As you know, I spent the best part of a year in France and Belgium, and I can honestly say that during that time I never saw hate displayed, except towards the supply people who wouldn't believe in our "strafed" cycles. I have heard of Tommies getting furious and the officers who have told me have spoken about it as a little amusing, but they don't seem to have felt it themselves at all. I had a bedroom in a billet next to a kitchen where Mr. Thomas Atkins used to take his refreshment, and I have heard some wonderful stories, a little lurid; but quite often I have heard Fritz admired.
I remember one day during the battle of Loos chatting to the Major, while awaiting orders to fire, and regretting that our men should get atrocious, as I had heard they were. The Major, an old campaigner, out with the original expeditionary force, smiled a little, but merely observed that it was very natural.
Past our battery position there was passing a few prisoners and a procession of wounded—but mostly "blighties"; and I saw one sergeant with a German helmet. I wanted to buy it as a "prop" for lurid stories on leave, so went over to him. He had four bloody grooves down his face, and he told me that he had had a hand-to-hand fight. He seemed a nice chap, and he described the combat, in which he had evidently been getting the worst of it, for the four grooves were nail marks from the German. Fortunately he got his bayonet. "And you killed him," I broke in. "Oh no, sir," he replied; "I just gave him a dig and the Red Cross people have got him now. There he is, sir, I think,"—as a German prisoner, lying on a stretcher and smoking a woodbine went by. I returned without the helmet and told the story to the major, and he said, "Oh no; I shouldn't believe all you hear about Tommy Atkins."
Perhaps our men have got nasty and very furious with the Boche. One can hardly blame them. I am willing to believe that sometimes when the Germans have done dirty tricks with our prisoners revenge has been taken, but I just don't believe for a single instant that the chaps I knew and loved in France could behave in any way but as decent, hard fighting, hard swearing, good natured fellows. I don't believe either, and no one I knew in France during my year there believed, that the Boche were always dirty in their tricks, though I will admit that they show up badly as sportsmen.
Frankly, I want to see this country putting every ounce of power into the combat. I want them to realize fully that Germany requires a lot of beating. I want them to know that a victorious Germany would be a menace to the liberty of the world, and all the other things that the newspapers say.
But I dislike intensely this savage hate propaganda that is being affected here. It is stupid, useless and dangerous. Didn't some philosopher say that if he wanted to punish a man he would teach him how to hate. The Germans deserve it; of course they do, but we must be stronger than they. Also, you cannot exterminate them, unfortunately, so you have got to try to make them decent, by some means or other. A famous member of my clan, David Livingstone, went about amongst the most savage tribes of Africa, unharmed and unarmed. It was just because of the love that emanated from him. I fear it will be difficult to like the Germans very much after all they have done, but we Britons must not let Uncle Sam think for an instant that we have learnt from the Germans how to hate in their own commonplace savage way. Of course it is not true. We have a sense of humour and the Americans have a wonderful sense of fun, and these two things cannot walk together with that stupid, vulgar thing called hate.
The other night I had to speak at a club meeting. There was an infantry officer there, and I felt that for a gunner to talk of the discomforts of war in the presence of an infantry officer would be a little humorous. However, these fellows wanted thrills, so I tried to give them some, though, as you know, warfare is a commonplace amusement mostly, and if one is limited by facts, it is difficult to thrill an audience.
The infantry officer spoke afterwards. It was very thrilling. He told me seriously later on in my rooms that he was a godson of Nurse Cavill, that he had seen the Canadians crucified, that he had walked along the top of the parapet for half a mile with a machine-gun playing on him in the moonlight, that he enjoyed patrols and loved sticking Germans in the back in their listening posts, that he had discovered a German disguised as a gunner officer behind the lines, that he had remained with six wounds in his body for eight days in No Man's Land, that he had been wounded six times, that he had often been right behind the German lines at night, that he had overheard an interesting conversation between two German staff officers in a German dugout, that he was in the second battle of Ypres, Neuve Chappelle and Loos, that he had been a private in the Gunners years ago, and many other adventures——!
And the extraordinary thing to me is that intelligent Americans, big men, listen and believe these things. Later, when their own boys return they will know that the chap who has been through it will tell them—nothing. It is fine for us British here these days. We are heroes, wonderful heroes. But strange people seem to be arriving and I wonder if they are all taking the right line. I realise at once that it is very easy for me to talk like this. A gunner subaltern, with his comfortable billet to return to, even at the end of an unpleasant day, seldom comes face to face with the Boche. Still I can only repeat that during my service I saw nothing of common, vulgar hatred displayed by any infantry officers I have met. It is not worth while: they are too great for that.
Of course I may have missed it. But there was Taylor, for example, a horse gunner I believe, who was attached to the trench "Mortuaries." He was at Haylebury with Taggers. He used to come into the mess at times. Once during the battle of Loos while we were attacking he took several of his cannon over into the Boche trench which we had succeeded in capturing. Unfortunately something went wrong on our flank and Taylor with the wonderful Second Rifle Brigade was left in this trench surrounded by Boches in helmets with spikes in them. They were jammed tight in the narrow, well-formed German trench and only a bomber at each end could fight. We had plenty of bombs, however, and the Germans had little fancy for jumping over the barricade they had made in their own trench. Their officers attempted to lead their men and one by one were bombed or shot. Taylor could see the spikes on their helmets. There was a delay and then a German private with a cheery "Hoch!" jumped up on to the barricade trying to entice the others to follow. They did not, but the private received a bullet and lay there rather badly wounded. He gave a slight movement, perhaps he seemed to be stretching for his gun, so the bomber let him have one and ended all movement.