Everywhere esprit de corps prevails amongst the men. Take the private. Maybe he reared poultry in some out-of-the-way farm in Somerset. Maybe his pathetically wizened face tells of a childhood in the slums. Whatever his life was before, he is Private Tommy Atkins now, of the Blankshires—the finest regiment, the finest company, the finest platoon in the British Army; a V.C. regiment he will announce with pride, as he sits down by the dusty roadside to enjoy the ten minutes' halt in what seems an interminable route march.
And the very Temporary Lieutenant whom one knew only a year ago as the "knut," as, in the newest check trousers à l'Américain, he lounged bemonocled in the Park, what of him? Was he not correct—very correct and always correct, as he patronised every function of the season—blasé, bored and boring, always ready to criticise every affair with an amusing cynicism?
He, too, chameleon-like, has taken on the tone of his surroundings. Behold him in khaki, a born leader of men! His boredom has become sangfroid, his cynicism has blossomed into a brisk humour that keeps the mess alive, his subservience to the law of the "correct thing" has taught him to face every undreamt-of tight corner with a nonchalance wonderful to behold.
Yes, Henry James is right. "It is a Young People's War." It may be an ironical fate that designs the younger generation to lay down their lives for the political blunders of the older—but the true tragedy is not in the youths cut down in the flower of their manhood, nor the girls broken in health by the magnitude of the task they have tackled; the true tragedy is in the derelict "dug-outs" vainly hunting for jobs, the aged women wringing their hands, with the cry, "We are too old to help!"
And when our American friend, speaking of his countrymen's work and schemes for ameliorating the lot of starving Belgium, remarked that our work will not have finished with the cessation of hostilities, for then alone will the full pinch and hardships of war be felt, the destitution shorn of the gilding of excitement and uncertainty, I knew he spoke truly.
The end of the last month all eyes were focused on Italy's rupture with Austria (we note that diplomatic relations with Germany are not broken off, no doubt for reasons commercial). To all who have travelled much in that land of sunshine it was apparent that, whichever way politics might trend, public feeling (barring that section of the proletariat under strong Papal influence) would always be with the Allies; nor was it possible to imagine any alliance between Italy and her hereditary foe, the Hun, other than an alliance of convenience. The Italian's contempt for Teuton boorishness is as ineradicable as the Italian's confidence in the brilliant future awaiting his own kingdom.
June 14th. Two days later the Coalition Ministry, which we pray fervently may remedy our shortage of war materials, was formed. Now, attention is turned towards the East, the Cameroons, the Dardanelles. Mr. Winston Churchill has raised our hopes to the tiptop of expectation with his mysterious promises of some unparalleled and crushing success in Gallipoli. So much so, that everyone speaks with confidence of the termination of the war within a few months.
Yesterday some were only restrained from hoisting flags by the desire to see the rumours confirmed. Alas! on opening the morning papers we were but greeted with the news of fresh Austrian successes.
June 20th. With the receipt of "Marching Orders" this morning, England and Home seemed suddenly very dear. Like a dream they come back, those places I have visited—the peaceful Lakes; the cheerful Felixstowe hotel, where one could revel in the soft, subdued lights and pretty frocks; Bedford, which with all its khaki seems to be playing at war more than any other city, and where one or two people are still extant who saw the Russians come through from Archangel at the beginning of operations, and even touched the snow on their caps! And the different country houses, the different friends, how little touched they seem by it all! True, in one or two once over-pretentious houses the food is less lavish, the staff less numerous, the clothes less exaggerated; which seemed a great improvement.