When the soldier boys got back to England from the Boer war they were weak, poor, ragged and very weary, many hundreds of them scarcely able to walk. But no matter: they were at once driven from the ships like cattle, forced to fall into line, and march wavering and staggering from weakness and weariness—forced to march past the Queen’s reviewing stand, to be smiled at and flattered by a bunch of royal and noble parasites and thus be “honored” while they starved, “honored” as they staggered past in their rags, gazed at by shining gluttons and fat-headed lords who were too shrewd and cowardly to go themselves to South Africa to slaughter the Boers, steal gold and diamond mines and otherwise defend their own capitalist interests.
On this cruel reviewing march of many weary miles past the Queen of the home-coming butchers a great number of the men fainted in their famished weakness. Many eye-witnesses to this outrage were in tears....
The march ended.
The guns were put away with pride.
The blood of Dutch workingmen was wiped from the English swords—with British pride.
Blood-stained banners were piously placed in libraries, museums, and churches—with true Christian pride.
The war was over.
The butchers had come back to “their” dear country—and washed their hands.
Then—then what?
Then these cheap and stupid assassins of their class went to look for a job—teased the lordly parasites of England for whom they had been fighting—teased them for a job, whined like spaniels at the feet of the industrial masters of England, begged for a job.