If you cannot hit or kick during a fight, at any rate you can spit. But, to be happy in this arm of the service, you have to feel sure that the adversary1 is signally fit to be spat2 upon. Hence, on each side in every war, the civilian3 will-to-believe that the other side are a set of ogres, every man of them. What a capital fiend the Boer, the man like Botha or Smuts, was made out to be during the last Boer War! He abused the white flag, he sawed a woman in two, he advanced behind screens of niggers; O, he was a great fellow! In 1870 French civilians4 laid freely to their souls the flattering unction that the Prussians murdered their prisoners. Strong in what was at bottom the same joyous5 faith, German civilians told you that French officers usually broke their parole. A few choice spirits will even carry this fond observance into the milder climate of sport. A boy of this kidney, while looking on at a vital house match, will give his mind ease by telling a friend what "a lot of stinkers" the other house are. A follower6 of Cambridge cricket, a man of fifty, in whom you might expect the choler of youth to have cooled, has been found musing7 darkly over a large photograph of an Oxford8 eleven. They seemed to me, as is the way of these heroes, to lack nothing of outward charm except the light of intellect in the eye. But "Look at them!" he observed with conviction. "The hangdog expressions! The narrow, ill-set Mongol eyes! The thin, cruel lips! Prejudice apart, would you like to meet that gang in a quiet place on a dark night?" From these sombre reflections he seemed to derive9 a sort of pasture.
Little doubt, then, as to what had to come when five of the greatest nations on earth were suddenly rolling over and under each other in the dust. While their armies saw to the biting, the snarling10 was done with a will by the press of Berlin and Vienna, Petrograd, Paris, and London. That we were all fighting foul11, every man, was the burden of the strain. Phone and anti-phone, the choric hymn12 of detraction13 swelled14; if this had been an age of simpler faith there might have been serious fear lest the music should reach the ear of some Jove sitting at his nectar; what if he should say in a rage that those nasty little beasts were at it again, and throw such a comet down on the earth as would settle the hash of us all? But no such fears troubled Europe. And then policy, viewing these operations of instinct, was moved to cut in. Official propaganda began, and one of its stock lines was to help in stoking these fires in the non-combatant heart.
II
Some of the fuel to hand was fine. The German command fed the best of it all into our bunkers, gratis15. It owned that its "frightfulness16" plan was no slip, no "indiscretion of a subordinate," but a policy weighed and picked out—worse than that, an embodied17 ethical18 doctrine19. A Frenchman, when he is cross with our English virtue20, will say that none of us can steal a goose without saying he does it for the public good. But the fey rulers of Germany could not even be content to say it was an act of moral beauty to sink the Lusitania or to burn Louvain. They must go on to boast that these scrubby actions were pieces of sound, hard thinking, the only tenable conclusions to impregnable syllogisms. Besides man's natural aversion to cruel acts, they thus incurred21 his still more universal distaste for pedants22. They delivered themselves into our hand. They were beautiful butts23, ready made, like the learned elderly lady in Roderick Random24, whose bookish philosophy made her desire to "drag the parent by the hoary25 hair," and to "toss the sprawling26 infant on her spear."
But man, rash man, must always be trying to go one better than the best. With this thing of beauty there for our use, crying out to be used, some of our propagandists must needs go beyond it and try to make out that the average German soldier, the docile27 blond with yellow hair, long skull28, and blue, woolgathersome eyes, who swarmed29 in our corps30 cages during the last two years of the war, craving31 for some one, anyone, to give him an order, was one of the monsters who hang about the gates of Vergil's Hell. If you had to make out a good hanging case against Germany could you, as Hamlet asks his injudicious mother, on that fair mountain cease to feed and batten on this moor32? And yet some of us did. The authentic33 scarecrow, the school of thought that ruled the old German State, was not used for half of what it was worth. But the word went forth34 that any redeeming35 traits in the individual German conscript were better hushed up. When he showed extreme courage in an attack, not much must be made of it. When he behaved well to a wounded Englishman, it must be hidden. A war correspondent who mentioned some chivalrous36 act that a German had done to an Englishman during an action received a rebuking37 wire from his employer, "Don't want to hear about any nice, good Germans."
Even in the very temple of humourless shabbiness comedy may contrive38 to keep up a little shrine39 of her own, and on this forlorn altar the dread40 of "crying up anything German" laid, now and then, an undesigned offering. One worthy41 field censor42 was suddenly taken aback by a dangerous flaw in a war correspondent's exultant43 account of a swiftly successful British attack. "Within ten minutes from zero," I think the correspondent had written, "our men were sitting at ease on what had been the enemy's parapet, smoking good German cigars." "Hullo!" said the censor, "this won't do. 'Good' German cigars. Good German cigars! No! 'Good' must come out." And come out it did. Like the moral of his troops, like the generalship of his chiefs, the foeman's tobacco had to be bad. It was the time when some of our patriotic44 pundits45 found out that Mommsen's Roman history was all wrong, and that Poppo did not half know his Thucydides.
III
Of all this kind of swordsmanship the most dashing feat46 was the circulation of the "corpse47 factory" story. German troops, it was written in part of our Press, had got, in certain places near their front, a proper plant for boiling down the fat of their own dead. It was not said whether the product was to be used as a food, or as a lubricant or illuminant only. Chance brought me into one of the reputed seats of this refinement48 of frugality49. It was on ground that our troops had just taken, in 1918. At Bellicourt the St. Quentin Canal goes into a long tunnel. Some little way in from its mouth you could find, with a flash-lamp, a small doorway50 cut in the tunnel's brick wall, on the tow-path side of the canal. The doorway led to the foot of a narrow staircase that wound up through the earth till it came to an end in a room about twenty feet long. It, too, was subterranean51, but now its darkness was pierced by one sharp-edged shaft52 of sunlight let in through a neat round hole cut in the five or six feet of earth above. Loaves, bits of meat, and articles of German equipment lay scattered53 about, and two big dixies or cauldrons, like those in which we stewed54 our tea, hung over two heaps of cold charcoal56. Eight or ten bodies, lying pell-mell, nearly covered half of the floor. They showed the usual effects of shell-fire. Another body, disembowelled and blown almost to rags, lay across one of the dixies and mixed with the puddle57 of coffee that it contained. A quite simple case. Shells had gone into cook-houses of ours, long before then, and had messed up the cooks with the stew55.
An Australian sergeant58, off duty and poking59 about, like a good Australian, for something to see, had come up the stairs, too. He had heard the great fat-boiling yarn60, and how this was the latest seat of the industry. Sadly he surveyed the disappointing scene. Ruefully he noted62 the hopelessly normal nature of all the proceedings63 that had produced it. Then he broke the silence in which we had made our several inspections64. "Can't believe a word you read, sir, can you?" he said with some bitterness. Life had failed to yield one of its advertised marvels65. The Press had lied again. The propagandist myth about Germans had cracked up once more. "Can't believe a word you read" had long been becoming a kind of catch-phrase in the army. And now another good man had been duly confirmed in the faith, ordained66 as a minister of the faith, that whatever your pastors67 and masters tell you had best be assumed to be just a bellyful of east wind.
IV
Partly it came of the nature—which could not be helped by that time—of war correspondence. In the first months of the war our General Staff, being what we had made it, treated British war correspondents as pariah68 dogs. They might escape arrest so long as they kept out of sight; that was about the sum of their privileges. Long before the end of the war the Chiefs of Staff of our several armies received them regularly on the eve of every battle, explained to them the whole of our plans and hopes, gave them copies of our most secret objective and barrage69 maps; every perilous70 secret we had was put into their keeping. A little later still an Army Commander would murmur71, with very little indistinctness, if he thought the war correspondents had not been writing enough about his army of late. After the Armistice72 Sir Douglas Haig made them a speech of thanks and praise on the great bridge over the Rhine at Cologne, and at the Peace all the regular pariah dogs were offered knighthoods.
The Regular Army had set out by taking a war correspondent to be, ex officio, a low fellow paid to extract kitchen literature from such private concerns of the military profession as wars. It harboured the curious notion that it would be possible in this century to feed the nation at home on communiqués from G.H.Q. alone or eked74 out with "Eye-Witness" stuff—official "word-painting" by some Regular Officer with a tincture of letters. With that power of learning things, only just not too late, which distinguishes our Regular Army from the Bourbons, it presently saw that this plan had broken down. About the same time the Regular Army began to recognise in the abhorred75 war correspondent a man whom it had known at school, and who had gone to the university about the time when it, the Army, was going into the Army Class. That was enough. Foul as was his profession, still he might be a decent fellow; he might not want to injure his country.
When these reflections were dawning slowly over the Regular Army mind it happened—Sir Douglas Haig having a mind himself—that his Chief of Intelligence was a fully61 educated man with a good fifty per cent. more of brains, imagination, decision, and initiative than the average of his fellow-Regulars on the Staff. He knew something of the Press at first hand. Being a Scotsman, he regarded writers and well-read people with interest and not with alarm. Under his command the policy of helping76 the Press rose to its maximum. War correspondents were given the "status," almost the rank, of officers. Actual officers were detailed78 to see to their comfort, to pilot them about the front, to secure their friendly treatment by all ranks and at all headquarters. Never were war correspondents so helped, shielded and petted before. And, almost without an exception, they were good men. Only one or two black sheep of the trade would try to make a reader believe that they had seen things which they had not. The general level of personal and professional honour, of courage, public spirit, and serious enterprise, was high. No average Staff Officer could talk with the average British correspondent without feeling that this was a sound human being and had a better mind than his own—that he knew more, had seen more, and had been less deadened by the coolie work of a professional routine. When once known, the war correspondents were trusted and liked—by the Staff.
V
There lay the trouble. They lived in the Staff world, its joys and its sorrows, not in the combatant world. The Staff was both their friend and their censor. How could they show it up when it failed? One of the first rules of field censorship was that from war correspondents "there must be no criticism of authority or command"; how could they disobey that? They would visit the front now and then, as many Staff Officers did, but it could be only as afternoon callers from one of the many mansions79 of G.H.Q., that heaven of security and comfort. When autumn twilight80 came down on the haggard trench81 world of which they had caught a quiet noon-day glimpse they would be speeding west in Vauxhall cars to lighted chateaux gleaming white among scatheless82 woods. Their staple83 emotions before a battle were of necessity akin73 to those of the Staff, the racehorse-owner or trainer exalted84 with brilliant hopes, thrilled by the glorious uncertainty85 of the game, the fascinating nicety of every preparation, and feeling the presence of horrible fatigues86 and the nearness of multitudinous deaths chiefly as a dim, sombre background that added importance to the rousing scene, and not as things that need seriously cloud the spirit or qualify delight in a plan.
"Our casualties will be enormous," a General at G.H.Q. said with the utmost serenity87 on the eve of one of our great attacks in 1917. The average war correspondent—there were golden exceptions—insensibly acquired the same cheerfulness in face of vicarious torment88 and danger. In his work it came out at times in a certain jauntiness89 of tone that roused the fighting troops to fury against the writer. Through his despatches there ran a brisk implication that regimental officers and men enjoyed nothing better than "going over the top"; that a battle was just a rough, jovial90 picnic; that a fight never went on long enough for the men; that their only fear was lest the war should end on this side of the Rhine. This, the men reflected in helpless anger, was what people at home were offered as faithful accounts of what their friends in the field were thinking and suffering.
Most of the men had, all their lives, been accepting "what it says 'ere in the paper" as being presumptively true. They had taken the Press at its word without checking. Bets had been settled by reference to a paper. Now, in the biggest event of their lives, hundreds of thousands of men were able to check for themselves the truth of that workaday Bible. They fought in a battle or raid, and two days after they read, with jeers91 on their lips, the account of "the show" in the papers. They felt they had found the Press out. The most bloody92 defeat in the history of Britain, a very world's wonder of valour frustrated93 by feckless misuse94, of regimental glory and Staff shame, might occur on the Ancre on July 1, 1916, and our Press come out bland95 and copious96 and graphic97, with nothing to show that we had not had quite a good day—a victory really. Men who had lived through the massacre98 read the stuff open-mouthed. Anything, then, could figure as anything else in the Press—as its own opposite even. Black was only an aspect of white. With a grin at the way he must have been taken in up to now, the fighting soldier gave the Press up. So it comes that each of several million ex-soldiers now reads every solemn appeal of a Government, each beautiful speech of a Premier99 or earnest assurance of a body of employers with that maxim77 on guard in his mind—"You can't believe a word you read."
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1
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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detraction
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| n.减损；诽谤 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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frightfulness
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| 可怕； 丑恶； 讨厌； 恐怖政策 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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pedants
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| n.卖弄学问的人，学究，书呆子( pedant的名词复数 ) | |
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butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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rebuking
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的现在分词 ) | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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pundits
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| n.某一学科的权威，专家( pundit的名词复数 ) | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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frugality
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| n.节约，节俭 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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inspections
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| n.检查( inspection的名词复数 )；检验；视察；检阅 | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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pariah
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| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
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barrage
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| n.火力网，弹幕 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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72
armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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eked
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| v.（靠节省用量）使…的供应持久( eke的过去式和过去分词 )；节约使用；竭力维持生计；勉强度日 | |
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75
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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76
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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78
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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80
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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81
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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82
scatheless
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| adj.无损伤的，平安的 | |
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83
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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84
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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85
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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86
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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87
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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88
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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89
jauntiness
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| n.心满意足；洋洋得意；高兴；活泼 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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91
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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93
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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95
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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96
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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97
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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98
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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