“I fancy we are going to accede to his request,” said Floyd. “In all probability, if we hammered him for another six weeks or so, we should have him in such a state that only a vacuum-cleaner could clear up the mess. We should probably take a million prisoners. We could sit down upon the Boche’s prostrate carcass and dictate any terms we pleased. But—but—but—well, there might be a miscarriage. We might find ourselves committed to another year’s campaigning. Labour, so-called, is getting fed up, and, though we are driving the Huns before us like sheep, an avoidable casualty-list might produce a crisis in that quarter. As you say, Colonel, the big American machine is running more smoothly and powerfully every day; but France and Britain are down to a pretty fine edge now.”
“But your men and the French are all veterans, Major,” exclaimed Jim Nichols: “the finest material—”
“That is just the trouble,” said Floyd, shaking his head. “In this crazy war veterans are no use. To-day experience simply means loss of nerve. The most effective—the only effective—troops in this kind of warfare are young, green, ignorant recruits, and the British and French have precious few of that type left. They all know too much now! Moreover, the people at home are suffering badly. They have not too much to eat, and the casualty-list is approaching the three-million mark. They are not kicking: they are prepared to go on for another twenty years if national security demands it: but it is the sacrifice of the last few lives in a war at which national conscience boggles, and I fancy that if our statesmen see a chance of a victorious peace they will grab it.”
“I am afraid you are right, Major,” sighed the Colonel. “Looks as if we were going to weaken on the proposition of the knock-out blow. If we do, two things are going to happen. First, hundreds and thousands of American boys over at home are going to break their hearts. Think of it! Months and months of hard training and feverish anticipation in those big dreary camps. Then—on their top note of anticipation—Peace! Demobilization! Reaction! Instead of soldiers—and remember the title ‘soldier’ is the proudest in the world!—with a record of duty done and victory achieved, we shall have created a few million disgruntled, unemployed, unemployable might-have-beens—robbed, robbed, of their fair share in the greatest Adventure that life can offer!”
“Still,” rejoined Floyd, “you can honestly tell them this: When the credit for the victories of this summer comes to be apportioned, a big share must go to troops which have never set foot in France—which have never even had the chance to leave America: because it was the promise of their presence that enabled Foch to take the offensive right away—to take chances, in fact, which would have been utterly impossible if he had not known that he had the whole trained manhood of America behind him. So their labour was not altogether in vain, you see!”
But the old war-horse refused to be comforted.
“We ought to go on, Major,” he said doggedly. “That brings me to the other thing I said was going to happen. America, as a whole, has not yet felt this War: and she must, if she is to extract from it the benefit that belongs to her by right. What are a quarter of a million casualties to a nation the size of ours? We ought to suffer some more, if only to save us from unreadiness and mismanagement in the future. If we stop now, all that we shall have won will be the opportunity—and you know how our orators and patriotism-mongers will use it—to announce that America just stepped in, and the War was won! It may be true; it may not; but that line of talk never did any good to any nation. We here round this table all know that, and there are thousands of folk at home who know it too. Yes, we ought to get deeper in. God knows, no one wants to make widows and orphans. But a war, however bloody, which teaches a nation its own weaknesses, is worth while. Individuals suffer, as individuals must and do; but the commonwealth gains. It is true we are losing good Americans by the hundred to-day; but we are making thousands more. Listen. A few weeks ago I was in a Field Dressing-Station, talking to the wounded. One man replied to my enquiries in a strong foreign accent. He was a splendid-looking boy—a Dane, I guess. I asked him: ‘What nationality are you?’ He looked just the least bit surprised, and replied: ‘American, sure!’ I said: ‘I can see that, son: but tell me, what made you an American?’ And he laid his hand on a great whale of a wound in his side, and he said, quite simply: ‘That made me an American!’ And that is what this War is doing for our big, beloved, half-grown country—making Americans! And now we’ve got to quit!”
“Still,” smiled Floyd, “you have made a good many. You have a couple of million of them over here now, and they will form a very useful leaven when they get home again. He is a great man, your Doughboy, Colonel. I have been privileged to make his acquaintance, and I have seen him fight: and I take off my tin hat to him, because I know what his difficulties have been. When he gets home he will no doubt be smothered in praise—by people incapable of discriminating between the easy and the difficult things that he did. But he will deserve all that he gets, and more, on account of the difficulties he overcame which people at home know nothing about—the things that never get into the papers.”
There was a sympathetic murmur from the company. The Colonel nodded.