The Major

by Ralph Connor

From the day of Austria's ultimatum to Servia Larry began to read everything he could find dealing with modern European history, and especially German history. Day and night he studied with feverish intensity the diplomacy and policies of the great powers of Europe till at length he came to a somewhat clear understanding of the modern theory and world policy of the German state which had made war inevitable. But, though his study made it possible for him to relieve his country from the charge of guilt in this war, his anxiety and his misery remained. For one thing, he was oppressed with an overwhelming loneliness. He began to feel that he was dwelling among an alien people. He had made many and close friends during the months of his stay in Chicago. But while they were quick to offer him sympathy in his anxiety and misery, he could not fail to observe on every hand the obvious and necessary indications of the neutral spirit. He could expect nothing else. In this conflict America had decided that she was not immediately concerned and she was resolute to remain unconcerned. A leading representative of the Chicago press urged Americans to be careful not to “rock the boat.” The President of the United States counselled his people “to keep calm” and to observe the strictest neutrality. Larry discovered, too, an unconfessed, almost unconscious desire in the heart of many an American, a relic of Revolutionary days, to see England not destroyed or even seriously disabled, but, say, “well trimmed.” It would do her good. There was, beside, a large element in the city distinctly and definitely pro-German and intensely hostile to Great Britain. On his way to the office one afternoon Larry found himself held up by a long procession of young German reservists singing with the utmost vigour and with an unmistakable note of triumph the German national air, “Die Wacht Am Rhein,” and that newer song which embodied German faith and German ambition, “Deutschland Uber Alles.” When he arrived at the office that afternoon he was surprised to find that he was unable to go on with his work for the trembling of his hands. In the office he was utterly alone, for, however his friends there might take pains to show extra kindness, he was conscious of complete isolation from their life. Unconcerned, indifferent, coolly critical of the great conflict in which his people were pouring out blood like water, they were like spectators at a football match on the side lines willing to cheer good play on either side and ready to acclaim the winner.

The Wakehams, though extremely careful to avoid a word or act that might give him pain, naturally shared the general feeling of their people. For them the war was only another of those constantly recurring European scraps which were the inevitable result of the forms of government which these nations insisted upon retaining. If peoples were determined to have kings and emperors, what other could they expect but wars. France, of course, was quite another thing. The sympathy of America with France was deep, warm and sincere. America could not forget the gallant Lafayette. Besides, France was the one European republic. As for Britain, the people of Chicago were content to maintain a profoundly neutral calm, and to a certain extent the Wakehams shared this feeling.

In Larry's immediate circle, however, there were two exceptions. One, within the Wakeham family, was Elfie. Quick to note the signs of wretchedness in him and quick to feel the attitude of neutrality assumed by her family toward the war, the child, without stint and without thought, gave him a love and a sympathy so warm, so passionate, that it was to his heart like balm to an open wound. There was no neutrality about Elfie. She was openly, furiously pro-Ally. The rights and wrongs of the great world conflict were at first nothing to her. With Canada and the Canadians she was madly in love, they were Larry's people and for Larry she would have gladly given her life. Another exception to the general state of feeling was that of Hugo Raeder. From the first Raeder was an intense and confessed advocate of the cause of the Allies. From personal observation he knew Germany well, and from wide reading he had come to understand and appreciate the significance of her world policy. He recognised in German autocracy and in German militarism and in German ambition a menace to the liberties of Europe. He represented a large and intellectually influential class of men in the city and throughout the country generally. Graduates of the great universities, men high in the leadership of the financial world, the editors of the great newspapers almost to a man, magazine editors and magazine writers untinged by racial or personal affinity with Germany, these were represented by Raeder, and were strongly and enthusiastically in sympathy with the aims of the Allies, and as the war advanced became increasingly eager to have their country assume a definite stand on the side of those nations whom they believed to be fighting for the liberties and rights of humanity. But though these exceptions were a source of unspeakable comfort to him, Larry carried day by day a growing sense of isolation and an increasing burden of anxiety.

Then, too, there was the question of his duty. He had no clear conviction as to what his duty was. With all his hatred and loathing of war, he had come to the conviction that should he see it to be the right thing for him, he would take his place in the fighting line. There appeared, however, to be no great need for men in Canada just now. In response to the call for twenty-five thousand men for the First Expeditionary Force, nearly one hundred thousand had offered. And yet his country was at war; his friends whether enlisted for the fighting line or in the civilian ranks were under the burden. Should he not return to Canada and find some way to help in the great cause? But again, on the other hand, his work here was important, he had been treated with great consideration and kindness, he had made a place for himself where he seemed to be needed. The lack of clear vision of his duty added greatly to his distress.

A wire had informed him in the first days of the war that his brother-in-law had gone to rejoin his old regiment in the Coldstream Guards. A letter from Nora did not help much. “Jack has gone,” she wrote. “We all felt he could do nothing else. Even poor, dear Mother agreed that nothing else was possible. Kathleen amazes us all. The very day after the awful news came, without a word from Jack, I found her getting his things together. 'Are you going to let him go?' I asked her, perfectly amazed at her coolness. 'Let me go?' said Jack, who was muddling about her. 'Let me go? She would not let me stay. Would you, Kathleen?' 'No,' she said, 'I do not think I would like you to stay, Jack.' And this is our pacifist, Kathleen, mind you! How she came to see through this thing so rapidly I don't know. But sooner than any of us Kathleen saw what the war was about and that we must get in. She goes about her work quietly, cheerfully. She has no illusions, and there is no bravado. Oh, Larry dear, I do not believe I could do it. When she smiles at the dear wee man in her arms I have to run away or I should howl. I must tell you about Duckworth. You know what a dear he is. We have seen a good deal of him this year. He has quite captivated Mother. Well, he had a letter from his father saying, 'I am just about rejoining my regiment; your brother has enlisted; your sister has gone to the Red Cross. We have given our house to the Government for a hospital. Come home and join up.' What a man he must be! The dear boy came to see us and, Larry, he wanted me. Oh, I wish I could have said yes, but somehow I couldn't. Dear boy, I could only kiss him and weep over him till he forgot himself in trying to comfort me. He went with the Calgary boys. Hec Ross is off, too; and Angus Fraser is up and down the country with kilt and pipes driving Scotchmen mad to be at the war. He's going, too, although what his old mother will do without him I do not know. But she will hear of nothing less. Only four weeks of this war and it seems like a year. Switzer has gone, you know, the wicked devil. If it had not been for Sam, who had been working around the mine, the whole thing would have been blown up with dynamite. Sam discovered the thing in time. The Germans have all quit work. Thank God for that. So the mine is not doing much. Mother is worried about the war, I can see, thinking things through.”

A letter from Jane helped him some. It was very unlike Jane and evidently written under the stress of strong emotion. She gave him full notes of the Reverend Andrew McPherson's sermons, which she appeared to set great store by. The rapid progress of recruiting filled her with delight. It grieved her to think that her friends were going to the war, but that grief was as nothing compared to the grief and indignation against those who seemed to treat the war lightly. She gave a page of enthusiastic appreciation to Kellerman. Another page she devoted to an unsuccessful attempt to repress her furious contempt for Lloyd Rushbrooke, who talked largely and coolly about the need of keeping sane. The ranks of the first contingent were all filled up. She knew there were two million Canadians in the United States who if they were needed would flock back home. They were not needed yet, and so it would be very foolish for them to leave good positions in the meantime.

Larry read the last sentence with a smile. “Dear old Jane,” he said to himself. “She wants to help me out; and, by George, she does.” Somehow Jane's letter brought healing to his lacerated nerves and heart, and steadied him to bear the disastrous reports of the steady drive of the enemy towards Paris that were released by the censor during the last days of that dreadful August. With each day of that appalling retreat Larry's agony deepened. The reports were vague, but one thing was clear—the drive was going relentlessly forward, and the French and the British armies alike were powerless to stay the overwhelming torrent. The check at the Marne lifted the gloom a bit. But the reports of that great fight were meagre and as yet no one had been able to estimate the full significance of that mighty victory for the Allied armies, nor the part played therein by the gallant and glorious little army that constituted the British Expeditionary Force.

Blacker days came in late September, when the news arrived of the disaster to the Aboukir and her sister ships, and a month later of the destruction of the Good Hope and the Monmouth in the South Pacific sea fight. On that dreadful morning on his way downtown he purchased a paper. After the first glance he crushed the paper together till he reached his office, where he sat with the paper spread out before him on his desk, staring at the headlines, unable to see, unable to think, able only to suffer. In the midst of his misery Professor Schaefer passed through the office on his way to consult with Mr. Wakeham and threw him a smile of cheery triumph. It was a way Schaefer had these days. The very sight of him was enough to stir Larry to a kind of frenzied madness. This morning the German's smile was the filling up of his cup of misery. He stuffed the paper into his desk, took up his pen and began to make figures on his pad, gnawing his lips the while.

An hour later Hugo Raeder came in with a message for him. Raeder after one look at his face took Larry away with him, sick with rage and fear, in his car, and for an hour and a half drove through the Park at a rate that defied the traffic regulations, talking the while in quiet, hopeful tones of the prospects of the Allies, of the marvellous recovery of the French and British armies on the Marne and of the splendid Russian victories. He touched lightly upon the recent naval disaster, which was entirely due to the longer range of the enemy's guns and to a few extraordinarily lucky shots. The clear, crisp air, the swift motion, the bright sun, above all the deep, kindly sympathy of this strong, clear-thinking man beside him, brought back to Larry his courage if not his cheer. As they were nearly back to the office again, he ventured his first observation, for throughout the drive he had confined his speech to monosyllabic answers to Raeder's stream of talk.

“In spite of it all, I believe the navy is all right,” he said, with savage emphasis.