War—What For?

by George R. Kirkpatrick

That is all.

And that is exactly what is determined when two sharks fight, or when two tom-cats, or two bull pups fight, or when a cruel hawk and a sweet-throated song bird fight: which is superior as a fighter.

War is the ignoble trick of slitting open the blood vessels of the excited working class to “satisfy” the “honor” and save the pride and business of crowned and uncrowned cowards of the ruling class. There never is a war and never can be a war till the working men are willing to do the marching, the trench-digging and the actual fighting, bleeding and dying. And the working men are never willing to butcher and be butchered wholesale till influential but coarse-grained people of the capitalist class or “highly educated” panderers to the capitalist class, craftily or ignorantly excite the humble toilers to the fiend’s stupid mood of savage hate. First come the “powerful editorials,” the “great speeches,” the “eloquent sermons,” and ferocious prayers for the war; then the fife and drum; then the brain-storm of the humble, humbugged working men; then the recruiting; then the hand-waving and “Good-bye, boys, good-bye, good-bye”; then the butchering and the blood; then the tears and taxes.

It is, of course, true—grandly true—and is here gladly, gratefully acknowledged—that some educated influential people are too highly civilized, too finely noble, to stoop to the shameless business of rousing the slumbering tiger in the human breast. Some of them proudly scorn the vicious rôle of throwing fire-brands into the inflammable imagination of the weary toilers. These have courage—true courage. These we greet with profound gratitude.

But every lily-fingered snob, every socially gilt-edged coward, every intellectual prostitute, every pro-war preacher, every self-exempting political shark, and every well-fed money-glutton, who dares help excite the working class for the hell of war—these, every one of these—in case of war, should be forced to dance on the firing line to the hideous music of the cannon’s roar till his own torn carcass decorates a “great battle” field.

And to this end—as part of their own emancipation—the working class should make all haste to seize the powers of government, and thus be in position, by being in legal possession of the power, to make and enforce all laws concerning war. Beginning now, always hereafter, the labor unions, the working class political party, and all the other working class organizations should for future use, keep a careful record of all male editors, teachers, preachers, lawyers, lecturers, and “prominent business men” and politicians and “statesmen,” who speak, or write or even clap their hands in favor of war; and in case of a war thus fostered, these, all of these, should be forced by special draft to fight in the infantry, without promotion, on the firing line, till they get their share of the cold lead and the cold steel. Thus let the mouthers do the marching, let the shouters do the shooting, let the bawlers do the bleeding, let the howlers have the hell—force them to the firing line and force them to stay on the firing line—and there will be far less yawping about the “honor” and the “glory” of war, and there will be fewer humble homes of the poor damned with the desolation of war.

But, you see, for all such self-defense the working class must as soon as possible capture the powers of government. You see that, don’t you?

Friend, don’t curse the militiamen and the soldiers. No, no. They are our brothers. Explain—with tireless patience explain—to them that the capitalists seek to make tools and bullet-stoppers of them. Explain it like a brother inside and outside the ranks till our working-class brothers everywhere—inside and outside the ranks—are roused to a clear consciousness of the meaning of a Gatling gun with a working-class “man behind the gun” and a working-class man in front of the gun.

Brother, stamp this into your brain and explain it into the brain of our brothers:—The working class must themselves protect the working class.

If in imagination the mothers, sisters, sweethearts and wives of the world could get the roar of the cannon in their ears and feel the splash of blood in their faces, could see and hear the horrors of the battlefield and the agonies of the war hospital, they would never again be fooled into smiling caressingly upon the haughty and jaunty “higher officers,” when, like peacocks, these gilt-braided professional human butchers strut through the ball-rooms and through the streets on military dress parade, and these women would also regard the pro-war orator with complete contempt.