging the bull.'" It is. Some of these eulogising gentlemen talk for ten minutes each time, but they are generally good looking people turned out in quite nice evening things.
I went to a "coming-out party" yesterday and ate some interesting food, chatted with some amusing girls, and then rushed into John Wanamaker's to help to sell Liberty Bonds. I stood at the base of a bronze eagle and harangued a large audience, but not a soul bought a bond. However, a lady whose father was English was partially overcome and fell on my chest in tears. She was about fifty. I should liked to have hugged her, but I did not know her very well, although the introduction was vivid.
I manage generally to hold the interest of my audience, but I wish I were Irish. I always love to talk to American men. They make a fine audience. Having found it difficult in England to grow up, my growth towards a reverend and sober mien has been definitely stunted during my year in America. Americans don't "grow up." An American possesses the mind of a man, but always retains the heart of a child, so if you've got to speak, it is quite easy to appeal to that great, wonderful Yankee heart. Of course, my greatest opportunity came on the Fourth of July, 1917. I realise more and more every day what a tremendous honour was paid to me by my friends of Bethlehem.
Towards the middle of June, the town council of Bethlehem met to discuss the annual municipal celebration of America's Independence. They discussed the choice of an orator and unanimously decided that it would be a graceful act of courtesy to ask a British officer to do the job. The lot evidently fell upon me, and the local Episcopal parson waited upon me, and put the request, admitting that only judges, ex-governors, colonels, and big people like that had been asked in previous years. I said "Right, O!" And then began to reflect upon the great honour shown to my country and me. As I have told you before, the population of Bethlehem is largely of Teutonic descent and there are quite a large number of Irishmen here. Never in the history of the United States had an Englishman in full uniform delivered the Independence Day oration. I was a little frightened. You see the folk thought it would be a nice thing to do; a sort of burying the hatchet.
Many days before, I wrote out a series of speeches, and wondered if I should get stage fright. I felt that the job might prove too difficult for me.
The Glorious Fourth arrived, ushered in by the banging of many fireworks, making it difficult, and a little dangerous for law abiding and humble citizens. I cleaned and polished up my uniform, slung a gas mask and wallet round my shoulders, and awaited the automobile that should take me to the campus. It came at last, and I found myself standing surrounded by two bands and about three thousand people.
The children were firing all kinds of infernal pistols and crackers, and I wondered how I should be able to make myself heard by the large throng of people. The National Guard lined up, and the band commenced to play various tunes. After a time silence was called, and the band broke into "The Star Spangled Banner" while the National Guard and I saluted. The people then solemnly repeated the oath of allegiance to the Republic, while the flag was solemnly unfurled on a huge flagstaff. It was all very solemn and inspiring, and became more so when a clergyman read a Psalm. Then the bands played "America" which seems to have the same time as "God Save the King" while we endeavoured to sing the words. The Chief Burgess then addressed the throng, but being an elderly man, his inspiring address was heard by only a very few.
Soon it was my turn to speak, and in fear and trembling I mounted a little stand improvised for the occasion. I looked at the old building beside me in which our wounded of the Revolution had been cared for by the gentle Moravians. I looked at the people around me, thousands of happy faces all looking with kindliness and friendship towards me. I don't know exactly what I said, but perhaps the spirits of the poor British Tommies who had died fighting for their king in the old building behind helped a little, for I know that during the half hour I spoke every face was fixed intently upon me, and when I finally got down, there was a mighty cheer that went straight to my heart. At any rate I had that thing which is greater than the speech of men and of angels, and without which the greatest orator's speech is like sounding brass and tinkling cymbals—Love. I had a very great love for my friends of Bethlehem, a love that refused to differentiate between Anglo-Saxons and Teutons, and they knew it, consequently they listened with a great patience.
After the band had once more played, and a clergyman had said a prayer, hundreds and hundreds came forward and shook hands. There were veterans of the Civil War who threw their chests out and offered to go back to France and fight with me. One old gentleman with snowy hair said "Lad, it was an inspiration." Then exiles, mostly women from England, Ireland, and Scotland, came up, some weeping a little, and said "God Bless you." One darling old Irish lady said "Sure Oirland would get Home Rule if you had any power in England."
Sometimes I think that we humans are a little too fond of talking. Perhaps it might be a good idea to remember at this time the words of the great chancellor: "Great questions are not to be solved by speeches and the resolutions of majorities but by blood and iron." I suppose for the Allies it gets down to that finally, but they all do an awful lot of talking.