CHAPTER VIII SOME HISTORICAL REFLECTIONS

Prior to the present war the chief bugbears encountered by Lord Roberts, and indeed by all others whose aim it was to provide this country with an army numerically fit to support its policy, were the objections, real or imaginary, of the British race to compulsory service, and more particularly to compulsory service in foreign lands. These prejudices were true types of the bugbear; for they were born out of opinion and not out of the facts.

The smaller fry of politicians, whose fears—like those of the monkeys—are more easily excited by the front-row of things which are visible, than by the real dangers which lurk behind in the shadow, are always much more terrified of opinion than of the facts. This is precisely why most politicians remain all their lives more unfit than any other class of man for governing a country. Give one of these his choice—ask him whether he will prefer to support a cause where the facts are with him, but opinion is likely for many years to be running hard against him, or another cause where these conditions are reversed—of course he will never hesitate a moment about choosing the latter. And very probably his manner {402} of answering will indicate, that he thinks you insult his intelligence by asking such a question.

It is only the very rare type of big, patient politician, who realises that the facts cannot be changed by opinion, and that in the end opinion must be changed by the facts, if the two happen to be opposed. Such a one chooses accordingly, to follow the facts in spite of unpopularity.

The little fellows, on the contrary, with their large ears glued anxiously to the ground, keep ever muttering to themselves, and chaunting in a sort of rhythmical chorus, the most despicable incantation in the whole political vocabulary:—"We who aspire to be leaders of the People must see to it that we are never in advance of the People.... The People will never stand this: the People will never stand that.... Away with it therefore; and if possible attach it like a mill-stone round the necks of our enemies."

Of course they are quite wrong. The People will stand anything which is necessary for the national welfare, if the matter is explained to them by a big enough man in accents of sincerity.


A defensive force which will on no account cross the frontier is no defensive force at all. It is only a laughing-stock.

A frontier is sometimes an arbitrary line drawn across meadow and plough; sometimes a river; sometimes a mountain range; sometimes, as with ourselves, it is a narrow strip of sea—a 'great ditch,' as Cromwell called it contemptuously.

The awful significance, however, of the word 'frontier' seems to deepen and darken as we pass {403} from the first example to the fourth. And there is apparently something more in this feeling than the terrors of the channel crossing or of a foreign language. Territorials may be taken to Ireland, which is a longer sea-journey than from Dover to Calais; but to be 'butchered abroad'—horrible!

It is horrible enough to be butchered anywhere, but why more horrible in the valley of the Rhine than in that of the Thames? If national safety demands butchery, as it has often done in the past, surely the butchery of 50,000 brave men on the borders of Luxemburg is a less evil than the butchery of twice that number in the vicinity of Norwich? And if we are to consider national comfort as well as safety, it is surely wise to follow the German example and fight in any man's country rather than in our own. The only question of real importance is this:—At what place will the sacrifice of life be most effective for the defence of the country? If we can answer that we shall know also where it will be lightest.[1]


THE HONOUR OF THE ARMY

The school of political thought which remained predominant throughout the great industrial epoch (1832-1886) bitterly resented the assumption, made by certain classes, that the profession of arms was more honourable in its nature, than commerce and other peaceful pursuits. The destruction of this supposed fallacy produced a great literature, and even a considerable amount of poetry. It was a frequent theme at the opening of literary institutes and technical colleges, and also at festivals of chambers of commerce {404} and municipalities. Professors of Political Economy expounded the true doctrine with great vehemence, and sermons were preached without number upon the well-worn text about the victories of peace.

This reaction was salutary up to a point. It swept away a vast quantity of superannuated rubbish. International relations were at this time just as much cumbered with old meaningless phrases of a certain sort, in which vainglory was the chief ingredient, as they have recently been cumbered with others of a different sort in which indolence was the chief ingredient. Inefficiency, indifference, idleness, trifling, and extravagance were a standing charge against soldiers as a class; and though they were never true charges against the class, they were true, for two generations following after Waterloo, against a large number of individuals. But this reaction, like most other reactions, swept away too much.

THE PROFESSION OF ARMS

A mercenary soldiery which looks to enrich itself by pay and plunder is an ignoble institution. It has no right to give itself airs of honour, and must be judged like company promotion, trusts, or any of the many other predatory professions of modern times. It is also a national danger, inasmuch as its personal interest is to foment wars. The British Army has never been open to this charge in any period of its history.

A profession in which it is only possible, by the most severe self-denial and economy, for an officer—even after he has arrived at success—to live on his pay, to marry, and to bring up a family, can hardly be ranked as a money-making career. Pecuniary motives, indeed, were never the charge against 'the military' except among the stump-orator class. But {405} professional indifference and inefficiency were, at that particular time, not only seriously alleged, but were also not infrequently true. It was a good thing that slackness should be swept away. That it has been swept away pretty thoroughly, every one who has known anything about the Army for a generation past, is well aware.

But the much-resented claim to a superiority in the matter of honour is well founded, and no amount of philosophising or political-economising will ever shake it. Clearly it is more honourable for a man to risk his life, and what is infinitely more important—his reputation and his whole future career—in defence of his country, than it is merely to build up a competency or a fortune. The soldier's profession is beset by other and greater dangers than the physical. Money-making pursuits are not only safer for the skin, but in them a blunder, or even a series of blunders, does not banish the hope of ultimate success. The man of business has chances of retrieving his position. Many bankrupts have died in affluence. In politics, a man with a plausible tongue and a certain quality of courage, will usually succeed in eluding the consequences of his mistakes, by laying the blame on other people's shoulders. But the soldier is rarely given a second chance; and he may easily come down at the first chance, through sheer ill-luck, and not through any fault of his own. Such a profession confers honour upon its members.

Law, trade, and finance are not in themselves, as was at one time thought, dishonourable pursuits; but neither are they in themselves honourable. They are neither the one nor the other. It casts no slur upon a man to be a lawyer, a tradesman, or a banker; {406} but neither does it confer upon him any honour. But military service does confer an honour. The devotion, hardship, and danger of the soldier's life are not rewarded upon a commercial basis, or reckoned in that currency.

Some people are inclined to mock at the respect—exaggerated as they think—which is paid by conscript countries to their armies. For all its excesses and absurdities, this respect is founded upon a true principle—a truer principle of conduct than our own. In countries where most of the able-bodied men have given some years of their lives gratuitously to the service of their country, the fact is brought home to them, that such service is of a different character from the benefits which they subsequently confer upon the State by their industry and thrift, or by growing rich.

A THEORY OF BRITISH FREEDOM

From the national point of view, it is ennobling that at some period of their lives the great majority of citizens should have served the commonwealth disinterestedly. This after all is the only principle which will support a commonwealth. For a commonwealth will not stand against the shocks, which history teaches us to beware of, merely by dropping papers, marked with a cross, into a ballot-box once every five years, or even oftener. It will not stand merely by taking an intelligent interest in events, by attending meetings and reading the newspapers, and by indulging in outbursts of indignation or enthusiasm. It will only stand by virtue of personal service, and by the readiness of the whole people, generation by generation, to give their lives and—what is much harder to face—the time and irksome preparation which are necessary for making the {407} sacrifice of their lives—should it be called for—effective for its purpose.

If the mass of the people, even when they have realised the need, will not accept the obligation of national service they must be prepared to see their institutions perish, to lose control of their own destinies, and to welcome another master than Democracy, who it may well be, will not put them to the trouble of dropping papers, marked with a cross, into ballot-boxes once in five years, or indeed at all. For a State may continue to exist even if deprived of ballot-boxes; but it is doomed if its citizens will not in time prepare themselves to defend it with their lives.

The memories of the press-gang and the militia ballot are dim. Both belong to a past which it is the custom to refer to with reprobation. Both were inconsistent with equal comradeship between classes; with justice, dignity, honour, and the unity of the nation; and on these grounds they are rightly condemned.

But the press-gang and the militia ballot have been condemned, and are still condemned, upon other grounds which do not seem so firm. Both have been condemned as contravening that great and laudable principle of British freedom which lays it down that those who like fighting, or prefer it to other evils—like starvation and imprisonment—or who can be bribed, or in some other way persuaded to fight, should enjoy the monopoly of being 'butchered,' both abroad and at home. And it has been further maintained by those who held these views, that people who do not like fighting, but choose rather to stay at home talking, criticising, enjoying {408} fine thrills of patriotism, making money, and sleeping under cover, have some kind of divine right to go on enjoying that form of existence undisturbed. Since the Wars of the Roses the latter class has usually been in a great majority in England. Even during the Cromwellian Civil War the numbers of men, capable of bearing arms, who actually bore them, was only a smallish fraction of the entire population.

The moral ideals of any community, like other things, are apt to be settled by numbers. With the extension of popular government, and the increase of the electorate, this tendency will assert itself more and more. But providing the people are dealt with plainly and frankly, without flattery or deceit—like men and not as if they were greedy children—the moral sense of a democracy will probably be sounder and stronger than that of any other form of State.

Even in England, however, there have been lapses, during which the people have not been so treated, and the popular spirit has sunk, owing to mean leadership, into degradation. During the whole of the industrial epoch the idea steadily gained in strength, that those whose battles were fought for them by others, approached more nearly to the type of the perfect citizen than those others who actually fought the battles; that the protected were worthier than the protectors.

According to this view the true meaning of 'freedom' was exemption from personal service. The whole duty of the virtuous citizen with regard to the defence of his country began and ended with paying a policeman. With the disappearance of imminent and visible danger, the reprobate qualities of the soldier became speedily a pain and a scandal {409} to godly men. In time of peace he was apt to be sneered at and decried as an idler and a spendthrift, who would not stand well in a moral comparison with those steady fellows, who had remained at home, working hard at their vocations and investing their savings.

NINETEENTH CENTURY NOTIONS

The soldier, moreover, according to Political Economy, was occupied in a non-productive trade, and therefore it was contrary to the principles of that science to waste more money upon him than could be avoided. Also it was prudent not to show too much gratitude to those who had done the fighting, lest they should become presumptuous and formidable.

This conception of the relations between the army and the civilian population has been specially marked at several periods in our history—after the Cromwellian wars; after the Marlborough wars; after 1757; but during the half century which followed Waterloo it seemed to have established itself permanently as an article of our political creed.

After 1815 there was an utter weariness of fighting, following upon nearly a quarter of a century of war. The heroism of Wellington's armies was still tainted in the popular memory by the fact that the prisons had been opened to find him recruits. The industrial expansion and prodigious growth of material wealth absorbed men's minds. Middle-class ideals, middle-class prosperity, middle-class irritation against a military caste which, in spite of its comparative poverty, continued with some success to assert its social superiority, combined against the army in popular discussions. The honest belief that wars were an anachronism, and that the world was now {410} launched upon an interminable era of peace, clothed the nakedness of class prejudice with some kind of philosophic raiment. Soldiers were no longer needed; why then should they continue to claim the lion's share of honourable recognition?


Up to August 1914 the chief difficulties in the way of army reformers were how to overcome the firmly-rooted ideas that preparations for war upon a great scale were not really necessary to security, and that, on those rare occasions when fighting might be necessary, it should not be undertaken by the most virtuous class of citizens, but by others whose lives had a lower value. If the citizen paid it was enough; and he claimed the right to grumble even at paying. This was the old Liberal faith of the eighteen-fifties, and it remained the faith of the straitest Radical sect, until German guns began to batter down the forts of Liège.

A CHANGE OF TONE

But any one who remembers the state of public opinion between 1870 and 1890, or who has read the political memoirs of that time, will realise that a change has been, very slowly and gradually, stealing over public opinion ever since the end of that epoch. In those earlier times the only danger which disturbed our national equanimity, and that only very slightly, was the approach of Russia towards the north-western frontier of India. The volunteer movement came to be regarded more and more by ordinary people in the light of a healthy and manly recreation, rather than as a duty. A lad would make his choice, very much as if volunteering were on a par with rowing, sailing, hunting, or polo. It is probably no exaggeration to say that nine volunteers out of every ten, who {411} enrolled themselves between 1870 and 1890, never believed for a single moment that there was a chance of the country having need of their services. Consequently, except in the case of a few extreme enthusiasts, it never appeared that there was anything unpatriotic in not joining the volunteers.

One has only to compare this with the attitude which has prevailed since the Territorial Army came into existence, to realise that there has been a stirring of the waters, and that in certain quarters a change had taken place in the national mood. With regard to the Territorials the attitude of those who joined, of those who did not join, of the politicians, of the press, of public opinion generally was markedly different from the old attitude. It was significant that a man who did not join was often disposed to excuse and to justify his abstention. The conditions of his calling, or competing duties made it impossible for him; or the lowness of his health, or the highness of his principles in some way interfered. There was a tendency now to explain what previously would never have called for any explanation.

The causes of this change are not less obvious than its symptoms. It is an interesting coincidence that Lord Kitchener had a good deal to do with it. The destruction of the bloodthirsty tyranny of the Khalifa (1898), and the rescue of a fertile province from waste, misery, and massacre, caused many people to look with less disapproving eyes than formerly upon the profession of the soldier. The long anxieties of the South African War, and the levies of volunteers from all parts of the Empire, who went out to take a share in it, forced men to think not only more kindly of soldiers, but also to think {412} of war itself no longer as an illusion but as a reality.[2]

The events which happened during the last decade—the creation of the German Navy—the attempt and failure of the British Government to abate the rivalry in armaments—the naval panic and the hastily summoned Defence Conference in 1909—the Russo-Japanese war—the Agadir crisis—the two Balkan wars—the military competition between Germany and France—all these combined to sharpen the consciousness of danger and to draw attention to the need for being prepared against it.


These events, which crowded the beginning of the twentieth century, stirred and troubled public opinion in a manner which not only Mr. Cobden, who died in 1865, but almost equally Mr. Gladstone, who survived him by more than thirty years, would have utterly refused to credit. Both these statesmen had been convinced that the world was moving steadily towards a settled peace, and that before another century had passed away—possibly even in a single generation—their dreams of general disarmament would be approaching fulfilment.

And to a certain extent our own generation remains still affected by the same notions. Amid the thunders of more than a thousand miles of battle we still find ourselves clinging tenaciously to the belief, that the world has entered suddenly, and unexpectedly, upon an abnormal period which, from {413} its very nature, can only be of very brief duration. This comforting conviction does not appear to rest upon solid grounds. In the light of history it would not seem so certain that we have not passed out of an abnormal period into the normal—if lamentable—condition when a nation, in order to maintain its independence, must be prepared at any moment to fight for its life.

It would be profitless to pursue these speculations. It is enough for our own generation that we now find ourselves in a situation of the gravest danger; and that it depends upon the efforts which we as a nation put forth, more than upon anything else, whether the danger will pass away or settle down and become chronic.


NATURE OF GERMAN ENMITY

Although we failed to perceive or acknowledge the danger until some nine months ago, it had been there for at least fifteen years, probably for twice that number.

German antagonism to England has been compounded of envy of our possessions, contempt for our character, and hatred of our good fortune. What galled our rival more than anything else, was the fact that we enjoyed our prosperity, and held our vast Empire, upon too easy terms. The German people had made, and were continuing to make, sacrifices to maintain their position in the world, while the British people in their view were making none. And if we measure national sacrifices by personal service, and not merely in money payments, it is difficult to see what answer is to be given to this charge.

It is clear that unless the result of this war be to {414} crush Germany as completely as she herself hoped at the beginning of it, to crush France, our own danger will remain, unless Germany's chief grievance against us is meanwhile removed. It is not a paradox, but merely a statement of plain fact, to say that Germany's chief grievance against ourselves was, that we were not prepared to withstand her attack. Her hatred, which has caused, and still causes us so much amazement, was founded upon the surest of foundations—a want of respect. The Germans despised a nation which refused to recognise that any obligation rested on its citizens, to fit themselves, by serious training, for defence of their inheritance. And they will continue to despise us when this war is over if we should still fail to recognise this obligation. Despising us, they will continue also to hate us; the peace of the world will still be endangered; and we shall not, after all our sacrifices, have reached the security at which we aimed.


HEART-SEARCHINGS

We may end this war without winning it, and at the same time without being defeated. And although it appears to be still believed by some persons that we can win, in some sort of fashion, without accepting the principle of national service, even those who entertain this dangerous confidence will hardly dare to deny that, after a war which ends without a crowning victory, we shall have to accept conscription at once upon the signature of peace.

For it should be remembered that we have other things to take into account besides the mood of Germany. If we stave off defeat, only with the assistance of allies—all of whom have long ago adopted universal military service in its most rigorous {415} form—we shall have to reckon with their appraisement of the value of our assistance. If we are to judge by Germany's indomitable enterprise during the past two generations, she is likely to recover from the effects of this war at least as rapidly as ourselves. And when she has recovered, will she not hunger again for our possessions, as eagerly as before, if she sees them still inadequately guarded? And maybe, when that time comes, there may be some difficulty in finding allies. For a Power which declines to recognise the obligation of equal sacrifices, which refuses to make preparations in time of peace, and which accordingly, when war occurs, is ever found unready, is not the most eligible of comrades in arms.


In a recent letter the Freiherr von Hexenküchen refers, in his sour way, to some of the matters which have been discussed in this chapter.... "The British People," he writes, "appear to be mightily exercised just now about their own and their neighbours' consciences; about what they may or may not do with decency; about whether or no football matches are right; or race-meetings; or plays, music-hall entertainments, concerts, the purchase of new clothes, and the drinking of alcohol; whether indeed any form of enjoyment or cheerfulness ought to be tolerated in present circumstances.

"But although you vex yourselves over these and other problems of a similar kind, you never seem to vex yourselves about the abscess at the root of the tooth.

"The Holy Roman Empire, which was not holy, nor Roman, nor yet an empire, reminds me not a little of your so-called voluntary military system, {416} which is not voluntary, nor military, nor yet a system. It is only a chaos, a paradox, and a laughing-stock to us Germans.

"It is our army, and not yours, which really rests on a voluntary basis. Our whole people for a century past have voluntarily accepted the obligation of universal military service. Those amongst us who have raised objections to this system are but an inconsiderable fraction; negligible at any time, but in this or any other great crisis, not merely negligible, but altogether invisible and inaudible.

"Our people desire their army to be as it is, otherwise it would not be as it is. No Kaiser, or Bureaucracy, or General Staff could impose such a system against the public will and conscience. Your people, on the other hand, have refused as a people to accept the military obligation. By various devices they endeavour to fix the burden on the shoulders of individuals. Is this the true meaning of the word 'voluntary'—to refuse? ... Sir, I desire to be civil; but was there ever a more conspicuous instance of cant in the whole history of the world, than your self-righteous boastings about your 'voluntary' military system?

"You may wonder why I bracket these two things together—your soul-searchings about amusements of all kinds, and your nonsensical panegyrics on the voluntary' principle.... To my eyes they are very closely connected.

THE DUTY OF CHEERFULNESS

"Cheerfulness is a duty in time of war. Every man or woman who smiles, and keeps a good heart, and goes about his or her day's work gaily, helps by so much to sustain the national spirit. Not good, but harm, is done to the conduct of the war, {417} by moping and brooding over casualty lists, and by speculations as to disasters which have occurred, or are thought to be imminent. But there is one essential preliminary to national cheerfulness—before a nation can be cheerful it must have a good conscience; and it cannot have a good conscience unless it has done its duty.

"Your nation has a bad conscience. The reason is that, as a nation, it has not done its duty. This may be the fault of the leaders who have not dared to speak the word of command. But the fact remains, that you well know—or at any rate suspect in your hearts—that you have not done your whole duty. And consequently you cannot be really cheerful about anything. As you go about your daily work or recreations, you are all the while looking back over your shoulders with misgiving. As a nation you have not—even yet—dedicated yourselves to this war. When you have done so—if ever you do—your burden of gloom and mistrust will fall from your back, like that of Christian as he passed along the highway, which is fenced on either side with the Wall that is called Salvation."


In the great American Civil War, the Southern States, which aimed at breaking away from the union, adopted conscription within a year from the beginning. They were brave fighters; but they were poor, and they were in a small minority. The Northern States—confident in their numbers and wealth—relied at first upon the voluntary system. It gave them great and gallant armies; but these was not enough; and as months went by President Lincoln realised that they were not enough.

{418}

Disregarding the entreaties of his friends, to beware of asking of the people 'what the people would never stand,' disregarding the clamours of his enemies about personal freedom, he insisted upon conscription, believing that by these means alone the union could be saved. And what was the result? A section of the press foamed with indignation. Mobs yelled, demonstrated, and in their illogical fury, lynched negroes, seeing in these unfortunates the cause of all their troubles. But the mobs were not the American people. They were only a noisy and contemptible minority of the American people, whose importance as well as courage had been vastly over-rated. The quiet people were in deadly earnest, and they supported their President.[3]

LINCOLN AND CONSCRIPTION

But the task which Lincoln set himself was one of the hardest that a democratic statesman ever undertook. The demand which he determined to make, and did make, may well have tried his heart as he sat alone in the night watches. For compulsion was a violation of the habits and prejudices of the old American stock, while it was even more distasteful to new immigrants. It was contrary to the traditions and theories of the Republic, and, as many thought, to its fundamental principles. It was open to scornful attack on grounds of sentiment. Against a foe who were so weak, both in numbers and wealth, how humiliating to be driven to such desperate measures! But most of all—outweighing all other considerations—this war of North and South was not only war, but civil war. Families and lifelong friendships were divided. What compulsion meant, therefore, in this case was, that brothers were to be forced to {419} kill brothers, husbands were to be sent out to slay the kinsmen of their wives, or—as they marched with Sherman through Georgia—to set a light with their own hands to the old homesteads where they had been born. Between the warring States there were no differences of blood, tradition, or religion; or of ideas of right and wrong; no hatred against a foreign race; only an acute opposition of political ideals. Compulsion, therefore, was a great thing to ask of the American people. But the American people are a great people, and they understood. And Lincoln was a great man,—one of the greatest, noblest, and most human in the whole of history,—and he did not hesitate to ask, to insist, and to use force. What the end was does not need to be stated here; except merely this, that a lingering and bloody war was thereby greatly shortened, and that the union was saved.

The British Government and people are faced to-day with some, but not all—and not the greatest—of Lincoln's difficulties. Our traditions and theories are the same, to a large extent, as those which prevailed in America in 1863. But unlike the North we have had recent experience of war, and also of the sacrifices which war calls for from the civilian population. By so much the shock of compulsion would find us better prepared.

But the other and much greater difficulties which beset Lincoln do not exist in the case of the British Government. We are not fighting against a foe inferior in numbers, but against one who up till now has been greatly superior in numbers—who has also been greatly superior in equipment, and preparation, and in deeply-laid plans. We are fighting against {420} a foe who has invaded and encroached; not against one who is standing on the defensive, demanding merely to be let go free. The family affections and friendships which would be outraged by conscription in this war against Germany are inconsiderable; mere dust in the balance. The present war is waged against a foreign nation; it is not civil war. It is waged against an enemy who plainly seeks, not his own freedom, but our destruction, and that of our Allies. It is waged against an enemy who by the treacherous thoroughness of his peace-time preparations, appears to our eyes to have violated good faith as between nations, as in the conduct of the campaign he has disregarded the obligations of our common humanity, We may be wrong; we may take exaggerated views owing to the bitterness of the struggle; but such is our mind upon the matter.

Lincoln's task would have been light had such been the mind of the Northern States half a century ago, and had he been faced with nothing more formidable than the conditions which prevail in England to-day. It does not need the courage of a Lincoln to demand from our people a sacrifice, upon which the safety of the British Empire depends, even more certainly, than in 1863 did that of the American union.


[1] Once more it is desirable to correct the erroneous impression that the conscript armies of continental powers are under no liability to serve outside their own territories or overseas.

[2] Influences of another kind altogether had much to do with the cleansing of public opinion—the writings of Henley, of Mahan, and of Mr. Rudyard Kipling. Though not so well known as the works of these, Henderson's Life of Stonewall Jackson has nevertheless changed many courses of thought, and its indirect effect in removing false standards has been very great. I can never sufficiently acknowledge my personal debt to these four.

[3] Cf. Round Table, March 1915, 'The Politics of War.'