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.
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