Reviews in Hyde Park used to be a joke, and the comic papers caricatured these men, and used them as material for their jests.
They were only Territorials! That man, panting hard at the bottom of the shell-hole, and still clutching at his rifle, is a bank clerk; that man who fell at the last jump, with his stomach ripped up, was a solicitor's clerk.
Look at the others. Their faces are pale; their eyes are bulging. But they are the same faces one used to see in Cornhill and Threadneedle Street.
Yes, they are only Territorials! But here in this filthy wood they are damned proud of it.
And what is taking place in England to-day?
Is it really true that while all this is going on in Leuze Wood, orchestras are playing sweet music in brilliantly lighted restaurants in London—while a gluttonous crowd eat of the fat of the land? Is it really true that women in England are dressing more extravagantly than ever? Is it really true that some men in England are unable or unwilling to share the nation's peril—are even threatening to strike?
No! No! Do not let us think that this is the true picture of England. If it is, then, Territorials, let us die in Leuze Wood!