Values are relative, and a brazier in the trenches makes the satisfaction of a steam-heated room in winter very superficial and artificial. You are at home there with Tommy Atkins, regular of an old line English regiment, in his heavy khaki overcoat and solid boots and wool puttees, a sturdy, hardened man of a terrific war. He, the regular, the shilling-a-day policeman of the empire, was still doing the fighting at the front. The new army, which embraces all classes, was not yet in action.
This man and that one were at Mons. This one and that one had been through the whole campaign without once seeing Mother England for whom they were fighting. The affection in which Captain P—— was held extended through his regiment, for we had left his own company behind. At every turn he was asked about his arm.
“You’ve made a mistake, sir. This isn’t a hospital,” as one man expressed it. Oh, but the captain was bored with hearing about that arm! If he is wounded again I am sure that he will try to keep the fact a secret.
These veterans could “grouse,” as the British call it. Grousing is one of Tommy’s privileges. When they got to grousing worst on the retreat from Mons, their officers knew that what they really wanted was to make another stand. They were tired of falling back; they meant to take a rest and fight a while. Their language was yours, the language in which our own laws and schoolbooks are written. They made the old blood call. For months they had been taking bitter medicine; very bitter for a British soldier. The way they took it will, perhaps, remain a greater tribute than any part they play in future victories.
“How do they feel in the States?” I was asked. “Against us?”
“No. By no means.”
“I don’t see how they could be!” Tommy exclaimed.
Tommy may not be much on argument as it is developed by the controversial spirit of college professors, but he had said about all there was to say. How can we be? Hardly, after you come to know T. Atkins and his officers and talk English with them around their campfires.
“The Germans are always sending up flares,” I remarked. “You send up none. How about it?”
“It cheers them. They’re downhearted!” said one of the group. “You wouldn’t deny them their fireworks, would you, sir?”