Mr. Punch's History of the Great War Part 21

[Ill.u.s.tration:

INDIGNANT WAR-WORKER: "And she actually asked me if I didn't think I might be doing something! Me? And I haven't missed a charity matinee for the last three months."]

Food at the front is another matter, and Mr. Punch is glad to print the tribute of one of his war-poets to the "Cookers":

The Company Cook is no great fighter, And there's never a medal for _him_ to wear, Though he camps in the sh.e.l.l-swept waste, poor blighter, And many a cook has "copped it" there; But the boys go over on beans and bacon, And Tommy is best when Tommy has dined, So here's to the Cookers, the plucky old Cookers, And the sooty old Cooks that waddle behind.

"It is Germany," says a German paper, "who will speak the last word in this War." Yes, and the last word will be "Kamerad!" But that word will be spoken in spite of many pseudo-war-workers on the Home Front.

Among the many wonders of the War one of the most wonderful is the sailor-man, three times, four times, five times torpedoed, who yet wants to sail once more. But there is one thing that he never wants to do again--to "pal" with Fritz the square-head:

"When peace is signed and treaties made an' trade begins again, There's some'll shake a German's 'and an' never see the stain; But _not me_," says Dan the sailor-man, "not me, as G.o.d's on high-- Lord knows it's bitter in an open boat to see your s.h.i.+pmates die."

Among the ign.o.ble curiosities of the time we note the following advertis.e.m.e.nts in a Manchester newspaper of "wants" in our "indispensable"

industries: "Tennis ball inflators, cutters and makers" and "Caramel wrappers"; while a Brighton paper has "Wanted, two dozen living flies weekly during the remainder of winter for two Italian frogs."

The situation in Ireland remains unchanged, and suggests the following historical division of eras. (1) Pagan era; (2) Christian era; (3) De Valera.

_March, 1918_.

Once again the month of the War-G.o.d has been true to its name. March, opening in suspense, with the Kaiser and his Chancellor still talking of peace, has closed in a crisis of acute anxiety for the Allies. The expected has happened; the long-advertised German attack has been delivered in the West, and the war of movement has begun.

Breaking through the Fifth British Army, in five days the Germans have advanced twenty-five miles, to within artillery range of Amiens and the main lateral railway behind the British lines. Bapaume and Peronne have fallen. The Americans have entered the war in the firing line. It is the beginning of the end, the supreme test of the soul of the nation:

The little things of which we lately chattered-- The dearth of taxis or the dawn of Spring; Themes we discussed as though they really mattered, Like rationed meat or raiders on the wing;--

How thin it seems to-day, this vacant prattle, Drowned by the thunder rolling in the West, Voice of the great arbitrament of battle That puts our temper to the final test.

Thither our eyes are turned, our hearts are straining, Where those we love, whose courage laughs at fear, Amid the storm of steel around them raining, Go to their death for all we hold most dear.

New-born of this supremest hour of trial, In quiet confidence shall be our strength, Fixed on a faith that will not take denial Nor doubt that we have found our soul at length.

O England, staunch of nerve and strong of sinew, Best when you face the odds and stand at bay; Now show a watching world what stuff is in you!

Now make your soldiers proud of you to-day!

Of our soldiers we at home cannot be too proud, from Field-Marshal to officer's servant. As one of Mr. Punch's correspondents at the front writes: "Dawn to me hereafter will not be personified as a rosy-fingered damsel or a lovely swift-footed deity, but as a st.u.r.dy little man in khaki, crimson-eared with cold, heralded and escorted by frozen wafts of outer air, bearing in one k.n.o.bby fist a pair of boots, and in the other a tin mug of black and smoking tea." As for the charities and courtesies of war, as interpreted by our soldiers, Mr. Punch can wish for no better ill.u.s.tration than in these lines on "The German graves":

I wonder are there roses still In Ablain St. Nazaire, And crosses girt with daffodil In that old garden there.

I wonder if the long gra.s.s waves With wild-flowers just the same, Where Germans made their soldiers' graves Before the English came?

The English set those crosses straight And kept the legends clean; The English made the wicket-gate And left the garden green; And now who knows what regiments dwell In Ablain St. Nazaire?

But I would have them guard as well The graves we guarded there.

And when at last the Prussians pa.s.s Among those mounds and see The reverent cornflowers crowd the gra.s.s Because of you and me, They'll give, perhaps, one humble thought To all the "English fools"

Who fought as never men have fought But somehow kept the rules.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MADE IN GERMANY

CIVILISATION: "What's that supposed to represent?"

IMPERIAL ARTIST: "Why, 'Peace,' of course."

CIVILISATION: "Well, I don't recognise it--and I never shall."]

To turn from the crowning ordeal of our Armies to the activities of British politicians on the eve of the great German attack is not a soul-animating experience. Indeed, the efforts of Messrs. Snowden and Trevelyan, Pringle and King almost justify the a.s.sumption that Hindenburg would have launched his offensive earlier but for his desire not to interfere with the great offensive conducted by his friends on the Westminster front. Our anti-patriots, however, are placed in a dilemma. They were bound to side with Germany, because of their rooted belief that England always must be wrong. They were bound to hail the Bolshevik self-determinators because of their entirely sound views on peace at any price. But now their two loves are fighting like cats. Hence the problem: "Which am I (both can't well be right), Pro-German or Pro-Trotskyite?" Discussions of pig shortage, commandeered premises, the relations of the Government and Press, and the duties of the Directors of Propaganda leave us cold or impatient. But members of all parties have been united in genuine grief over the death of Mr. John Redmond, s.n.a.t.c.hed away just when his distracted country most needed his moderating influence. For in their anxiety not to interfere with the deliberations of those patriotic Irishmen who are trying to settle how Ireland shall be governed in the future, the Government are allowing it to become ungovernable by anybody. A new and agreeable Parliamentary innovation has been introduced by Sir Eric Geddes in the shape of an immense diagram showing the downward tendency of the U-boat activities.

Other orators might with advantage follow this method. Indeed, there are some whose speeches would be more enjoyable if they were all diagrams. As for that pledge of the New Citizens.h.i.+p, the Education Bill, the debate on the second reading has been such a long eulogy of its author that Mr.

Fisher would be well advised to offer a propitiatory sacrifice to Nemesis.

[Ill.u.s.tration:

BY SPECIAL REQUEST

CUSTOMER: "Here, waiter, take a coupon off this and ask the band to play five-penn'orth of 'The Roast Beef of Old England.'"]

Compulsory rationing is now an established fact, and the temporary disappearance of marmalade from the breakfast table has called forth many a _cri de coeur_. As one lyrist puts it:

Let Beef and b.u.t.ter, Rolls and Rabbits fade, But give me back my love, my Marmalade.

And another has addressed this touching vow to margarine:

Whether the years prove fat or lean This vow I here rehea.r.s.e: I take you, dearest Margarine, For b.u.t.ter or for worse.

It is reported that the Government's standard suits for men's wear will soon be available. One is occasionally tempted to hope that women's costumes might be similarly standardised.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE COAT THAT DIDN'T COME OFF]

The German Press announces the death of the notorious "Captain of Koepenick," and the _Cologne Gazette_ refers to him as "the only man who ever succeeded in making the German Army look ridiculous." This is the kind of subtle flattery that the Hohenzollerns really appreciate.

_April, 1918_.

We have reached the darkest hours of the War and the clouds have not yet lifted, though the rate of the German advance has already begun to slow down. On the 11th the enemy broke through at Armentieres and pushed their advantage till another wedge was driven into the British line. On the 12th Sir Douglas Haig issued his historic order: "With our backs to the wall, and believing in the justice of our cause, each one of us must fight to the end. The safety of our homes and the freedom of mankind depend alike upon the conduct of each one of us at the critical moment." The Amiens line being under fire, it was impossible to bring French reinforcements north in time to save Kemmel Hill and stave off the menace to the Channel ports. The tale of our losses is grievous, and for thousands and thousands of families nothing can ever be the same again. The ordeal of Paris has been renewed by sh.e.l.ling from the German long-distance gun, the last and most sensational of German surprise-packets. These are indeed dark days, yet already lit by hopeful omens--the closer union of the Allies, the appointment of the greatest French military genius, General Foch, as Generalissimo of the Allied Forces, and his calm a.s.surance that we have as yet lost "nothing vital." America is pouring men into France and, without waiting to complete the independent organisation of her Army, has chivalrously sent her troops forward to be brigaded with French and British units. Even now there are optimists, who are not fools, who maintain that Germany has shot her last bolt and knows that she is losing. It is at least remarkable that German newspapers are daily excusing the failure of their offensive to secure all its objectives. There is clearly something wrong with the time-table and, in the race of Man Power, time is on the side of the Allies.

Truth, long gagged and disguised, is coming to light in Germany. This has been the month of the Lichnowsky disclosures--the Memoir of their Amba.s.sador, vindicating British diplomacy and saddling Germany with the responsibility for the War. The time of publication is indeed unfortunate for the Kaiser, who has been telling us how bitterly he hates war.

[Ill.u.s.tration:

THE COMING ARMY

FATHER: "Here's to the fighter of lucky eighteen!" SON: "And here's to the soldier of fifty!"]

For now from German lips the world may know Facts that should want some skill for their confounding-- How Potsdam forced alike on friend and foe A war of Potsdam's sole compounding.

How you, who itched to see the bright sword lunged, Still bleating peace like innocent lambs in clover, In all that b.l.o.o.d.y business you were plunged Up to your neck and something over.