Mr. Punch's History of the Great War Part 26

Among the minor events of the month has been the christening of a baby by the names of Grierson Plumer Haig French Smith-Dorrien, as its father served under these generals. The idea is, no doubt, to prevent the child when older from asking: "What did you do in the Great War, Daddy?"

England, as we have already said, endures its triumphs with composure. But our printers are not altogether immune from excitement. An evening paper informs us that "the dwifficuplties of pa.s.sing from rigid trench warfare to field warfare are gigantic and perhaps unsurmountable." And only our innate sense of comradeship deters us from naming the distinguished contemporary which recently published an article ent.i.tled: "The Importance of Bray."

_October, 1918_.

THE growing _crescendo_ of success has reached its climax in this, the most wonderful month of our _annus mirabilis._ Every day brings tidings of a new victory. St. Quentin, Cambrai, and Laon had all been recaptured in the first fortnight. On the 17th Ostend, Lille, and Douai were regained, Bruges was reoccupied on the 19th, and by the 20th the Belgian Army under King Albert, reinforced by the French and Americans, and with the Second British Army under General Plumer on the right, had compelled the Germans to evacuate the whole coast of Flanders. The Battle of Liberation, which began on the Marne in July, is now waged uninterruptedly from the Meuse to the sea. Only in Lorraine has the advance of the American Army been held up by the difficulties of the _terrain_ and the exceptionally stubborn resistance of the Germans.

Elsewhere the "war of movement" has gone on with unrelenting energy according to Foch's plan, which suggests a revision of Pope:

Great Foch's law is by this rule exprest, Prevent the coming, speed the parting pest.

The German, true to his character of the world's worst loser and winner, leaves behind him all manner of b.o.o.by-traps, some puerile, many diabolical, which give our sappers plenty of work, cause a good many casualties, and only confirm the resolve of the victors.

According to a German paper--the _Rhenish Westphalian Gazette_--ex-criminals are being drafted into the German Army. But the Allies propose to treat them without invidious distinction. The Crown Prince recently observed that he had "many friends in the Entente countries"; as a matter of fact, we seem to be getting them at the rate of about twenty-five thousand a week. The criminals in the German Navy have again been busy, adding to their previous exploits the sinking of the pa.s.senger steamer _Leinster_, in the Irish Channel, with heavy loss of life, the worst disaster of the kind since the torpedoing of the _Lusitania_. Yet it is Germany that is the sinking ship. Ferdinand of Bulgaria has joined the League of Abdication, and according to a Sofia telegram, will devote himself to scientific pursuits. His only regret is that the Allies thought of it first. Prince Friedrich Karl of Hesse says that his accession to the throne of Finland will not take place for two years, and for the first time since his emergence into publicity we find ourselves in agreement with this monarch-elect. Ludendorff has resigned.

Austria is suing for peace; Count Tisza asks: "Why not admit frankly that we have lost the War?" The Italians have crossed the Piave, and the Serbians have reached the Danube. Turkey has been granted an armistice, and with the daily victories of the Allies comes the daily report that the Kaiser has abdicated.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SOLDIER AND CIVILIAN

MARSHAL FOCH (to Messrs. Clemenceau, Wilson and Lloyd George): "If you're going up that road, gentlemen, look out for b.o.o.by-traps."]

Prince Max of Baden, the successor of Hertling in the Chancellorship, whose appointment hardly bears out the promise of popular government, has issued a pacific Manifesto which inspires an "Epitaph in antic.i.p.ation":

In memory of poor Prince Max, Who, posing as the friend of Pax, Yet was not noticeably lax In the true Teuton faith which hacks Its way along; forbidden tracks, Marks b.l.o.o.d.y dates on almanacs And holds all promises as wax; Breeding, where once we knew Hans Sachs, A race of monomaniacs....

But now illusion's mirror cracks, The radiant vision fades, the axe Lies at the root. So farewell, Max!

Certain people have proclaimed their opinion that the German nation ought not to be humiliated. When all is said, Mr. Punch saves his pity for our murdered dead.

Parliament has met again, not that there is any very urgent need for their labours just now. With a caution that seemed excessive Mr. Bonar Law has thought it premature to discuss a military situation changing every hour--though happily always for the better--or even to propose a formal Vote of Thanks to men who are daily adding to their harvest of laurels. On better grounds discussion of Mr. Wilson's famous "fourteen points" and of demobilisation has been deprecated. The suggestion--made opportunely on Trafalgar Day--for securing marks of distinction for our merchant seamen gained a sympathetic hearing, and the proposal to make women eligible for Parliament has been carried after a serious debate by an overwhelming majority in which the _ci-devant_ anti-suffragists were as prominent as the others. Five years ago such a motion would have furnished an orgy of alleged humour, and been laughed out of the House. Mr. Dillon and his colleagues have put a great many questions about the torpedoing of the _Leinster_ and the lack of an escort. But it is unfortunate that their tone suggested more indignation with the alleged laches of the Admiralty than horror at the German crime. Irish indignation over the outrage, according to a Nationalist M.P., is intense; but not to the point of expressing itself in khaki.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Die Nacht am Rhein]

[Ill.u.s.tration: PROSPEROUS IRISH FARMER: "And what about the War, your Riverence? Do ye think it will hould?"]

The woes of the Irish harvest labourers in England have not yet been fully appreciated, and seem to demand a revised version of "Moira O'Neill's"

beautiful poem:

THE IRISH EXILE

Over here in England I'm slavin' in the rain; Six-an'-six a day we get, an' beds that wanst were clane; Weary on the English work, 'tis killin' me that same-- Och, Muckish Mountain, where I used to lie an' dhrame!

At night the windows here are black as Father Murphy's hat; 'Tis fivepence for a pint av beer, an' thin ye can't get that; Their beef has shtrings like anny harp, for dacent ham I hunt-- Och, Muckish Mountain, an' my pig's sweet grunt!

Sure there's not a taste av b.u.t.thermilk that wan can buy or beg, Thin their sweet milk has no crame, an' is as blue as a duck-egg; Their whisky is as wake as wather-gruel in a bowl--Och, Muckish Mountain, where the _poteen_ warms yer sowl!

'Tis mesilf that longs for Irish air an' gran' ould Donegal, Where there's lashins and there's lavins and no scarcity at all; Where no wan cares about the War, but just to ate an' play-- Och, Muckish Mountain, wid yer feet beside the say!

Sure these Englishmin don't spare thimselves in this thremenjus fight; They say 'tis life or death for thim, an', faith, they may be right; But Father Murphy tells me that it's no consarn av mine-- Och, Muckish Mountain, where the white clouds shine!

Over there in Ireland we're very fond av peace, Though we break the heads av Orangemin an' batther the police; For we're all agin the Governmint wheriver we may be-- Och, Muckish Mountain, an' the wild wind blowin' free!

If they tuk me out to Flandhers, bedad I'd have to fight, An' I'm tould thim Jarman vagabones won't let ye sleep at night; So I'm going home to Ireland wid English notes galore-- Och, Muckish Mountain, I will niver lave ye more!

By way of contrast there is the mood of the Old Contemptibles, but it is only fair to add that there are Irishmen among them:

THE OLD-TIMER

'E aint't bin 'ung with medals, like a lot o' chaps abaht; 'E's wore a little dingy but 'e isn't wearin' aht; 'Is ole tin 'at is battered, but it isn't battered in, An' if 'e ain't fergot to grouse, 'e ain't fergot to grin.

I fancy that 'e's aged a bit since fust the War begun; 'E's 'ad 'is fill o' fightin' an' 'e's 'ad 'is share o' fun; 'Is eyes is kind o' quiet an' 'is mouth is sort o' set, But if I didn't know 'im well I wouldn't know 'im yet.

I recollec' the look of 'im the time o' the retreat, The blood was through 'is toonic an' the skin was orf 'is feet; But "Come aboard the bus," say 'e, "or you'll be lef be'ind!"

An' takes me weight upon 'is back--it 'asn't slip me mind.

It might 'ave 'appened yesterday, it comes to me so plain; 'E's dahn an' up a dozen times, a-reeling through the rain; It might 'ave bin lars' Sat.u.r.day I seem to 'ear 'im say: "There's plenty room a-top, me lad, an' nothin' more to pay."

'E ain't bin 'ung with medals like a blackamore with beads; 'E doesn't figure on the screen a-doin' darin' deeds; But reckon I'll be lucky if I gets to Kingdom Come Along o' that Contemptible wot wouldn't leave a chum.

[Ill.u.s.tration:

FIRST CONTEMPTIBLE: "D'you remember halting here on the retreat, George?"

SECOND DITTO: "Can't call it to mind, somehow. Was it that little village in the wood there down by the river, or was it that place with the cathedral and all them factories?"]

Amongst other items of news we have to chronicle the appointment of Mr.

Arnold Bennett as a Director of Propaganda, the steady growth of goat-keeping, and the exactions of taxi-drivers. It is now suggested that if one of these pirates should charge you largely in excess of his legal fare, you should tell him that you have nothing less than a five-pound note. If you have an honest face and speak kindly he will probably accept the amount.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE SANDS RUN OUT]

Mr. Bonar Law has been making trips to and from France by aeroplane. The report that a number of members of the Opposition have been invited by the Admiralty to make a descent in a depth-charge turns out to be unfounded.

The prospects of peace are being discussed on public platforms, but, as yet, with commendable discretion. Mr. Roberts, our excellent Minister of Labour, has made bold to say that "the happenings of the last six weeks justify us in the belief that peace is much nearer than it was during the earlier part of the year." And a weekly paper has offered a prize of 500 to the reader who predicts the date when the War will end. Meanwhile, Hanover is said to have made Hindenburg a birthday present of a house in the neighbourhood of the Zoological Gardens in that city, and we suggest that before this gift is incorporated in the peace-terms the words "the neighbourhood of" should be deleted.

_November, 1918_.

The end has come with a swiftness that has outdone the hopes of the most sanguine optimists. In the first eleven days of November we have seen history in the making on a larger scale and with larger possibilities than at any time since the age of Napoleon, perhaps since the world began.

[Ill.u.s.tration: VICTORY!]

To take the chief events in order, the Versailles Conference opened on the 1st; on the 3rd Austria gave in and the resolve of the German Naval High Command to challenge the Grand Fleet in the North Sea was paralysed by the mutiny at Kiel; on the 5th the Versailles Conference gave full powers to Marshal Foch to arrange the terms of an armistice, and President Wilson addressed the last of his Notes to Germany; on the 6th the American Army reached Sedan; on the 9th Marshal Foch received Erzberger and the other German Envoys, the Berlin Revolution broke out, and the Kaiser abdicated; on the 10th the Kaiser fled to Holland, and the British reached Mons. The wheel had come full circle. The Belgian, British, French, and American Armies now formed a semi-circle from Ghent to Sedan, and threatened to surround the German Armies already in retreat and crowded into the narrow valley of the Meuse. Everything was ready for Foch's final attack; indeed, he was on the point of attacking when the Germans, recognising that they were faced with the prospect of a Sedan ten times greater than that of 1870, signed on November 11 an armistice which was equivalent to a military capitulation, and gave Marshal Foch all that he wanted without the heavy losses which further fighting would have undoubtedly involved. He had shown himself the greatest military genius of the War. Here, in the words of one of his former colleagues at the Ecole de Guerre, he proved himself free from the stains which have so often tarnished great leaders in war, the l.u.s.t of conquest and personal ambition. Not only the Allies, but the whole world owes an incalculable debt to this soldier of justice, compact of reason and faith, imperturbable in adversity, self-effacing in the hour of victory. Glorious also is the record of the other French Generals: the strong-souled Petain, hero of Verdun; the heroic Maunoury; Castlenau and Mangin, Gouraud. Debeney, and Franchet d'Esperey, Captains Courageous, worthy of France, her cause, and her indomitable _poilus_. In the record of acknowledgment France stands first since her sacrifices and losses have been heaviest, and she gave us in Foch the chief organiser of victory, in Clemenceau the most inspiring example of intrepid statesmanship. But the War could not have been won without England and the Empire; without the ceaseless vigil in the North Sea; without the heroes of Jutland and Coronel, of the Falkland Isles and Zeebrugge, of the Fleets behind the Fleet; without the services of Smith-Dorrien at Mons, French at Ypres; without the dogged endurance, the inflexible will and the self-sacrificing loyalty of Haig; the dash of Maude and Allenby; the steadfast leadership in defence and offence of Plumer and Byng, Home and Rawlinson and Birdwood.

[Ill.u.s.tration: OUR MAN

With Mr. Punch's Grateful Compliments to Field-Marshal Sir Douglas Haig.]