Chapter XVIII: Through Pennsylvania 219 (6)

The king saw more than one mighty throng of cheery men marching so gayly over the beautiful plain of Salisbury. He saw those men, young and beautiful, for they were of the first hundred thousand, going out to face the disciplined German army. He saw them spending fearful days and awful nights in the trenches, being fired at and having little ammunition to return the fire. He saw the first casualty lists coming out and realised the suffering that he would share with many a mother, father and sweetheart. Yet he was proud to be King of England that day, and we were proud of him as our king. We couldn't possibly be proud of a president. We are fearful snobs in England and the biggest snobs among us are the working classes. We of England admire the United States form of government. At present it seems the right thing over here. It would never do for us.

XVI

A NAVAL VICTORY

October, 1917.

I went to Philadelphia the other day, and putting up at the hotel at once called up M----, who said that as she was a member of the Motor Messenger Corps it behooved her to show herself at a large meeting that Corps had decided to arrange for getting recruits for the Navy. She said that she had a box; so I suggested delicately that I might help her to occupy the said box. Nothing would give her greater pleasure, but as she had several girls with her, she suggested that I might feel awkward unless she got another man. Having assured her that, on the contrary, nothing would give me greater pleasure, I was then asked to accompany her, so at eight o'clock, dressed in a strange imitation of a badly turned out British officer, she dashed up in her Henry Ford and took me to the demonstration.

The box was well exposed and there I sat with two ladies, disguised as officers, in the front seats, and two more behind. There were several hundred blue jackets decorating the stage, all armed with instruments, and the programme stated that the said blue jackets were the band of Sousa.

Dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant in the U. S. Navy the great conductor marched on to the stage, bowed to the audience a little, mounted a stand, gave one beat, and Hey Presto! off went the band. Of course it was wonderful, made even more thrilling by the dress of the performers.

He played piece after piece and then a gentleman in evening dress walked on followed by a rather nervous looking Admiral of the British Navy. The gentleman promptly commenced to eulogize the Admiral, who must have felt rather terrible, but he stepped forward, Sousa meanwhile breaking into "God Save the King." The Admiral commenced. He was obviously nervous; however, his lack of power as an orator was very effective, and he spoke a little about destroyers, and then stopped. Sousa then played, rather too quickly and without much feeling, "Rule Britannia." I felt militantly British and was very proud of the Admiral's entire lack of oratorical power.

We had some more wonderful music from Sousa and after some flattering remarks from the gentleman in evening dress, General W---- stepped forward and said a few well chosen words. They were very effective and to the point. He looked every inch a soldier, and was faultlessly turned out: we all liked him. After that we had some more music and then the gentleman in evening dress with more complimentary remarks ushered in a man dressed as a British officer in "slacks" which did not fit well. He was a tall youth with a very good looking face, brown curly hair, and an engaging smile showing a set of good teeth. The gentleman in evening dress commenced, as we thought then, to torture him about his gallantry in action and all that sort of thing, and then the officer started.

He said some big things. He remarked that he had heard it said in America that the British were using Colonial troops to shield their own men. Incidentally I have often heard this said, but anxiously, as though the speaker could not believe it but wanted to be reassured. I have always laughed at this statement and remarked that to use one man to shield ten or twelve was too difficult a proposition for the "powers that be" in England. To deny it on my part, as a British officer, seemed too ridiculous; besides, the whole thing is so obviously German propaganda.

However, I was interested to hear how this Australian chap would deal with the thing, so I listened carefully. He went on to explain what he had heard and then said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, as an Australian officer, I want to tell you that it is a _Damned Lie_." He brought the thing out with much feeling. He then endeavoured to explain the Gallipoli campaign and denied its being a failure.

A little blood commenced to flow about the stage at this time and he was getting worked up. I have heard similar oratory in Sydney. Perhaps he was getting too eloquent, but he had the crowd with him, and I know that quite a number of young ladies felt cold shivers down their spinal columns.

He said in stirring phrases that Australia and the Australians were not in any way annoyed with the home government about the Gallipoli business. They ought to be a little, it seemed to me, but I was thrilled by his loyalty to the homeland. He then convinced us all of the wonderful discipline prevailing in the Australian army. I am sure that he helped us. The American people liked to hear about Australia, and were glad to hear that we British were not poltroons. The few of us there felt proud to have such a fellow standing up for us, and even we were a little thrilled by the gory stories that he told. He certainly dismissed from the minds of those present any idea of a breaking up of the British Empire.

So far he had spoken wonderfully, but after three-quarters of an hour he waxed very eloquent and, throwing out his arms, he commenced using just a little too often the words "Men and Women of America," smiling sadly the while and getting a little like a parson.

He now attacked the pacifists in that clever and abusive way which I have only heard once before, when the editor of a flamboyant Sydney paper gave a lecture in the old City Hall at Auckland. The said editor being rather a noted character, the mayor had refused to occupy the chair, and he was abused impersonally, but viciously and cleverly. In like manner, the pacificists in Philadelphia were called "pestiferous insects" a rather unpleasant sounding term and hardly descriptive. I wish that he hadn't used that phrase. Still he was effective and I am certain did a great deal of good.

I have one complaint to make, however. This Australian seemed to express a terrific hate for the Germans and spoke about their atrocities. He mentioned seeing men lying dead in No Man's Land until their eyes were eaten out and all that sort of thing. He grew furious with the Boche, and carried the audience with him. He spoke of women getting "desecrated." Groans and angry mutterings could be heard throughout the hall and I awoke to the strange fact that a British officer was sowing in America a feeling of savage hatred towards the Germans and succeeding. One thought of Punch's picture depicting a German family enjoying their morning hate. Perhaps you will say "And why not, the blighters." Perhaps he was waking up the country a little and was quite right, but the thing interested me and I wondered.

Isn't it true that we are fighting Germany because she is a hater? Isn't it true that Germany has been guilty of such filthiness that she is slowly but surely cutting her own throat? Isn't it a fact that we have always tried to fight clean, no matter what our enemy may be like? Isn't it true that Uncle Sam came into this war really because of the sinking of the _Lusitania_ and the fact that the Germans were such blighters in Belgium? Isn't it true that in warfare, to be successful, you must be cool and calm and steady? Isn't it true that, in boxing, the chap who loses his temper runs some awful risks? In a word, don't you think the Germans are getting licked badly because of their futile and mad hatred?

I know you can't stop the men from seeing red in an attack. It helps them a little and makes them better fighters, but it is really a form of Dutch courage. I want to see America going into this war as the champion of manliness, decency, purity, goodness,--all that sort of thing. She is bound to hate a little. She'll catch that disease quick enough from the Boche, but if she learns to hate as the German's hate, she is beaten, licked to pieces, no matter what the issue of the war may be.

As you know, I spent the best part of a year in France and Belgium, and I can honestly say that during that time I never saw hate displayed, except towards the supply people who wouldn't believe in our "strafed" cycles. I have heard of Tommies getting furious and the officers who have told me have spoken about it as a little amusing, but they don't seem to have felt it themselves at all. I had a bedroom in a billet next to a kitchen where Mr. Thomas Atkins used to take his refreshment, and I have heard some wonderful stories, a little lurid; but quite often I have heard Fritz admired.

I remember one day during the battle of Loos chatting to the Major, while awaiting orders to fire, and regretting that our men should get atrocious, as I had heard they were. The Major, an old campaigner, out with the original expeditionary force, smiled a little, but merely observed that it was very natural.

Past our battery position there was passing a few prisoners and a procession of wounded--but mostly "blighties"; and I saw one sergeant with a German helmet. I wanted to buy it as a "prop" for lurid stories on leave, so went over to him. He had four bloody grooves down his face, and he told me that he had had a hand-to-hand fight. He seemed a nice chap, and he described the combat, in which he had evidently been getting the worst of it, for the four grooves were nail marks from the German. Fortunately he got his bayonet. "And you killed him," I broke in. "Oh no, sir," he replied; "I just gave him a dig and the Red Cross people have got him now. There he is, sir, I think,"--as a German prisoner, lying on a stretcher and smoking a woodbine went by. I returned without the helmet and told the story to the major, and he said, "Oh no; I shouldn't believe all you hear about Tommy Atkins."

Perhaps our men have got nasty and very furious with the Boche. One can hardly blame them. I am willing to believe that sometimes when the Germans have done dirty tricks with our prisoners revenge has been taken, but I just don't believe for a single instant that the chaps I knew and loved in France could behave in any way but as decent, hard fighting, hard swearing, good natured fellows. I don't believe either, and no one I knew in France during my year there believed, that the Boche were _always_ dirty in their tricks, though I will admit that they show up badly as sportsmen.

Frankly, I want to see this country putting every ounce of power into the combat. I want them to realize fully that Germany requires a lot of beating. I want them to know that a victorious Germany would be a menace to the liberty of the world, and all the other things that the newspapers say.

But I dislike intensely this savage hate propaganda that is being affected here. It is stupid, useless and dangerous. Didn't some philosopher say that if he wanted to punish a man he would teach him how to hate. The Germans deserve it; of course they do, but we must be stronger than they. Also, you cannot exterminate them, unfortunately, so you have got to try to make them decent, by some means or other. A famous member of my clan, David Livingstone, went about amongst the most savage tribes of Africa, unharmed and unarmed. It was just because of the love that emanated from him. I fear it will be difficult to like the Germans very much after all they have done, but we Britons must not let Uncle Sam think for an instant that we have learnt from the Germans how to hate in their own commonplace savage way. Of course it is not true. We have a sense of humour and the Americans have a wonderful sense of fun, and these two things cannot walk together with that stupid, vulgar thing called hate.

The other night I had to speak at a club meeting. There was an infantry officer there, and I felt that for a gunner to talk of the discomforts of war in the presence of an infantry officer would be a little humorous. However, these fellows wanted thrills, so I tried to give them some, though, as you know, warfare is a commonplace amusement mostly, and if one is limited by facts, it is difficult to thrill an audience.

The infantry officer spoke afterwards. It was very thrilling. He told me seriously later on in my rooms that he was a godson of Nurse Cavill, that he had seen the Canadians crucified, that he had walked along the top of the parapet for half a mile with a machine-gun playing on him in the moonlight, that he enjoyed patrols and loved sticking Germans in the back in their listening posts, that he had discovered a German disguised as a gunner officer behind the lines, that he had remained with six wounds in his body for eight days in No Man's Land, that he had been wounded six times, that he had often been right behind the German lines at night, that he had overheard an interesting conversation between two German staff officers in a German dugout, that he was in the second battle of Ypres, Neuve Chappelle and Loos, that he had been a private in the Gunners years ago, and many other adventures----!

And the extraordinary thing to me is that intelligent Americans, big men, listen and believe these things. Later, when their own boys return they will know that the chap who has been through it will tell them--nothing. It is fine for us British here these days. We are heroes, wonderful heroes. But strange people seem to be arriving and I wonder if they are all taking the right line. I realise at once that it is very easy for me to talk like this. A gunner subaltern, with his comfortable billet to return to, even at the end of an unpleasant day, seldom comes face to face with the Boche. Still I can only repeat that during my service I saw nothing of common, vulgar hatred displayed by any infantry officers I have met. It is not worth while: they are too great for that.

Of course I may have missed it. But there was Taylor, for example, a horse gunner I believe, who was attached to the trench "Mortuaries." He was at Haylebury with Taggers. He used to come into the mess at times. Once during the battle of Loos while we were attacking he took several of his cannon over into the Boche trench which we had succeeded in capturing. Unfortunately something went wrong on our flank and Taylor with the wonderful Second Rifle Brigade was left in this trench surrounded by Boches in helmets with spikes in them. They were jammed tight in the narrow, well-formed German trench and only a bomber at each end could fight. We had plenty of bombs, however, and the Germans had little fancy for jumping over the barricade they had made in their own trench. Their officers attempted to lead their men and one by one were bombed or shot. Taylor could see the spikes on their helmets. There was a delay and then a German private with a cheery "Hoch!" jumped up on to the barricade trying to entice the others to follow. They did not, but the private received a bullet and lay there rather badly wounded. He gave a slight movement, perhaps he seemed to be stretching for his gun, so the bomber let him have one and ended all movement.

These men of ours were in a very awkward position, almost hopeless, and no chances could be taken, but Taylor was annoyed with the bomber for killing him, although there was nothing else to be done. He seemed too brave to die. Taylor also told me, when he was in our dugout at the battery position dead beat, that he saw a German badly wounded being attended by one of our R. A. M. C. men. The German was begging the Red Cross chap to let him die for his country.

I am merely telling you these things in order to let you see what impressions I got. I hope that you will not think that I am becoming a pacifist. But even if the Germans have taught our men to hate, I hope that we will not be responsible for teaching the fellows over here that sort of thing. Many of them will learn soon enough. Besides, I am not sure that it is advisable for us to do it.

The next day I met the Admiral and took him out to my friends at Chestnut Hill. M----'s mother, a hopeless Anglophile, fell for him at once. He amused us all at dinner, and then we asked him to go with us to the hotel to dance. He came and stayed with us until midnight. A---- liked him very much and spent the whole evening, or what was left of Saturday night, talking to him, ignoring the wonderful music that was enticing us all to dance. On Monday he came with me to Bethlehem. I took him home to tea, and my landlady, an English girl, was very thrilled, and was perfectly overcome when he bowed to her, and shook her warmly by the hand. She brought tea up, and stayed to gossip a little, and they commenced discussing Yarmouth or some other place that they both knew.

I discussed the "hate" business with the Admiral, but he seemed to think that it could not be helped and that perhaps the men made better fighters if they felt furious. So perhaps after another dose of France and "Flounders" I may feel the same.

At the moment in Bethlehem the people are preparing for a trying time. They are convinced that something is going on in France about which they know nothing. They are sure that the boys are in it. They are appreciating to the full the wonderful work being done at Ypres by our men. Having been ordered to wear uniform I am astonished at the number of people who greet me. As I walk along I am constantly greeted with "Good evening, Captain." What charming manners the American working man has when you are not employing him!

Yesterday I was going up the street in uniform when two small boys stopped making mud pies and, after looking at me with great pleasure, one said "Hello, Horn Blow Man!"

I hope that I am not entirely wrong about the hate business, but I always feel that in the same way that you hide love from the rest of the world because you are proud of it, so you hide hate because you are ashamed of it.

If a Frenchman developed hate for his theme in propaganda he'd get away with it. But American people know that we are merely like themselves, too lazy and good natured to develop a really efficient form of hatred.

XVII

POISONOUS GAS

November, 1917

I am developing into a regular stump orator these days. Of course it is not at all difficult. One has plenty of information about the war, and the more simply this is given the better it seems to me. However, it is all very interesting and I am supplied with the opportunity of meeting hundreds of American men. They are all awfully kind to me. I generally speak at club luncheons and dinners.

One night I had to speak at a splendid dinner given by the neighbourhood club of Bala-Cynwyd, a suburb of Philadelphia. Of many delightful evenings spent in America I think this night was the most enjoyable. My turn came towards the end of the programme. There had been many fine talks by famous Philadelphians as well as by other British officers, and I felt very diffident about saying any thing at all. However, I stood up and saw several hundred cheery men all looking up at me with kindness and encouragement shining from their faces. I told them a few funny stories and said that I liked them an awful lot; that I liked them so much that I wanted them to like my countrymen. I forget exactly what I did say.

A few days afterwards I received a letter from the secretary of the club, which I shall always keep, for it assures me of their friendship and affection.

I do not think that the American people have done their duty by us. When the early Christians were given a big thing they started missions which had for their object the conversion of the heathen. Why has not America realised her responsibility to us? Why hasn't she sent a mission to England, with the object of converting middle-aged and elderly Britons to that attitude of mind, so prevalent here, which makes every American man over thirty desire to help and encourage enthusiastic young men? At the moment, the meeting of American enthusiasm and British conservatism always suggests to my mind the alliance of the Gulf Stream with the Arctic current. There is an awful lot of fog when these two meet and some shipwrecks.

Quite often I talk at Rotary Clubs. Every city or town has a Rotary Club over here. The members consist of one man from each of the leading business houses in the town or city. They meet at lunch once a week and endeavour to learn things from one another. One member generally talks for twenty minutes about his particular business, then an alarm clock goes off; and sometimes an outsider gives an address. I rather love the Rotarians. The milk of human kindness flows very freely, and the members behave to one another like nice people in decent books. At any rate many cordial remarks are made, and it always seems to me that the thought, even if it is an affected one, which produces a decent remark helps to swell the amount of brotherly love in the world. The Rotarians are keen business men and are obviously the survivors of the fittest in the business world.

Sometimes I have spoken for the Red Cross at large public meetings. I even addressed a society affair in the house of a charming Philadelphia lady. This was very interesting. There were about one hundred people present and my host, an adopted uncle, endeavoured to introduce me in a graceful manner with a few well chosen words, but he forgot his lines. At this function one felt one's self to be present at a social gathering described by Thackeray. There were many men and women present with the sweetest and most gracious manners in the world. They were all descendants of the people who lived in Philadelphia before the Revolution, and something of the atmosphere that must have prevailed in a fashionable drawing-room or "Assembly" during those romantic days seemed to be in the air.

Of course my first experience of public speaking was in Bethlehem. It happened at the Eagle Hotel. One of the Vice-Presidents of the Steel Company called me up and said. "Mac, will you give us a short talk at the Red Cross luncheon to-day?" "But yes, Mr. B----, I'll be delighted, though I am no orator."

So I found myself decked out in uniform on my way to the Eagle in Mr. B----'s car. With tact he urged me to be careful. "Y'know, Mac, the people in this burgh have not _quite_ realised the situation. Many are of German origin and there are some Irish, and one or two are not fond of England. They are a fine crowd of men and are working like Trojans to get money for the Red Cross."

"May I damn the Kaiser, Mr. B----?" I meekly asked. "Sure! Sure! Mac; give him hell. Every mother's son will be with you in that."

After lunch, Mr. B----, as General of the Army of Collection, stood up. (He is a ripping chap, a little embonpoint perhaps, as befits his age. He is about forty-five and looks thirty. He has a round, cheery face, hasn't lost a hair from his head, and when he talks, suggests a small boy of twelve successfully wheedling a dime from his mother for the circus.)

He said: "We have had with us in Bethlehem men of the Entente Allies, men who have heard the whi----stling of the shrapnel, and who have seen the burs----ting of the high explosives, and to-day one of these heroes will address you."

The "whistling of the shrapnel" thrilled me. It brought back to my mind a night in an Infantry dugout in France, when dear old Banbury of the Rifle Brigade was wearying me and three other subs with a story of one of his stunts in "No Man's Land." We heard a bounding, whipping sound and then a massed chorus of whistling, and we all breathed a sigh of relief as Banbury jumped up, and grabbing his gun muttered, "Whizz bang," and disappeared up the dugout steps. That was all. He switched on to cricket when he returned. And yet they call the Boche frightful.

Then the "bursting of the high explosives." I hate high explosives. They are so definite, and extremely destructive; and so awkward when you're up a chimney and it hits somewhere near the base, and you slide down the rope and burn your poor hands.

I stood up, feeling like ten cents, and commenced to tell my audience about the Red Cross _a la guerre_. Whenever I tried to thrill them they all laughed, and then I guessed that my accent was the cause of all the trouble. I tried to talk like an American, I thought, with some success. I called the Kaiser a "poor fish," but when I discussed America and the war and said "By Jove, we need you awful badly over there," they all collapsed and I sat down.

Afterwards they came up, fine chaps that they are, and all shook hands.

It seems to be an art developed by certain persons to be able to introduce speakers. If you are the fellow who has got to talk, the chairman gets up and commences to praise you for all he is worth. A fellow told me at a dinner the other night that while visiting his home town he had been compelled to address the townsmen. The deacon mounted a small platform and commenced to eulogize. He had only got the first versicle of the "Te Deum" off his chest, when his set of teeth fell out and landed on the bald head of my friend, giving him a nasty bite. This was a great help.

About this eulogizing--my Highland blood helps me to understand; my English education tells me that it is--well, displaying all your goods in the front window, and I'm not sure that it "is done." Eddy Grey says "Hector, it is just 'slinging the bull.'" It is. Some of these eulogising gentlemen talk for ten minutes each time, but they are generally good looking people turned out in quite nice evening things.

I went to a "coming-out party" yesterday and ate some interesting food, chatted with some amusing girls, and then rushed into John Wanamaker's to help to sell Liberty Bonds. I stood at the base of a bronze eagle and harangued a large audience, but not a soul bought a bond. However, a lady whose father was English was partially overcome and fell on my chest in tears. She was about fifty. I should liked to have hugged her, but I did not know her very well, although the introduction was vivid.

I manage generally to hold the interest of my audience, but I wish I were Irish. I always love to talk to American men. They make a fine audience. Having found it difficult in England to grow up, my growth towards a reverend and sober mien has been definitely stunted during my year in America. Americans don't "grow up." An American possesses the mind of a man, but always retains the heart of a child, so if you've got to speak, it is quite easy to appeal to that great, wonderful Yankee heart. Of course, my greatest opportunity came on the Fourth of July, 1917. I realise more and more every day what a tremendous honour was paid to me by my friends of Bethlehem.

Towards the middle of June, the town council of Bethlehem met to discuss the annual municipal celebration of America's Independence. They discussed the choice of an orator and unanimously decided that it would be a graceful act of courtesy to ask a British officer to do the job. The lot evidently fell upon me, and the local Episcopal parson waited upon me, and put the request, admitting that only judges, ex-governors, colonels, and big people like that had been asked in previous years. I said "Right, O!" And then began to reflect upon the great honour shown to my country and me. As I have told you before, the population of Bethlehem is largely of Teutonic descent and there are quite a large number of Irishmen here. Never in the history of the United States had an Englishman in full uniform delivered the Independence Day oration. I was a little frightened. You see the folk thought it would be a nice thing to do; a sort of burying the hatchet.

Many days before, I wrote out a series of speeches, and wondered if I should get stage fright. I felt that the job might prove too difficult for me.

The Glorious Fourth arrived, ushered in by the banging of many fireworks, making it difficult, and a little dangerous for law abiding and humble citizens. I cleaned and polished up my uniform, slung a gas mask and wallet round my shoulders, and awaited the automobile that should take me to the campus. It came at last, and I found myself standing surrounded by two bands and about three thousand people.

The children were firing all kinds of infernal pistols and crackers, and I wondered how I should be able to make myself heard by the large throng of people. The National Guard lined up, and the band commenced to play various tunes. After a time silence was called, and the band broke into "The Star Spangled Banner" while the National Guard and I saluted. The people then solemnly repeated the oath of allegiance to the Republic, while the flag was solemnly unfurled on a huge flagstaff. It was all very solemn and inspiring, and became more so when a clergyman read a Psalm. Then the bands played "America" which seems to have the same time as "God Save the King" while we endeavoured to sing the words. The Chief Burgess then addressed the throng, but being an elderly man, his inspiring address was heard by only a very few.

Soon it was my turn to speak, and in fear and trembling I mounted a little stand improvised for the occasion. I looked at the old building beside me in which our wounded of the Revolution had been cared for by the gentle Moravians. I looked at the people around me, thousands of happy faces all looking with kindliness and friendship towards me. I don't know exactly what I said, but perhaps the spirits of the poor British Tommies who had died fighting for their king in the old building behind helped a little, for I know that during the half hour I spoke every face was fixed intently upon me, and when I finally got down, there was a mighty cheer that went straight to my heart. At any rate I had that thing which is greater than the speech of men and of angels, and without which the greatest orator's speech is like sounding brass and tinkling cymbals--Love. I had a very great love for my friends of Bethlehem, a love that refused to differentiate between Anglo-Saxons and Teutons, and they knew it, consequently they listened with a great patience.

After the band had once more played, and a clergyman had said a prayer, hundreds and hundreds came forward and shook hands. There were veterans of the Civil War who threw their chests out and offered to go back to France and fight with me. One old gentleman with snowy hair said "Lad, it was an inspiration." Then exiles, mostly women from England, Ireland, and Scotland, came up, some weeping a little, and said "God Bless you." One darling old Irish lady said "Sure Oirland would get Home Rule if you had any power in England."

Sometimes I think that we humans are a little too fond of talking. Perhaps it might be a good idea to remember at this time the words of the great chancellor: "Great questions are not to be solved by speeches and the resolutions of majorities but by blood and iron." I suppose for the Allies it gets down to that finally, but they all do an awful lot of talking.

XVIII

THROUGH PENNSYLVANIA

December, 1917.

I have just returned from a tour of Pennsylvania with a senator, and have come back to Philadelphia possessing much experience, and a profound love for my senator as well. We traversed several hundred miles, stopping only to talk at important, though in some cases out-of-the-way, towns in the great commonwealth. Our object was to help the people to realise the present situation. At times it was hard going, at times our experience was altogether delightful. We visited Allentown, Sunbury, Lock Haven, Erie, Pittsburgh, Washington, Altoona, Johnstown, Huntingdon, and Harrisburg.

At Allentown we were met and greeted by a warm-hearted Committee of Public Safety, and spoke to a tired out audience of Pennsylvania Dutchmen and many yawning chairs, as well as a few officers from the Allentown Ambulance Camp. I found talking difficult and I fear my audience was bored. My senator did his best, but the Allentown people have many soldiers of their own, and besides they realise the situation. They are Pennsylvania Dutchmen, and that stands for fervent Americanism which is more real, I think, on account of the stolidness they display.

At Sunbury the folk were awfully glad to see us. Sunbury is a charming place with a beautiful large park in the centre of the town, disturbed a little by the locomotives that seem to rush through its very streets, heedless of whether they kill a few careless Sunburyites on their journey. We spoke to a large and delightful audience of kindly people, who saw all my poor jokes, and sympathised quite a lot with my country in its struggles. I left them all warm friends of the British Empire, I hope. The whole town is sympathetic and we met the niece of the chap who discovered oxygen. I loved the old houses and the quiet restful feeling in the air. The people of Sunbury are with us in the job of finishing the Boche even unto the last man.

At Lock Haven, a fine old town with a great past as a lumbering centre, and with also a fine old inn, we met some nice folk, but things had gone wrong somewhere, and the attendance was very small. It was difficult to gather the attitude of the people.

We left Lock Haven very early in the morning, and commenced a long journey to Erie on a local train, which behaved like a trolley car, for it seemed to stop at every cross roads. Although it lasted eight hours I enjoyed the journey very much, but a journey on an American train, especially in Pennsylvania, presents no horrors for me, since I always find several old friends, and make a few new ones on the way.

I had had to talk to a large crowd of travelling men one Saturday afternoon in Philadelphia. They were a fine audience, in spite of the fact that they were all in a state of "afterdinnerness," and the room was full of smoke, which was hard on my rather worn-out throat.

A "travelling man" is a commercial traveller, called by the vulgar, a "drummer"--a little unkindly I think. Until this meeting, and its consequences, I had never understood American travelling men. Now I do. I believe that these men form a kind of incubator for some of the keenness and determined-doggedness that is so marked in the American character.

And so upon the long journey I met several friends. One was travelling for corsets, I believe. The corsets did not interest me,--I'm not sure that they interested my friend very much, but they gave him scope for his profession, as well as an opportunity to bring up a family. I learnt a great deal from these two men, and the many conversations that had bored me a trifle while travelling, came back to my mind.

These fellows have to apply every device, every trick, to carry off their job. Their numbers are great and their customers are always on the defensive, so they've got to know more about human nature than about their wares. They have to overcome the defenses of the men they deal with. Their preliminary bombardment has to be intense. They've got to make an impression; either a very good one or an evil one,--both are effective, for an impression of their existence and what they stand for must be left upon the minds of their opponents. I heard two discussing their tactics on this long journey to Erie. One chap spoke of a merchant whose reputation as a notorious bully was well known to travelling men. He was a nasty red-headed fellow, and was overcome in the following way.

The drummer approached the desk and delivered his card. The merchant looked at it and said "What the hell do you mean by wasting my time? I don't want yer goods, what have yer come for?"

The drummer merely said, "I haven't come to sell _you_ anything."

"Well, what the hell do yer want?" replied the merchant.

"I've merely come to have a good look at as mean a looking red-headed son-of-a-gun as exists on the face of this earth. I collect photographs of atrocities."

The merchant looked furious and then angrily said, "_Come in!_" So the drummer entered with certain fears. The red-head seated himself at his desk, and commenced his work, keeping the drummer standing. The drummer, fearing defeat and ignoring the notice "No Smoking," lit a foul cigar, walked over to the desk and commenced blowing clouds of smoke all over the merchant. The "red-headed son-of-a-gun" looked up and grinned. It was not difficult after that.

Finally, at about three-thirty, we reached Erie. We addressed a rather small audience in the court house, and afterwards spent a diverting hour in a local club.

At three-thirty A.M. we left for Pittsburgh and spent the rest of the early morning in a Pullman sleeper, getting duly asphyxiated. At Pittsburgh we addressed a large crowd of business men called "The Pittsburgh Association of Credit Men." They formed a delightful audience and listened with apparent interest to our story. The trouble is, that men these days, want to hear about atrocities. They like one to tell them about Belgium women getting cut up into impossible pieces and all that sort of thing. I don't see the use of it at all. Besides my job is not to amuse, nor to appeal to the side of a man's character which appreciates newspaper stories of tragedies, but rather to place before him actual conditions as I saw them. It always seems to me that the greatest atrocity of the war was the initial use of poisonous gas by the Germans, and the tragedy lay in the fact that human nature became so unsporting as to resort to such methods.

Certain people, talking at dinners and meetings these days, definitely take up a line of speech which chiefly concerns itself in detailing German atrocities. They find it perfectly easy to gain round after round of applause by saying something like the following: "That fiend of hell, the Kaiser, spent years and years plotting against the peace of the world. He massacred little Belgian children, and raped systematically Belgian women. 'One week to Paris, one month to London and three months to New York,' he shrieked. But the American eagle prepared to fight, the British lion roared, and France, fair France, clasped her children to her breast and called for aid across the ocean to the sons of Uncle Sam to whom she had given succor in the dark days of '76."

Now I will admit that talk like that is quite effective and stirs a fellow up quite a lot, but I rather think that ten years hence it will be described as "bull." What American men and American women want is cold facts that can be backed up with proof, convincing proof. Of course there is not a shadow of doubt that the Germans had designs upon the rest of the world, but I have one object in my talks--to endeavor to foster a firm and cordial understanding between my country and America. My objects cannot be attained by detailing horrors, so I allow the newspapers to thrill and amuse them, and I try to tell them things as I myself saw them. Strangely enough I find cold facts "get across" much better than all the British bull dog screaming and eagle barking in the world, which reminds me of the man who said that he only knew two tunes and that he got these mixed up. When asked what the two tunes were he replied, "God save the weasel" and "Pop goes the Queen."

And then we arrived at Washington, Pa. Washington, Pa., will never be forgotten by this British soldier. We found ourselves on a platform looking at as cheerful and delightful a crowd of people as I ever hope to talk to. They were all smiling and gave us a wonderful welcome. I told the children present, that the boys and girls in my country were all taught about George Washington in their schools and sometimes even in the Sunday-schools. I told them that sometimes they mixed him up a little with Moses and the prophets, but, in any case, it was not until they became highly educated that they realized that he was an American. They were a delightful audience, and after I had spoken for about an hour they gave me an encore, so I sang them a comic song. I hated leaving Washington.

Then we arrived at Johnstown and heard about the flood, and the story of the man who was drowned there and who bored all the saints in Paradise with a reiteration of his experiences in that memorable tragedy, although he was interrupted frequently by a very old man sitting in a corner. The Johnstown saint was annoyed until it was explained to him that the old man was Noah who, it may be remembered, had some flood of his own.

It snowed when we arrived at Huntingdon and consequently the audience in the "movie" theatre was small.

We had a wonderful meeting at Altoona. The people were very enthusiastic and I met some fine warm-hearted Americans afterwards. Sometimes a chap would say, "I've got a Dutch name, Lieutenant, but I'm an American and I'm with you."

Our train caused us to be too late for the meeting at Harrisburg, so we returned to Philadelphia. I hated parting with my senator. The thing I loved best about our tour was the cordial feeling displayed towards me by the hundreds of men I met after the close of the meetings.

I was a little tired, but nevertheless quite sorry when our journey ended.

I have grown to hate the very idea of war and I hope that this will be the last. Still I wonder. What a futile occupation war is when one comes to think of it, but, of course, we could not allow Germany to give a solo performance. Yet there must be an antidote.

Some years ago, on a very warm Sunday afternoon in New Zealand, a number of men from a small college decided to bathe in a rather treacherous looking lake near by. They had all been to chapel that morning, not only because chapel was compulsory, but because the service was usually cheery and attractive and some of them were theological students. Unfortunately one man, little more than a boy, was drowned. The circumstances were distressing because he had just got his degree and was showing promise of a useful life.

I can see it all now; his great friend--for men become great friends in a college--working his arms endeavouring to bring back life long after he was dead; the solemn prayer of the master; the tolling of the chapel bell as the sad procession moved up to the college; and then the friend solemnly deciding to devote his life to the dead boy's work. It was all very sad, but something had been introduced to the whole thing which made the more frivolous amongst us think. We felt different men that night, when one of our number lay dead in the college building. Some of us who knew, felt a great comfort when we saw the friend decide to take up the dead boy's work. We felt that friendship had won a great fight.

The papers were full of it. The aftermath of a tragedy followed. All of us who had been swimming received anonymous P. C's. from religious persons. Mine, I remember, commenced in large letters: "UNLESS YE REPENT YE SHALL LIKEWISE PERISH." Then followed stories of Sabbath breakers upon whom the wrath of God had fallen. It depressed us slightly, but we recovered. The friend, a fine chap, took up the boy's work; and we have since learned that his death has proved more glorious than his life could have been.

When the war broke out in Europe, there were not wanting in England persons who sought to find a cause for the expression of God's wrath as they deemed the war to be. England had sinned and God was about to punish her. God was angry and the beautiful youth of England had to be sacrificed to His wrath. One by one, and in thousands, God would kill them, until we should repent, and then all would be well, until we should once more be steeped in worldliness. Isn't the idea terrible; the yearning of the mother for her boys whom she only thinks of now as children when they played around her and confided their every trouble, the loneliness of the friend who has lost a wonderful thing, friendship--all part of God's punishment! And the people who go to church place above the chimney piece in the servant's hall, "God is Love"--and sometimes even in the day nursery.

I once saw five soldiers killed by one unlucky shot from a whizz-bang. The place was unhealthy, so I did not wait long, but I had just time to think of the feelings of mothers and sweethearts when the official notification should arrive. They lay there as though sleeping, for men newly killed don't always look terrible. I can't blame God for it. You can't.

Now that we know what war is we are all seeking for an antidote--trying to find something that will prevent its recurrence, and we haven't found it yet. Leagues of nations are suggested, which is quite an old idea and one practised by the Highland clans. General disarmament comes to the fore again. Who is going to disarm first? Can the nations trust one another? Of course they can't. Peace of long duration will, of course, follow this war. The disease will have run its course and the patient exhausted will have a long convalescence and then--God! what will the next war be like?

History seems to teach us that war is a kind of disease that breaks out at regular intervals and spreads like an epidemic. Hence we must find some serum that will inoculate us against it.

Like all obvious things the antidote is around us, staring us in the face. We feel it when we look upon the mountains clothed in green with their black rocks pointing to the God who made them. We see it in the pansy turning its wee face up to the sun until its stalk nearly breaks, so great is its devotion. We can see it when by accident we tread upon the foot of a favourite dog, when, with many tail waggings, in spite of groans difficult to hold back, he approaches with beseeching eyes, begging that the cause of all the trouble will not take it too hardly. We see it on the face of a mother; it is the thing longed for on the face of a friend; it was on the face of Jesus when he said to the prostitute, "Neither do I condemn thee." It is the greatest thing in the world, for it is love.

The very remark "God is Love" at once suggests church. We see at once the elderly father, all his wild oats sown, walking home from church with stately tread, followed by the wife who is not deceived if she stops to think. The old tiresome remark, "He goes to church on Sunday, but during the week--Mon Dieu," at once springs to our minds. Why is it that quite a number of healthy young men dislike church so much? Watch these same young men playing with a little sister or a favourite dog. See the cowboy, not on the movie screen where a poor old bony hack gets his mouth pulled to bits by certain screen favourites, but the real thing. See the good wheel driver in the artillery, especially if he is a wheel driver, sitting back when no one is looking and preventing his gees from doing too much work, or the centre driver giving the lead driver hell when the traces in front are hanging in festoons, at once showing that the leaders are not doing their work. It is all love. But in its home, the church, of a truth, it is stiffly clothed, if it is not taught by a person whose vocation is really a candy store. Yet if we are to prevent war from recurring we have got to introduce love into the world. It is truly our only chance.

Do you see, this world is the product of love. There seem to have been applied but few rules and regulations. The mountains are not squares, the hills are not cubes, the rivers don't run straight. They are all irregular and they are all lovely. So man, the product of love, is hopelessly irregular at times. He just cannot live according to rules or regulations, but he can love if he is allowed to.

Of course, no one will believe this. It is just a wallow in sentiment I suppose, but I learnt about it on the battlefields of France and Flanders--a strange place to learn a strange lesson.

Some dear old lady will say, "How beautiful"; and some old fellow with many a cheery party to his credit, not always nice, will say as he sits back, "Very true, but how hopelessly impracticable."

And so this thing that I am daring to talk about is the life-buoy thrown out to us, and it seems so ridiculous, even to write about it. Just imagine a statesman searching for an antidote for war and after careful consideration deciding to apply the antidote I have suggested. In three days he would be placed in a lunatic asylum. And yet it could be done. Perhaps it could be applied in America.