Over Here: Impressions of America by a British officer

by Hector MacQuarrie

Then there is Harry M——, one of the finest men that I have met. He is very clever and has one big thing in his life—devotion to his wonderful country which is tempered by a decent appreciation of other people's. We are great friends, but we jeer at one another a great deal, and always end up better friends than when we started. He has forgotten more than most of us know, but he loves to be insulted if it is done in fun. Then he girds himself for the combat.

Once I endeavoured to get a rise by saying that I did not believe there were any Americans at all, except the red Indians. "Eddy here is a Bromoseltzian," I remarked. "Pat and his son are Irish, Dnul is a Dane, Weiss is a Dutchman, and you, Mr. M——, are an Englishman; there ain't no such animal as an American." The last bullet in my rain of shrapnel told. He was speechless, and then, in desperation, he said: "And how, may I ask, do you regard this huge nation, with its history and Patrick Henry and George Washington, and all that sort of thing?" "Oh, as just an interesting conglomeration of comic persons," I replied. Then we all laughed and dispersed to our respective offices. I have learnt that if you are once a friend of an American you can jest and laugh with him as much as you like. Having become his friend, you have no desire in the world to say anything that will hurt him.

I have long and interesting chats with Mr. M——. He told me once that during the early days of the war, at the end of August, 1914, when Americans knew the full extent of the disaster to the French army and of our own retreat from Mons, several important members of the steel company, mostly of English descent with a little German blood mixed with it, had a meeting in our lunch room. They were very worried about us all over in England and France. They were also worried about their own sons because they knew that America would not stand by and see England and France crushed. All these men themselves, if possible, would have at once gone over to help; and they discussed plans. They also knew, and I know now, and have known all along, that if England had ever reached the stage when she needed American help it would have been possible to raise an army of several millions of Americans to fight for England. Yes, to fight for England!

I would not dare to say this to some of my American friends because they would know, as I knew, that underlying their criticism of England there is often a very deep devotion to the British Empire. The Germans have known this all along, and we can thank fortune that it still exists in spite of our failure to foster it. We established an entente cordiale with France our hereditary foe, thank goodness, and we succeeded because many of us are bad at French and consequently unable to insult the French people. We have never seriously attempted the same thing with America. It is the underlying devotion of many Americans for the home country, as some of them still call our land, which has prevented the rudeness of some of our people from doing permanent harm. The Germans have tried to remove this devotion, but they have not succeeded amongst the educated classes, because, like us, intelligent American people don't quite like the Boche until he has settled in the country for over a hundred years.

But they have succeeded with the poorer classes, who sometimes dislike us intensely. The average American working man regards his brother in England as a poor fool who is ground down by the fellow who wears a high hat. He also regards John Bull as a wicked, land-grabbing old fellow—America's only enemy.

I share an office at the moment with a couple of American boys, both married. At first I shared Dnul's office with him, but as it is necessary for him to keep up diplomatic relations with all inspectors I felt that I would be in his way, so I retired, against his will, to the office next to him. It is better so.

The boys with me are interesting. One was a National Guard captain and looks the part. He was a Canadian once, so cannot be president of the United States. It is a great pity. The other is very clever at drawings and although only twenty-seven has made the world cheerier by being the father of eight children. I have arranged to inspect them some day and he is getting them drilled. He witnessed my signature to the publisher's contract for my first book on the day of his last baby's birth. Books and babies have always been mixed in my mind since I first heard the story of St. Columba's quarrel over the manuscript belonging to some other saint which he had copied. You remember the story. The archbishop or some very superior person looked into the matter, and said: "To every cow belongs its own calf." I believe that I am quoting correctly. I hoped that this friend's signature would be a good omen.

The other fellow, he of the National Guard, has but one baby. I manage to get along very well with them both.

There are an awful lot of stenographers about; a galaxy of beauty. I hear that they are very well paid, and judging by their very smart appearance they must be. I think that they are even better looking and more smartly turned out than the young ladies employed in the machine tool department at the Ministry in London.

I met old Sir Francis N—— one day going up the stairs at the Hotel Metropole in London after it became Armament Hall, and he said that really one did not know these days whether to raise one's hat or to wink when one met a young lady on the stairs. I always maintain a sympathetic neutrality. It is better thus.