Mr. Punch's History of the Great War Part 23

Meanwhile, the gentle Mr. Duke has retired from the Chief Secretarys.h.i.+p to the Judicial Bench; Mr. Shortt, his successor, recently voted against conscription for Ireland; Lord French, the new Viceroy, is believed to favour it. The appointments seem to have been made on the cancelling-out principle, and are as hard to reconcile as the ministerial utterances on the recent German push. Thus Mr. Macpherson declared that the crisis came upon us like a thief in the night, while on the same day Mr. Churchill observed that the German offensive had opened a month later than we had calculated, and consequently our reserves in munitions were correspondingly larger than they would have been. Anyhow, it is a good hearing that the lost guns, tanks, and aeroplanes have all been more than replaced, and the stores of ammunition completely replenished, while at the same time munition workers have been released for the Army at the rate of a thousand _a_ day. These results have been largely due to the wonderful work of the women, who turned out innumerable sh.e.l.ls of almost incredible quality--not like that depicted by our artist.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DUD]

Mr. Bonar Law has brought in his Budget and asked for a trifle of 842 millions. We are to pay more for our letters, our cheques, and our tobacco.

The Penny Postage has gone, and the Penny Pickwick with it. For the rest we have had the Maurice Affair, which looked like a means of resurrecting the Opposition but ended in giving the Government a new lease of life, and Sir Eric Geddes has given unexpected support to the allegations that the German pill-boxes were made of British cement. At least he admitted that the port of Zeebrugge was positively congested with s.h.i.+ploads of the stuff.

Proportional Representation has been knocked out for the fifth time in this Parliament; and we have to thank Sir Mark Sykes for telling us that the Whip's definition of a crank is "a wealthy man who does not want a Knighthood, or a n.o.bleman who does not want to be an Under-Secretary."

War is a great leveller. The Carl Rosa Company are about to produce an opera by an English composer. And war _is_ teaching us to revise our histories. For example, "'Nelson,' the greatest naval pageant film ever attempted, will," says the _Daily News_, "tell the love story of Nelson's life and the outstanding incidents of his career, including the destruction of the Spanish Armada." No scandal about Queen Elizabeth, we trust. The _Daily News_, by the way, is much exercised by Mr. Punch's language towards the enemy, which it describes as being in the Billingsgate vein. In spite of which rebuke, and at the risk of offending the readers of that patriotic organ, Mr. Punch proposes to go on saying just what he thinks of the Kaiser and his friends.

The price of tobacco, as we have seen, is becoming a serious matter, but Ireland proposes to grapple with the problem in her own way. The Ballinasloe Asylum Committee, according to an announcement in the _Times_ of May 14, have decided, with the sanction of the authorities, to grow tobacco leaf for the use of their inmates. "A doctor said that if the patients were debarred from an adequate supply of tobacco there would be no controlling them."

As a set-off to the anti-"Cuthbert" campaign in the Press the War Cabinet has in its Report declared that "the whole Empire owes the Civil Service a lasting debt of grat.i.tude." It looks as if there was something in red tape after all. We must not, however, fail to recognise the growth of the new compet.i.tive spirit in the sphere of production, and Mr. Punch looks forward to the establishment of Cup Compet.i.tions for Clydesdale Riveters and London Allotment workers. Woman's work in munition factories has already been applauded; her services on the land are now more in need than ever.

[Ill.u.s.tration: WOMAN POWER

CERES: "Speed the plough!"

PLOUGHMAN: "I don't know who you are, ma'am, but it's no good speeding the plough unless we can get the women to do the harvesting."

(Fifty thousand more women are wanted on the land to take the place of men called to the colours, if the harvest is to be got in.)]

_June, 1918_.

The danger is not past, but grounds for hope multiply. The new German a.s.sault between Montdidier and Noyon has brought little substantial gain at heavy cost. The attacks towards Paris have been held, and Paris, with admirable fort.i.tude, makes little of the attentions of "Fat Bertha." "The struggle must be fought out," declared the Kaiser in the recent anniversary of his accession to the throne. In the meanwhile no opportunities of talking it out will be overlooked by the enemy. He is once more playing the old game of striving to promote discord between the Allies. At the very moment when the official communiques announced the capture of 45,000 prisoners, the Chancellor began a new peace-offensive, aimed primarily at France, and supported by mendacious reports that the French Government were starting for Bordeaux, Clemenceau overthrown, and Foch disgraced. But the campaign of falsehood has proved powerless to shake France or impose on the German people. Commandeered enthusiasm is giving place to grave discontent.

The awakening of Germany has begun, and the promise of a speedy peace falls on deaf ears. In the process of enlightenment the Americans have played a conspicuous part, in spite of the persistent belittlement of the military experts in the official German Press. The stars in their courses have sometimes seemed to fight for Germany, but they are withdrawing their aid.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "COMPLETE ACCORD"; OR, ALL DONE BY KINDNESS

IMPERIAL TRAINER (to his dog Karl): "Now then, no nonsense: through you go!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE CELESTIAL DUD.

KAISER: "Ha! A new and brilliant star added to my constellation of the Eagle!"

GENERAL FOCH: "On the wane, I think."

(It is antic.i.p.ated in astronomical circles that the new star, _Nova Aquilae_, will shortly disappear.)]

The long struggle between von Kuhlmann and the generals has ended in the fall of the Minister; but not before he had indicated to the Reichstag the possibility of another Thirty Years' War, and a.s.serted that no intelligent man ever entertained the wish that Germany should attain world-domination.

There was a time when this frank reflection on the Hohenzollern intelligence would have const.i.tuted _lese-majeste._ Coming from a Minister it amounts to a portent. Now he has gone, but the growing belief that military operations cannot end the war has not been scotched by his fall, and Herr Erzberger vigorously carries on the campaign against Chancellor Hertling and the generals. Austria has been at last goaded into resuming the offensive on the Italian Front and met with a resounding defeat. It remains to be seen how Turkey and Bulgaria will respond to the urgent appeals of their exacting master.

The ordeal of our men on the Western Front is terrible, but they have at least one grand and heartening stand-by in the knowledge that they have plenty of guns and no lack of sh.e.l.ls behind them. This is the burden of the "Song of Plenty" from an old soldier to a young one:

The sh.e.l.ling's cruel bad, my son, But don't you look too black, For every blessed German one He gets a dozen back-- But I remember the days When sh.e.l.ls were terrible few And never the guns could bark and blaze The same as they do for you.

But they sat in the swamp behind, my boy, and prayed for a tiny sh.e.l.l, While Fritz, if he had the mind, my boy, could give us a first-cla.s.s h.e.l.l; And I know that a 5.9 looks bad to a bit of a London kid, But I tell you you were a lucky lad to come out when you did.

Up in the line again, my son, And dirty work, no doubt, But when the dirty work is done They'll take the Regiment out-- But I remember a day When men were terrible few And we hadn't reserves a mile away The same as there are for you,

But fourteen days at a stretch, my boy, and nothing about relief; Fight and carry and fetch, my boy, with rests exceeding brief; And rotten as all things sometimes are, they're not as they used to be, And you ought to thank your lucky star you didn't come out with me.

Our mercurial Premier lays himself open to a good deal of legitimate criticism, but for this immense relief, unstinted thanks are due to his energy and the devoted labours of the munition workers, women as well as men.

The Admiralty have decided not to publish the Zeebrugge dispatches for fear of giving information to the enemy. All he knows at present is that a score and more of his torpedo-boats, submarines, and other vessels have been securely locked up in the Bruges Ca.n.a.l by British Keyes. The Minister of Pensions has told the House the moving story of what has already been done to restore, so far as money and care can do it, the broken heroes of the War, and Lord Newton's alleged obstructiveness in regard to the treatment and exchange of prisoners has been discussed in the Lords. Mr. Punch's own impression is that Lord Newton owes his unmerited position as whipping boy to the fact that he does not suffer fools gladly, even if they come in the guise of newspaper reporters; and that, unlike his ill.u.s.trious namesake, he has no use for the theory of gravity. Meanwhile the Kaiser, with a sublime disregard for sunk hospital-s.h.i.+ps and bombed hospitals, continues to exhibit his bleeding heart to an astonished world.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A PITIFUL POSE

TEUTON CROCODILE: "I do so feel for the poor British wounded. I only wish we could do more for them."

"We Germans will preserve our conception of Christian duty towards the sick and wounded"--_From recent remarks of the Kaiser reported by a German correspondent_.]

Now that the Food Controller has got into his stride, the nation has begun to realise the huge debt it owes to his firmness and organising ability, and is proportionately concerned to hear of his breakdown from overwork.

The queues have disappeared, supplies are adequate, and there are no complaints of cla.s.s-favouritism.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BOBBY (at the conclusion of dinner): "Mother, I don't know how it is, but I never seem to get that--that--nice sick feeling nowadays."]

It is remarkable how the British soldier will pick up languages, or at least learn to interpret them. Only last week an American corporal stopped a British Sergeant and said: "Say, Steve, can you put me wise where I can barge into a boiled-s.h.i.+rt biscuit-juggler who would get me some eats?" And the Sergeant at once directed him to a cafe. The training of the new armies, to judge by the example depicted by our artist, affords fresh proof of the saying that love is a _liberal_ education.

The situation on the Parliamentary Front has been fairly quiet. The popular pastime of asking when the promised Home Rule Bill is to be introduced is no longer met by suitably varied but invariably evasive replies. The Government has now frankly admitted that the policy of running Home Rule and Conscription in double harness has been abandoned, and expects better things from the new pair: Firm Government and Voluntary Recruiting. But sceptics are unconvinced that the Government will abandon the leniency prompted by "the insane view of creating an atmosphere in which something incomprehensible is to occur."

[Ill.u.s.tration: MISTRESS (as the new troops go by): "Which of them is your cousin?"

NURSEMAID (unguardedly): "I don't know yet, ma'am."]

The lavish and, in many cases, inexplicable distribution of the Order of the British Empire bids fair to add a peculiar l.u.s.tre to the undecorated.

The War has produced no stranger paradox than the case of the gentleman who within the s.p.a.ce of seven days was sentenced to six months' imprisonment for a breach of the Defence of the Realm regulations and recommended for the O.B.E. on account of good services to the country. The fact that the recommendation was withdrawn hardly justified the a.s.sumption of a Pacificist Member that a sentence under the Defence of the Realm Act was regarded as the higher honour of the two.

There is one thing, however, that war at its worst cannot do. It cannot make an Englishman forgo that peculiar and blessed birthright which enables him to overthrow the Giant Despair with the weapon of whimsical humour--in other words, to write, as a young officer has written for Mr. Punch, such a set of verses as the following in June, 1918:

THE BEST SMELL OF ALL

When noses first were carved for men Of varied width and height, Strange smells and sweet were fas.h.i.+oned then That all might know delight-- Smells for the hooked, the snub, the fine, The pug, the gross, the small, A smell for each, and one divine Last smell to soothe them all.

The baccy smell, the smell of peat, The rough gruff smell of tweed, The rain smell on a dusty street Are all good smells indeed; The sea smell smelt through resinous trees, The smell of burning wood, The saintly smell of dairies--these Are all rich smells and good.

And good the smell the nose receives From new-baked loaves, from hops, From churches, from decaying leaves, From pinks, from grocers' shops; And smells of rare and fine bouquet Proceed, the world allows, From petrol, roses, cellars, hay, Scrubbed planks, hot gin and cows.

But there's a smell that doth excel All other smells by far, Even the tawny stable smell Or the boisterous smell of tar; A smell stupendous, past compare, The king of smells, the prize, That smell which floods the startled air When home-cured bacon fries!

All other smells, whate'er their worth, Though dear and richly prized, Are earthy smells and of the earth, Are smells disparadised; But when that smell of smells awakes From ham of perfect cure, It lifts the heart to heaven and makes The doom of Satan sure.

How good to sit at twilight's close In a warm inn and feel That marvellous smell caress the nose With promise of a meal!