Class 
 BooL 
 
 tA>^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSET. 
 
A Student in Arms 
 
DONALD HANKEY 
 
A 
 
 Student in Arms 
 
 Second Series 
 
 By 
 Donald Hankey 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 J. St. Loe Strachey 
 
 Editor of Tbe Spectator 
 
 New York 
 E. P. Button & Co. 
 
 681 Fifth Avenue 
 

 POBLISHBD, X9I7 
 BY 
 
 !B. P. DUTTON & CO, 
 
 
 V 
 
 JUL- 
 
 -2 1917 
 
 ©Cl. 
 
 A4()7703 
 
 -x 
 
 -A^ \ . 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Something about "A Student in Arms" i 
 
 Author's Foreword . . . -33 
 
 I. — ^The Potentate .... 37 
 
 II. — The Bad Side of Military Ser- 
 vice ..... . . .51 
 
 III. — The Good Side of "Militarism" 65 
 
 IV. — A Month's Reflections . . 79 
 
 V. — Romance 93 
 
 VI. — Imaginary Conversations (I) . 109 
 
 VII. — The Fear OF Death in War . .115 
 
 VIII. — Imaginary Conversations (II) . 127 
 
 IX. — The Wisdom of "A Student in 
 
 Arms " 139 
 
 ill 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 X. — Imaginary Conversations (III) . 145 
 
 XI. — Letter to an Army Chaplain . 153 
 
 XII.—'' Don't Worry" .... 165 
 
 XIII. — Imaginary Conversations (IV) . 175 
 
 XIV. — A Passing in June, 1915 . . 181 
 
 XV. — My Home and School: 
 
 I My Home .... 199 
 
 II School 216 
 
 Some Notes on the Fragment of Auto- 
 biography BY "Hilda" . . . 237 
 
 IV 
 
* 
 
 A Student in Arms 
 
SOMETHING ABOUT 
 "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 ^ By H. M. a. H. 
 
 "His life was a Romance of the most noble 
 and beautiful kind. " So says one who has 
 known him from childhood, and into how 
 many dull, hard and narrow lives has he not 
 been the first to bring the element of 
 Romance ? 
 
 He carried it about with him; it breathes 
 through his writings, and this inevitable 
 expression of it gives the saying of one of his 
 friends, that "it is as an artist that we 
 shall miss him most, " the more significance. 
 
 And does not the artist as well as the 
 poet live forever in his works? Is not 
 the breath of inspiration that such alone 
 can breathe into the dull clods of their 
 generation bound to be immortal ? 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 Meanwhile, his "Romance" Is to be 
 written, and his biographer will be one 
 whose good fortune it has been to see 
 much of the "Student" in Bermondsey, 
 the place that was the forcing-house of 
 his development. In the following pages 
 it Is proposed only to give an outline of 
 his life, and particularly the earlier and 
 therefore to the public unknown parts. 
 
 Donald Hankey was born at Brighton 
 in 1884; he was the seventh child of his 
 parents, and was welcomed with excite- 
 ment and delight by a ready-made family 
 of three brothers and two sisters living 
 on his arrival amongst them. He was 
 the youngest of them by seven years, and 
 all had their plans for his education and 
 future, and waited jealously for the time 
 when he should be old enough to be re- 
 moved from the loving shelter of his mother's 
 arms and be "brought up." 
 
 His education did, as a matter of fact, 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 begin at a very early age; for one day, 
 when he was perhaps about three years 
 old, dressed in a white woolly cap and 
 coat, and out for his morning walk, a 
 neighbouring baby stepped across from 
 his nurse's side and with one well-directed 
 blow felled Donald to the ground! Don- 
 ald was too much astonished and hurt at 
 the sheer injustice of the assault to dream of 
 retaliation, but when they reached home 
 and his indignant nurse told the story, he 
 was taken aside by his brothers and made 
 to understand that by his failure to resist 
 the assault, and give the other fellow back as 
 good as he gave, "the honour of the family'' 
 was impugned ! He was then and there put 
 through a systematic course of "the noble 
 art of self-defence." "And I think," 
 said one of his brothers only the other 
 day, "that he was prepared to act upon 
 his instructions should occasion arise." 
 It will be seen from this incident that his 
 bringing-up was of a decidedly strenuous 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 character and likely to make Donald's 
 outlook on life a serious one ! 
 
 He was naturally a peace-loving and 
 philosophical little boy, very lovable and 
 attractive with his large clear eyes with 
 their curious distribution of colour — the 
 one entirely blue and the other three parts 
 a decided brown — the big head set proudly 
 on the slender little body, and the radiant 
 illuminating smile, that no one who knew 
 him well at any time of his life can ever 
 forget. It spoke of a light within, "that 
 mysterious light which is of course not 
 physical," as was said by one who met 
 him only once, but was quick to note this 
 characteristic. 
 
 Donald's more strenuous times were in 
 
 the boys' holidays — those tumultuous of 
 
 seasons so well known to the members of 
 
 all big families ! His eldest brother, Hugh, 
 
 was bent on making an all-round athlete of 
 
 him; another brother saw in him an embryo 
 
 county cricketer, while a third was most 
 
 4 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 particular about his music, giving him 
 lessons on the violoncello with clockwork 
 regularity. The games were terribly thrill- 
 ing and dangerous, especially when the 
 schoolroom was turned into a miniature 
 battlefield, with opposing armies of tiny 
 lead soldiers. But Donald never turned 
 a hair if Hugh were present, even at the 
 most terrific explosions of gun-powder. His 
 confidence in Hugh was complete. Nor did 
 he mind personal injuries. When on one 
 occasion he was hurled against the sharp 
 edge of a chair, cutting his head open 
 badly, and his mother came to the rescue 
 with indignation, sympathy and bandages, 
 whilst accepting the latter he deprecated the 
 two former, explaining apologetically, "It's 
 only because my head's so big. '* 
 
 He admitted in after years to having 
 felt most terribly swamped by the per- 
 sonalities of two of his brothers. The 
 third he had more in common with, for 
 
 he was more peace-loving, and he seemed 
 
 5 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 to have more time to listen to the small 
 boy's confidences and stories, which Donald 
 started to write at the age of six. 
 
 Hugh, however, was his hero — a kind 
 of demi-god. And truly there was some- 
 thing Greek about the boy — in his singular 
 beauty of person, coupled with his brilliant 
 mental equipment, and above all in the 
 nothing less than Spartan methods with 
 which, in spite of a highly sensitive tem- 
 perament, he set himself to overcome his 
 handicap of a naturally delicate physique 
 and a bad head for heights. He turned 
 himself out quite an athlete, and actually 
 cured his bad head by a course of walking on 
 giddy heights, preferably roofs — the parapet 
 of the tall four-storied house the children 
 lived in being a favourite training ground. 
 
 Donald was the apple of his eye, and 
 he was quick to note a certain lack of 
 vitality about the little boy — especially 
 when he was growing fast — and a certain 
 natural timidity. His letters from school 
 
 6 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 are full of messages to and instructions 
 concerning Donald's physical training, 
 and from Sandhurst he would long to 
 "run over and see after his boxing." 
 He called him Don Diego, a name that 
 suited the rather stately little fellow, and 
 he used to fear sometimes that Donald 
 was "getting too polite" and say he must 
 "knock It out of him In the holidays." 
 Needless to say, his handling of him was 
 always very gentle. 
 
 The other over- vital brother. If a prime 
 amuser, was also a prime tease, and being 
 nearer Donald in age was also much less 
 gentle. 
 
 Before very long these great personages 
 took themselves off "zum neuen taten." 
 But their Odyssey s came home In the shape 
 of letters, which, with their descriptions of 
 strange countries and peoples and records 
 of adventures — often the realization of 
 boyish dreams — and also of difficulties over- 
 come, were well calculated to appeal to 
 
 7 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 Donald's childish imagination, and to in- 
 crease his admiration for the writers — and 
 also his feeling of impotence, and of the 
 impossibility of being able to follow in the 
 tracks of such giants among men ! 
 
 His mother, however, was his never- 
 failing confidante and friend. His love 
 and admiration for her were unbounded, as 
 for her courage, unselfishness and con- 
 stant thought for others, more especially 
 for the poor and insignificant among her 
 neighbours. Though the humblest minded 
 of women, she could, when occasion de- 
 manded, administer a rebuke with a decision 
 and a fire that must have won the heartfelt 
 admiration of her diffident little son. 
 
 He was not easily roused himself, but 
 there is one instance of his being so that 
 is eminently characteristic. He had come 
 back from school evidently very perturbed, 
 and at first his sister could get nothing out 
 of him. But at last he flared up. His 
 face reddened, his eyes burned like coals 
 
ABOUT " A STUDENT IN ARMS " 
 
 and, In a voice trembling with rage, 
 
 he said, " (naming a school-fellow) 
 
 talks about things that I won't even 
 think !^' I 
 
 At the age of about 14 he, too, went to 
 Rugby, and there Is an Interesting pro- 
 phecy about him by his brother Hugh 
 belonging to this time. Hugh had by now 
 earned a certain right to pronounce judg- 
 ment, having already started to fulfil his 
 early promise by making some mark as 
 a soldier and a linguist. He had been 
 Invited to join the Egyptain Army at a 
 critical time In the campaign of 1897-98, 
 thanks to his proficiency in Arabic. His 
 work was cut short by serious illness, the 
 long period of convalescence after which he 
 had utilized in working for and passing the 
 Army Interpreter's examination In Turkish 
 as well as the higher one in Arabic and his 
 promotion exam. All of which achieve- 
 ments had been of use In helping him to 
 
 wring out of the War Office a promise of 
 
 9 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS " 
 
 certain distinguished service in China. In 
 a letter home he writes : — 
 
 2ND Batt. the Royal Warwickshire, Regt., 
 
 The Camp, 
 
 Colchester. 
 28th Sept., 1899. 
 
 My dear Mamma, — 
 
 I packed Donald off to school to-day in good 
 time and cold-less. . . . He was wonderfully 
 calm and collected. He was more at his ease in 
 our mess than I should have been in a strange 
 mess, and made himself agreeable to his neighbours 
 without being forward. Also he looked very clean 
 and smart, and was altogether quite a success. 
 
 That child has a future before him if his energy 
 is up to form, which I hope. His philosophy is 
 most amazing. He looks remarkably healthy, and 
 is growing nicely. . . . 
 
 Shortly after this letter was written 
 
 the South African War broke out, and 
 
 before six months were over the writer 
 
 was killed in action, at the age of 27, whilst 
 
 10 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 serving with the Mounted Infantry at 
 Paardeberg. 
 
 It was the first sorrow of Donald's life, 
 but SIX months later he was to suffer a yet 
 more crushing blow in the loss of his dearly 
 loved mother. The loss of his best con- 
 fidante and his ideal seemed at first to 
 stun the boy completely, and to cast 
 him in upon himself entirely. Later on 
 he remembered that he had felt at that 
 time that he had nothing to say to any 
 one. He had wondered what the others 
 could have thought of him, and had thought 
 how dreadfully unresponsive they must be 
 finding him. His sister should have been 
 of some use. But she can only think of 
 herself then as of some strange figure, veiled 
 and petrified with grief — ^grief not for her 
 mother, but for the young hero whose mag- 
 netism had thrilled through every moment 
 of her life — ^yet pointing onwards, with 
 mutely insistent finger, to the path that her 
 
 hero had trodden. And Donald, dazed also 
 
 11 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 himself by grief — though from another 
 cause — of his own accord, placed his first 
 uncertain steps on the road that leads to 
 military glory. No "voice" warned him as 
 yet, and he had no other decisive leading. 
 
 If his sister failed him then, his father 
 did not. Of him Donald wrote recently 
 to an aunt, "Papa's letters to me are a 
 heritage whose value can never diminish. 
 His was indeed the pen of a ready writer, 
 and in his case, as in the case of many rather 
 reserved people, the pen did more justice to 
 the man than the tongue. I never knew him 
 until Mamma's death, when the weekly let- 
 ter from him took the place of hers, and 
 never stopped till I came home." 
 
 At Rugby, Donald was accounted a 
 dreamer. Without the outlet he had hither- 
 to had for his confidences and his thoughts 
 no doubt the tendency to dream grew upon 
 him. "Behold this dreamer cometh,"was 
 actually said of him by one of his masters. 
 
 Nevertheless there were happy times 
 
 12 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 when youth asserted itself and boyish 
 friendships were made. In work he did 
 well, for he entered the sixth form at the 
 early age of i6^, and was thereby enabled, 
 though he left young, to have his name 
 painted up "in hall" below those of his 
 three brothers, and also on his "study" 
 door which belonged to each of the four 
 in turn. 
 
 He entered the Royal Military Acad- 
 emy, Woolwich, straight from Rugby, and 
 before he was seventeen. We have his 
 word for it that he was spiritually very 
 unhappy there, finding evils with which 
 he was impotent to grapple, going up 
 as he did so young from school and before 
 he had had time to acquire a "games" 
 reputation — that all-important qualifica- 
 tion for a boy if he wishes to influence his 
 fellows. Nevertheless youthful spirits were 
 bound to triumph sometimes. He was a per- 
 fectly sound and healthy, well-grown boy 
 and a friend who was with him at "the 
 
 13 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 Shop" says he can remember no apparent 
 trace of unhappiness, and is full of tales of 
 his jokes and his fun, his quaint caricatures 
 and doggerel rhymes, his love of flowers and 
 nature, his hospitalities, and his joy In getting 
 his friends to meet and know and like each 
 other. Though he made no mark at Wool- 
 wich he did carry off the prize for the best 
 essay on the South African War. With It 
 he made his first appearance in print, for 
 it was printed in the R. M. A. Magazine. 
 While he was at Woolwich the family 
 circle was enlarged by the arrival of a 
 cousin from Australia, and she and Donald 
 became the greatest of friends. She re- 
 minded him in some way of his mother, and 
 this made all the difference. 
 
 The Island of Mauritius, to which he 
 was sent at the age of twenty, not so very 
 long after having received his commission 
 in the Royal Garrison Artillery, stood for 
 him later on, he has told us, as "Reve- 
 lation" — "for there It was that I was 
 
 14 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 first a sceptic, and was first shown that 
 I could not remain one/' Also towards 
 the end of his stay there, when he was 
 doubting as to what course he should 
 take, a sentence came to him insistently, 
 "Would you know Christ? Lo, He is 
 working in His vineyard." It was these 
 things that decided him eventually to 
 resign his commission, but of them his 
 letters home make little or no mention. 
 They are full, on the other hand, of descrip- 
 tions of the beauties of the Island which, 
 curious, odd, freakish and unexpected, 
 held him as did those of no other place. 
 The curious inconsistencies of the Creole 
 nature also interested him, and he spent 
 much of his spare time sketching and 
 studying the people. Two friendships he 
 made there were diverse and lasting, but 
 he complains very much of feeling the lack 
 of a woman friend — no one to tease and 
 pick flowers for! 
 While he was still there, there appeared 
 
 15 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 at home a baby nephew — another "Hugh'* 
 — "trailing clouds of glory/' but to return 
 all too soon to his " Eternal Home. " Some 
 years previously, when his eldest sister 
 had told him of her engagement, he con- 
 gratulated her warmly, and said he "had 
 always longed for a nephew"! He never 
 saw the child, but wrote after his death that 
 he had heard so much about him that he 
 seemed to know him, and "I think I must 
 have played with him in my dreams." 
 Possibly the baby nephew, in his short ten 
 months of life, did more for his uncle than 
 either knew, for no frozen hearts could do 
 otherwise than melt in the presence of the 
 Insistent needs of that gallant little spirit 
 and fragile little body, and a more whole- 
 hearted sister was awaiting him on his return 
 home, which took place at the end of two 
 years, after he had fallen a victim to the 
 prevalent complaint In the R. G. A — abscess 
 on the liver. It was caused by the shocking 
 conditions under which the R. G. A. had 
 
 16 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 to live in Mauritius during that hot sum- 
 mer when the Russian Fleet sojourned in 
 Madagascan waters, and in Donald's case 
 it necessitated a severe operation. 
 
 His joy in his homecoming was quickly 
 clouded over, for his father died only a 
 month or two after his return; not, how- 
 ever, before he had given a delighted ac- 
 quiescence to Donald's proposal to resign 
 his commission and go to Oxford in order to 
 study theology — his own favourite pursuit — 
 with the object of eventually taking Holy 
 Orders. 
 
 In the spring of 1907 Donald took a 
 trip to Italy with his sister and a Rhodes 
 Scholar cousin from Australia. It was 
 the young men's first visit, and each brought 
 back a special trophy: Donald's, a large 
 photograph of a fine virile "Portrait of a 
 man" by Giorgione in black and white, and 
 his cousin, a sweet Madonna head by Luini. 
 
 Donald gave his sister her trophy on 
 their return home, in remembrance of the 
 
 a 17 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 lectures she had given the two of them 
 on the pre-Raphaelite painters In Florence. 
 It took the form of a water-colour carica- 
 ture of herself, sitting enthroned In a 
 Loggia as a sort of Sybil Saint with a halo 
 and a book (Baedeker). Behind her, and 
 outlined against a pale sky as seen through 
 an archway of the Loggia In the typical 
 Florentine fashion, are the blue mountains 
 near Florence, some tall cypresses, a cam- 
 panile and a castle perched on the top of a 
 hill — all features of the landscapes through 
 which they had passed together. In the 
 foreground are himself and his cousin as 
 monks adoring, also with haloes, and expres- 
 sions of mock ecstasy ! 
 
 On his return Donald went for a few 
 months to Rugby House, the Rugby 
 School Mission, in order to cram for Oxford. 
 He thereby made a friend, and learned to 
 love Browning. 
 
 After living so long at Brighton, and 
 then in barracks, the beauty of Oxford 
 
 18 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 was in itself alone a revelation to him. 
 The work there, too, was entirely con- 
 genial. As a gunner subaltern he had 
 been a square peg in a round hole. As 
 regards the work there had been far too 
 much to be accepted on authority for one 
 of his fundamental type of mind; the rela- 
 tions existing between an officer and his 
 men — in peace time, at any rate — seemed 
 to him hardly human, and the making of 
 quick decisions, which an officer is con- 
 tinually called upon to do, was then as 
 always very difficult to him. His tastes, 
 too, unusual in a subaltern, had made 
 him rather lonely. He found much more 
 in common with the undergraduate than 
 with the subaltern. Going up as an 
 "oldster" (22) was to him an advantage 
 rather than otherwise, for his six years 
 in the Army had given him a certain pres- 
 tige which was a help to his natural diffi- 
 dence, and helped to open more doors to 
 him, so that he was not limited to any set. 
 
 19 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 He gained some reputation as a host, 
 for he had the born host's gift of getting 
 the right people together and making 
 them feel at their ease. There was also, 
 as a rule, some little individual touch 
 about his entertainments that made them 
 stand out. His manner, though naturally 
 boyish and shy, could be both gay and 
 debonair, quite irresistible in fact, when he 
 was surrounded by congenial spirits! He 
 played hockey, and was made a member of 
 several clubs, sketched and made beautiful 
 photographs. His time he divided strictly 
 between the study of man and the study of 
 theology, and though he did much hard, 
 thorough and careful work in connexion 
 with the latter, he always maintained 
 that for a man who was going to be a parson 
 the former was the more important study 
 of the two. 
 
 He used, however, to complain much at 
 this time of feeling himself incapable of any 
 very strong emotion, even that of sorrow. 
 
 20 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS'* 
 
 No doubt there is more stimulation to 
 the brain than to the heart in the highly 
 critical atmosphere of all phases of the 
 intellectual life at Oxford; also Donald had 
 hardly yet got over the shocks of his youth 
 and the loneliness of his life abroad. He 
 was, too, essentially and curiously the son 
 of his father — even to his minor tastes, 
 such as his connoisseur's palate for a good 
 wine and his judgment in "smokes" — and 
 this feeling of a certain detachment from 
 the larger emotions of life was always his 
 father's pose — the philosopher's. In his 
 father's case it was perhaps engendered, if 
 not necessitated, by his poor health and 
 wretched nerves. 
 
 But can we not trace his dissatisfaction 
 at this time in what he felt to be his cold 
 philosophical attitude towards life to the 
 same cause as much of the misery he suffered 
 as a boy! In the paper he calls "School," 
 which follows with that entitled "Home, " he 
 tells us how he would have liked to have 
 
 21 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 chastised a school-fellow "had he dared," 
 and his failure to dare was evidently what 
 reduced him to the state of impotent rage 
 described on page 9 of this sketch. Again 
 at Woolwich, what made him unhappy 
 was not so much the evils which he saw 
 but his impotence to deal with them. So 
 now again at Oxford he feels "impotent," 
 impotent this time to feel and sympathize 
 as he would have wished with suffering 
 humanity. But within him was the light, 
 "the light which is, of course, not physical, " 
 which betrayed itself through his wonderful 
 smile — the same now as in babyhood; and 
 from his mother, and perhaps also from the 
 young country that gave her birth, he had 
 inherited, as well as her great heart and 
 broad human sympathies, the vigour that 
 was to carry him through the experiences 
 by means of which, in the fullness of time, 
 that light, no longer dormant, was to break 
 into a flame of infinite possibilities. 
 
 Donald's one complaint against Oxford 
 
 22 
 
ABOUT " A STUDENT IN ARMS " 
 
 was that the ideas that are born and gener- 
 ated there so often evaporate in talk and 
 smoke. He left with the determination to 
 "do," but before going on to a Clergy 
 School he decided to accept a friend's invi- 
 tation to visit him in savage Africa so 
 that he might think things over, and put 
 to the test, far away from the artificialities 
 of Modern Life, the ideas he had assimilated 
 in the highly sophisticated atmosphere of 
 Oxford. As he quaintly put it: "Since Paul 
 went into Arabia for three years, I don't see 
 why I should not go to British East Africa 
 for six months!" He did not, however, 
 stay the whole time there, but re-visited 
 his beloved Mauritius, and also stayed in 
 Madagascar. 
 
 The beginning of 191 1 found him at the 
 Clergy School. But what he wanted he 
 did not find there. During his Oxford 
 vacations he had made many expeditions to 
 poorer London, at first to Notting Dale 
 where was the Rugby School Mission, 
 
 23 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 and afterwards to Bermondsey. But these 
 expeditions had not been entirely satisfac- 
 tory. He had then gone as a "visitor/* 
 The lessons he wanted to learn now from 
 "the People '' could only be learned by 
 becoming as far as possible one of them. 
 The story of his struggles to do so in his 
 life in Bermondsey, and of his journey to 
 Australia in the steerage of a German 
 liner and of his roughing it there, always 
 with the same object in view, cannot be 
 told here. The first outcome of it all 
 was the writing of his book. The Lord of 
 All Good Life. Of this book he says, in a 
 letter to his friend Tom Allen of the Oxford 
 and Bermondsey Mission: 
 
 "The book I regard as my child. I 
 feel quite absurdly about it; to me it is 
 the sudden vision of what lots of obscure 
 things really meant. It is coming out 
 of dark shadows into — moonlight. . . . 
 I would have you to realize that it was 
 written spontaneously in a burst, in six 
 
 24 
 
ABOUT " A STUDENT IN ARMS " 
 
 weeks, without any consultation of authori- 
 ties or any revision to speak of. I had 
 tried and tried, but without success. Then 
 suddenly everything cleared up. To myself, 
 the writing of it was an illumination. I did 
 not write it laboriously and with calculation 
 or because I wanted to write a book and be 
 an author. I wrote it because problems 
 that had been troubling me suddenly cleared 
 up and because writing down the result was 
 to me the natural way of getting everything 
 straight in my own mind. " 
 
 The book was written not away in the 
 peace of the country, nor in the compara- 
 tive quiet of a certain sunny little sit- 
 ting-room I know of, looking on to a leafy 
 back garden in Kensington, where Donald 
 often sat and smoked and wrote, but in a 
 little flat in a dull tenement house in a 
 grey street in Bermondsey, where I re- 
 member visiting him with a cousin of his. 
 
 Here the Student lived like a lord — 
 for Bermondsey! For he possessed two 
 
 £5 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 flats, one for his "butler" — a sick-looking 
 young man in list slippers, and his wife 
 and family — and the other for himself. 
 
 The little sitting-room in which he enter- 
 tained us was very pleasant, with light 
 walls, a bright table-cloth, a gleam of some- 
 thing brass that had come from Ceylon, 
 one or two gaily painted dancing shields 
 from Africa, and two barbaric looking 
 dolls, about a foot high, dressed chiefly in 
 beads and paint, that he had picked up in an 
 Antananarivo shop in Madagascar. They 
 came in usefully when he was lecturing on 
 Missions ! 
 
 His bedroom he did not want us to 
 see. It struck cold and appeared to be 
 reeking with damp ! 
 
 The weather had been rather dull when 
 we arrived, but suddenly there was a 
 glint of sunshine, and a grind-organ that 
 had wandered up the street started playing 
 just opposite. Two couple of children 
 began to dance. A girl with a jug stopped 
 
 26 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 to watch them, and mothers with babies 
 came to their doors. A window was thrown 
 open opposite and a whole family of children 
 leaned out to see the fun. 
 
 Bermondsey was gay, and after we had 
 gone the "Student'' perpetuated the fact 
 in a water-colour drawing which he sent 
 to his cousin afterwards. 
 
 In the evening, however, the sounds 
 would be more discordant, also the Student 
 was running a Boys' Club, taking several 
 Sunday services at the Mission, visiting 
 some very sick people, and attending to 
 a multifarious list of duties which left me 
 breathless when I saw it, knowing too 
 how many casual appeals always came to 
 him and that he never was known to re- 
 fuse a helping hand to any one! Never- 
 theless it was there, and in six weeks, that 
 the Lord of All Good Life was written ! 
 
 "Then came the war," and the Student 
 shall tell us in his own words what it meant 
 to him. Writing still to Tom Allen, who 
 
 27 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 had also enlisted, and afterwards also gave 
 his life In the war, he says: 
 
 "For myself the war was, in a sense, 
 a heaven-sent opportunity. Ever since I 
 left Leeds I have been trying to follow 
 out the theory that the proper subject of 
 study for the theologian was man, and 
 had increasingly been made to feel that 
 nothing but violent measures could over- 
 come my own shyness sufficiently to en- 
 able me to study outside my own class. 
 Enlistment had always appealed to me 
 as one of the few feasible methods of 
 ensuring the desired results 
 
 "I was interested to hear that you 
 
 found the so illuminating as regards 
 
 human potentialities for bestiality. I 
 think that I plumbed the depths between 
 sixteen and a half and twenty-two. I 
 have learned nothing more since then 
 about bestiality. In fact I am hardened, 
 and, I am afraid, take it for granted. 
 Since then I have been discovering human 
 
 28 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 goodness, which is far more satisfactory. 
 And oh, I have found it! In Bermondsey, 
 in the stinking hold of the Zieten, in the wide, 
 thirsty desert of Western Austraha, and in 
 the ranks of the 7th BattaUon of the Rifle 
 Brigade. I enlisted very largely to find out 
 how far I really believed in the brotherhood 
 of man when it comes to the point — and I 
 do believe in it more and more. " 
 
 Donald Hankey enlisted in August, 1914, 
 and after a period of training, part of which 
 was certainly the happiest time of his life, he 
 went to the front in May, 1915, coming 
 home wounded in August, when he wrote 
 for the Spectator most of the articles that 
 were published anonymously the following 
 spring under the title of A Student in Arms. 
 Before he left hospital he received a com- 
 mission in his old regiment, the R.G.A., but 
 still finding himself with no love for big 
 guns, he transferred to his eldest brother's 
 regiment, the Royal Warwickshire, hoping 
 that by doing so he might get back to the 
 
 29 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 front the sooner. He did not, however, 
 leave until May, 19 16, after he had written 
 his contribution to Faith or Fear. 
 
 Most of the numbers of the present 
 volume were written in or near the trenches, 
 and a fellow-officer gave his sister an in- 
 teresting description of how it was done. 
 "Your brother," said he, "will sit down 
 in a corner of a trench, with his pipe, 
 and write an article for the Spectator, or 
 make funny sketches for his nephews and 
 nieces, when none of the rest of us could 
 concentrate sufficiently even to write a 
 letter. " 
 
 On October 6th, Donald Hankey wrote 
 home: "We shall probably be fighting by 
 the time you get this letter, but one has 
 a far better chance of getting through now 
 than in July. I shall be very glad if we 
 do have a scrap, as we have been resting 
 quite long enough. Of course one always 
 has to face possibilities on such occasions; 
 but we have faced them in advance, haven't 
 
 30 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 we? I believe with all my soul that what- 
 ever will be, will be for the best. As I said 
 before, I should hate to slide meanly 
 into winter without a scrap. ... I have 
 a top-hole platoon — nearly all young, and 
 nearly all have been out here eighteen 
 months — thoroughly good sporting fel- 
 lows; so if I don't do well it will be my 
 fault. " 
 
 Six days after this the Student knelt 
 down for a few seconds with his men — 
 we have it on the testimony of one of them 
 — and he told them a little of what was 
 before them: ''If wounded, 'Blighty'; if 
 killed, the Resurrection.'' Then "over 
 the top." He was last seen alive rallying 
 his men, who had wavered for a moment 
 under the heavy machine gun and rifle 
 fire. He carried the waverers along with 
 him, and was found that night close to 
 the trench, the winning of which had cost 
 him his life, with his platoon sergeant 
 and a few of his men by his side. 
 
 31 
 
ABOUT "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 What wonder that his cousin and best 
 friend, when asked a short time previously 
 what he was Hke, had replied, "He is the 
 most beautiful thing that ever happened/' 
 
 32 
 
' AUTHOR'S FOREWORD 
 
 (Being Extracts from Letters to his 
 
 Sister) 
 
 "I AM very much wondering whether 
 you will receive *A Diary* in four parts. 
 It is very much founded on fact, though 
 altered in parts. You will probably be 
 surprised at a certain change in tone, 
 but remember that my previous articles 
 were written in England,' while this was 
 written on the spot. . . . The Diary 
 was not my diary, though it was so very 
 nearly what mine might have been that 
 it is difficult to say what is fiction and 
 what is actuality in it. With regard to 
 the ^conversation' during the bombard- 
 ment, it represents in its totality what 
 I believe the ordinary soldier feels. He 
 loathes the war, and the grandiloquent 
 
 3 33 
 
AUTHOR'S FOREWORD 
 
 speeches of politicians irritate him by 
 their failure to realize how loathesome 
 war is. At the same time he knows he 
 has got to go through with it, and only 
 longs for the chance to hurry up. In the 
 'Diary/ again, I quite deliberately empha- 
 sized the depression of the man who thought 
 he was being left out, and the mental 
 effect of the clearing-up process because 
 I thought that it would be a good thing 
 for people to realize this side, and also 
 partly because I felt that in previous 
 articles I had glossed over it too much. 
 ... If I get a chance of publishing another 
 book I shall certainly include them. " 
 
 Note. — Not only "A Diary" and "Imaginary Conversa- 
 tions," but every paper in the present collection, with the ex- 
 ception of "The Wisdom, " "The Potentate, " and " A Passing 
 in June," were written in France in 1916, and many of them 
 actually in the trenches. The rough sketch for "A Passing in 
 June" was written in France in 19 15, but was completed when 
 the author was in hospital at home. 
 
 "The Potentate" was written for the original volume of A 
 Student in A rms, but was not published on account of its like- 
 ness in subject to Barrie's play, Der Tag, which, however, 
 Donald had not seen or even heard of when he wrote his own. 
 
 34 
 
THE POTENTATE 
 
 35 
 
THE POTENTATE^ 
 
 Scene. ^ A tent {interior). The Potentate 
 is sitting at a table listening to his 
 Court Chaplain. 
 
 Court Chaplain {concluding his remarks). 
 Where can we look for the Kingdom of 
 God, Sire, if not among the German people ? 
 Consider your foes. The English are Phari- 
 sees, hypocrites. Woe to them, saith the 
 Lord. The French are atheists. The Bel- 
 gians are ignorant and priest-ridden. The 
 Russians are sunk in mediaeval superstition. 
 As for the Italians, half are atheists and the 
 other half idolators. Only in Germany do 
 you find a reasonable and progressive faith, 
 
 ' It is necessary to state that The 'Potentate was written 
 before Sir James Barrie's play Ber Tag appeared. 
 
 37 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 devoid of superstition, abreast of scien- 
 tific thought, and of the highest ethical 
 value. Germany then, Sire, is the King- 
 dom of God on earth. The Germans are 
 the chosen people, the heirs of the promise, 
 and let their enemies be scattered ! 
 
 {The Potentate rises ^ leans forward with 
 his hands on the tahle^ and an expression 
 of extreme gratification^ while the Chap- 
 lain stands with a smug and respectful 
 smile on his white face,) 
 
 Potentate. You are right, my dear 
 Clericus, abundantly right. Very well put 
 indeed! Yes, Germany is the Kingdom of 
 God, and I {drawing himself up to his full 
 height) — I am Germany! The strength of 
 the Lord is in my right arm, and He teaches 
 it terrible things for the unbeliever and the 
 hypocrite. With God I conquer! Good- 
 night, my dear Clericus, good-night. 
 
 (Clericus departs with a low boWy and 
 
 38 
 
THE POTENTATE 
 
 the Potentate sinks into his chair 
 with a gesture of fatigue. Enter a 
 General of the Headquarters Staf 
 with telegrams.) 
 
 Potentate {brightening). Ha, my dear 
 General, you have news ? 
 
 General. Excellent news, Sire! On 
 the Eastern front the Russians continue 
 to give way. In the West a French attack 
 has been repulsed with heavy loss, and our 
 gallant Prussians have driven the British 
 out of half a mile of trenches. 
 
 {At this last bit of news the Potentate 
 springs to his feet with a look of joy,) 
 
 Potentate. A sign! My God, a sign! 
 Pardon, General, I was thinking of a con- 
 versation that I have just had with Dr. 
 Clerlcus. Come now, show me where 
 these trenches are. 
 
 {The General produces a mapy over which 
 they pore together,) 
 
 39 
 
A STUDENT IN AEMS 
 
 Potentate. Excellent, excellent! A 
 most valuable capture. Our losses were 
 . . .? 
 
 General. Slight, Sire. 
 
 Potentate. Better and better. I can- 
 not afford to lose my good Prussians, 
 my heroic, my invincible Prussians. To 
 what do you attribute the success .? 
 
 General. The success was due In a 
 large measure to the perfection of the 
 apparatus suggested a week ago by your 
 Majesty's scientific adviser. 
 
 Potentate (blanching a little). Ah, 
 then it was not a charge, eh? 
 
 General. The charge followed. Sire; 
 but the work was already done. The 
 defenders of the trench were already 
 dead or dying before our heroes reached 
 it. 
 
 Potentate {sinking back in his chair 
 with his finger to his lips, and a slight frown). 
 Thank you. General, your news is of the 
 best. I will detain you no longer. {The 
 
THE POTENTATE 
 
 General bows,) Stay! Has a counter- 
 attack been launched yet ? 
 
 General. Not yet, Sire. No doubt 
 one will be attempted to-night. Our 
 men are prepared. 
 
 Potentate. Good. Bring me fresh 
 news as soon as It arrives. Good-night, 
 General, good-night. 
 
 {Exit General) 
 
 {The Potentate sits musing for a consider^ 
 able time. A slight cough is heard, 
 and he raises his head,) 
 
 Potentate {slowly). Enter! 
 
 {Enter a tall figure in a long black academic 
 gown and black clothes^ 
 
 Potentate {with an attempt at gaiety). 
 Come in, my dear Sage, come in. You 
 are welcome. {A little anxiously) You 
 have the crystal? Good. How is the 
 
 41 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Master? Still busy devising new means 
 of victory ? 
 
 The Sage. My master*s poor skill is 
 always at your service, Sire. You have 
 only to command. 
 
 Potentate. I know It. Now let me 
 have the crystal. I would see If possible 
 the scene of to-day's victory in Flanders. 
 
 {The Sage hands him the crystal with a 
 low how. The Potentate seizes it 
 eagerly^ and gazes into iu A pause,) 
 
 Potentate {raising his head suddenly). 
 Horrible, horrible! 
 
 Sage. Sire? 
 
 Potentate. This last invention of your 
 master's is inhuman! 
 
 Sage. War is inhuman. Sire. Where 
 a speedy end is desired, is it not kindest 
 to be cruel? 
 
 {The Potentate gazes again into the crys- 
 
 42 
 
THE POTENTATE 
 
 tal, hut starts up immediately with 
 a gasp of horror,) 
 
 Potentate. Again the same vision! 
 Always after my victories the vision of 
 the Crucified, with the stern reproachful 
 eyes! Am I not the Lord's appointed 
 instrument? What means it? Tell your 
 master that I will have no more of his 
 inventions. They are too diabolical! 
 They imperil my cause ! 
 
 Sage {pointing to the crystal). Look 
 again, Sire. 
 
 Potentate {gazing into the crystal^ and 
 in a low and agonized voice). Time with 
 his scythe raised menacingly against me. 
 {Abruptly) This is a trickery. Sirrah! 
 Have a care! But I will not be tricked. 
 Are my troops not brave? Are they not 
 invincible? Can they not win by their 
 proven valour? Who can stand against 
 them, for the strength of the Lord is in 
 their right hands? 
 
 43 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 {Enter General hastily) 
 
 General. Sire . . . {He starts, and 
 stops short). 
 
 Potentate {testily). Go on/ go on. 
 What is it? 
 
 General. Sire, the English counter- 
 attack has for the moment succeeded. 
 Infuriated by their defeat they fought so 
 that no man could resist them. They 
 have regained the trenches they had lost, 
 but we hope to attack again to-morrow, 
 when 
 
 Potentate. Enough! Leave me! 
 
 {The General withdraws, and the Poten- 
 tate leans forward with his head on 
 his hands,) 
 
 Sage {commiseratingly). Apparently 
 other troops are brave besides your own. 
 Sire! 
 
 Potentate {brokenly). The cowards! 
 
 44 
 
THE POTENTATE 
 
 The cowards! Five nations against three! 
 Alas, my poor Prussians ! 
 
 Sage. If you will look once more 
 into the crystal, Sire, I think you will 
 see something that will interest you. 
 
 {The Potentate takes the crystal agaiuy 
 but without confidence,) 
 
 Potentate {in a slow recitative), A 
 stricken field by night. The dead lie 
 everywhere, German and English, side 
 by side. But all are not dead. Some 
 are but wounded. They help one another. 
 Prussian and Briton help one another, 
 with painful smiles on their white faces. 
 What.? Have they forgotten their hate? 
 My Prussians! Can you so soon forget.? 
 I mourn for you! But who are these? 
 White figures, vague, elusive! See, they 
 seem to come down from above. They 
 are carrying away the souls of my Prus- 
 sians! And of the accursed English! 
 
 45 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 What! One Paradise for both! Im- 
 possible! And who is that watching? 
 He who with a smile so loving, and yet 
 so stern . . . Ah! . . . My God . . . 
 no! . . . not I . . . 
 
 {The Potentate rises with a strangled cry^ 
 and sinks into his chair a nerveless 
 wreck. The Sage watches coolly^ with 
 a cynical smile,) 
 
 Sage. So, Sire, you must find room 
 for the English in that kingdom of yours 
 and God's! Perchance it is more catho- 
 lic than we had thought! 
 
 {The Potentate groans,) 
 
 Sage. Sire, you have seen some truth 
 to-night. Is courage, is God, all on your 
 side? Is Time on your side? Shall I 
 go back to my master and tell him that 
 you need no more of his inventions? 
 
THE POTENTATE 
 
 {He pauses^ and glances at the Potentate 
 with a look of contempt, and then turns 
 to go. The Potentate looks round him 
 with a ghastly stare,) 
 
 Potentate (Jeehly). No . . . the Cru- 
 cified . . . Time . . . Stay, stay! 
 
 {The Sage turns with a gesture of triumph,) 
 
 {Curtain,) 
 
 47 
 
THE BAD SIDE OF MILITARY 
 SERVICE 
 
 49 
 
II 
 
 THE BAD SIDE OF MILITARY SERVICE 
 
 A PADRE who has earned the right to talk 
 about the ^'average Tommy," writes to 
 me that A Student in Arms gives a very 
 one-sided picture of him. While cordially 
 admitting his unselfishness, his good com- 
 radeship, his patience, and his pluck, my 
 friend challenges me to deny that military, 
 and especially active, service often has a 
 brutalizing effect on the soldier, weakening 
 his moral fibres, and causing him to sink 
 to a low animal level. 
 
 Those who are In the habit of reading 
 between the lines will, I think, often have 
 seen the shadow of this darker side of 
 army life on the pages of A Student in 
 Arms; but I have not written of It speci- 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 fically for several reasons. It will suffice 
 if *I mention two. First, I was writing 
 mainly of the private and the N. C. 0, 
 Rightly or wrongly, I Imagined that those 
 for whom I was writing were In the habit 
 of taking for granted this darker side of 
 life In the ranks. I imagined that they 
 thought of the "lower classes" as being 
 naturally coarser and more animal than 
 the "upper classes.'' I wanted then, and 
 I want now, to contradict that belief 
 with all the vehemence of which I am 
 capable. Officers and men necessarily de- 
 velop different qualities, different forms 
 of expression, different mental attitudes. 
 But I am confident that I speak the truth 
 when I say that essentially, and in the 
 eyes of God there is nothing to choose 
 between them. 
 
 If I must write of the brutalizing effect 
 of war on the soldier, let it be clearly 
 understood that I am speaking, not of 
 officers only, nor of privates only, but of 
 
 52 
 
THE BAD SIDE OF MILITARY SERVICE 
 
 fighting men of every class and rank. As 
 a matter of fact I have never, whether 
 before or during the war, belonged to a 
 mess where the tone was cleaner or more 
 wholesome than It was In the Sergeants' 
 Mess of my old battalion. 
 
 My second reason for not writing about 
 the bad side of Army life was that mere 
 condemnation Is so futile. I have listened 
 to countless sermons In which the "lusts 
 of the flesh" were denounced, and have 
 known for certain that their power for good 
 was nil. If I write about It now. It is only 
 because I hope that I may be able to make 
 clearer the causes and processes of such moral 
 deterioration as exists, and thus to help 
 those who are trying to combat It, to do so 
 with greater understanding and sympathy. 
 
 Even in England most officers, and all 
 privates, are cut off from their womenfolk. 
 Mothers, sisters, wives, and sweethearts are 
 inaccessible. All have a certain amount 
 of leisure, and very little to do with It. 
 
 53 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 All are physically fit and mentally rather 
 unoccupied. All are living under an un- 
 natural discipline from which, when the 
 last parade of the day is over, there is a 
 natural reaction. Finally, wherever there 
 are troops, and especially in war time, there 
 are "bad" women and weak women. The 
 result is inevitable. A certain number of 
 both officers and men "go wrong." 
 
 Fifteen months ago I was a private 
 quartered in a camp near Aldershot. 
 After tea it began to get dark. The tent 
 was damp, gloomy, and cold. The Y. M. 
 C. A. tent and the Canteen tent were 
 crowded. One wandered off to the town. 
 The various soldiers' clubs were filled and 
 overflowing. The bars required more 
 cash than one possessed. The result was 
 that one spent a large part of one's even- 
 ings wandering aimlessly about the streets. 
 Fortunately I discovered an upper room in 
 a Wesleyan soldiers' home, where there 
 was generally quiet, and an empty chair. 
 
 54 
 
THE BAD SIDE OF MILITARY SERVICE 
 
 I shall always be grateful to that "home," 
 for the many hours which I whiled away 
 there with a book and a pipe. But most 
 of us spent a great deal of our leisure, bored 
 and impecunious, "on the streets"; and 
 if a fellow ran up against "a bit of skirt," 
 he was generally just in the mood to 
 follow it wherever it might lead. The 
 moral of this is, double your subscriptions 
 to the Y. M. C. A., Church huts, soldiers' 
 clubs, or whatever organization you fancy! 
 You will be helping to combat vice in the 
 only sensible way. 
 
 I don't suppose that the officers were 
 much better off than we were. Their 
 tents may have been a little lighter and 
 less crowded than ours. They had a late 
 dinner to occupy part of the long evening. 
 They had more money to spend, and 
 perhaps more to occupy their minds. But 
 I fancy that as great a proportion of them 
 as of us took the false step; and though 
 perhaps when they compared notes their 
 
 55 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 language may have been less blunt than 
 ours, I am not sure that, for this very 
 reason, it may not have been more poison- 
 ous. But mind you, we did not all go 
 wrong, by any means, though I believe 
 that some fellows did, both officers and 
 men, who would not have done so if they 
 had stayed at home with their mothers, 
 sisters, sweethearts, or wives. 
 
 So much for the Army at home. When 
 we cross the Channel every feature is a 
 hundred times intensified. Consider the 
 fighting man in the trenches — and I am 
 still speaking of both officers and men — 
 the most ordinary refinements of life are 
 conspicuously absent. There is no water 
 to wash in. Vermin abound, sleeping 
 and eating accommodations are frankly 
 disgusting. One is obliged for the time 
 to live like a pig. Added to this one is 
 all the time in a state of nervous tension. 
 One gets very little sleep. Every night 
 has its anxieties and responsibilities. Dan- 
 
 56 
 
THE BAD SIDE OF MILITARY SERVICE 
 
 ger or death may come at any moment. 
 So for a week or a fortnight or a month, 
 as the case may be. Then comes the 
 return to billets, to comparative safety and 
 comfort — the latter nothing to boast about 
 though! Tension is relaxed. There is an 
 inevitable reaction. Officers and men 
 alike determine to "gather rosebuds" 
 while they may. Their bodies are fit, 
 their wills are relaxed. If they are built 
 that way, and an opportunity offers, they 
 will "satisfy the lusts of the flesh." 
 
 When there is real fighting to be done 
 the dangers of the after-reaction are in- 
 tensified. You who sit at home and read 
 of glorious bayonet charges do not realize 
 what it means to the man behind the 
 bayonet. You don^t realize the repugnance 
 for the first thrust — a repugnance which has 
 got to be overcome. You don't realize the 
 change that comes over a man when his 
 bayonet is wet with the blood of his first 
 enemy. He "sees red." The primitive 
 
 57 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 "blood-lust," kept under all his life by the 
 laws and principles of peaceful society, 
 surges through his being, transforming him, 
 maddening him with the desire to kill, kill, 
 kill ! Ask any one who has been through it 
 if this is not true. And that letting loose of 
 a primitive lust is not going to be without 
 its effect on a man's character. 
 
 At the same time, of course, not all of 
 us become animals out here. There are 
 other influences at work. Caring for the 
 wounded, burying the mutilated dead, 
 cause one to hate war, and to value ten 
 times more the ways of peace. Many are 
 saved from sinking in the scale, by a love 
 of home which is able to bridge the gulf 
 which separates them from their beloved. 
 The letters of my platoon are largely love 
 letters — often the love letters of married 
 men to their wives. 
 
 There is immorality in the Army; when 
 there is opportunity immorality is rife. 
 Possibly there is more abroad than there is 
 
 58 
 
THE BAD SIDE OF MILITARY SERVICE 
 
 at home. If so it is because there is far 
 greater temptation. Nevertheless, I fancy 
 that my correspondent, who is a padre, 
 a don, and at least the beginning of a 
 saint, is perhaps inclined to exaggerate the 
 extent of the evil in the Army as compared 
 with civil life. I imagine that very few 
 padres, especially if they are dons, and 
 most of all if they are saints, realize that 
 in civil life as in Army life, the average 
 man is immoral, both in thought and deed. 
 Let us be frank about this. What a doctor 
 might call the "appetites" and a padre 
 the "lusts" of the body, hold dominion 
 over the average man, whether civilian or 
 soldier, unless they are counteracted by a 
 stronger power. The only men who are 
 pure are those who are absorbed in some 
 pursuit, or possessed by a great love; 
 be it the love of clean, wholesome life 
 which is religion, or the love of a noble 
 man which is hero-worship, or the love of 
 a true woman. These are the four powers 
 
 59 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 which are stronger than ''the flesh" — the 
 zest of a quest, religion, hero-worship, and 
 the love of a good woman. If a man is 
 not possessed by one of these he will be 
 immoral. 
 
 Probably most men are immoral. The 
 conditions of military, and especially of 
 active service merely intensify the tempta- 
 tion. Unless a soldier is wholly devoted 
 to the cause, or powerfully affected by 
 religion, or by hero-worship, or by pure 
 love, he is immoral. 
 
 Perhaps most men are immoral if they 
 get the chance. Most soldiers are im- 
 moral if they get the chance. But those 
 who are trying to help the soldier can do so 
 with a good heart if they realize that in 
 him they have a foundation on which to 
 build. Already he is half a hero-wor- 
 shipper. Already he half believes in the 
 beauty of sacrifice and in the life immortal. 
 Already he is predisposed to value ex- 
 ceedingly all that savours of clean, whole, 
 
 60 
 
THE BAD SIDE OF MILITAHY SERVICE 
 
 some home life. On that foundation it 
 should be possible to build a strong ideal- 
 ism which shall prevail against the flesh. 
 And this is my last word — it is by build- 
 ing up, and not by casting down, that 
 the soldier can be saved from degrada- 
 tion. The devil that possesses so many can 
 only be cast out by an angel that is stronger 
 than he. 
 
 61 
 
THE GOOD SIDE OF "MILITARISM 
 
 99 
 
 63 
 
Ill 
 
 THE GOOD SIDE OF " MILITARISM" 
 
 I HAD a letter the other day from an 
 Oxford friend. In it was this phrase: "I 
 loathe militarism in all its forms." Some- 
 how it took me back quite suddenly to the 
 days before the war, to ideas that I had 
 almost completely forgotten. I suppose 
 that in those days the great feature of 
 those of us who tried to be " in the forefront 
 of modern thought'' was their riotous 
 egotism, their anarchical insistence on 
 the claims of the individual at the expense 
 even of law, order, society, and conven- 
 tion. "Self-realization" we considered to 
 be the primary duty of every man and 
 woman. 
 
 The wife who left her husband, child- 
 
 S 65 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 ren, and home because of her passion for 
 another man was a heroine, braving 
 the hypocritical judgments of society to 
 assert the claims of the individual soul. 
 The woman who refused to abandon all 
 for love's sake, was not only a coward 
 but a criminal, guilty of the deadly sin 
 of sacrificing her soul, committing it to 
 a prison where it would languish and 
 never blossom to its full perfection. The 
 man who was bound to uncongenial 
 drudgery by the chains of an early mar- 
 riage or aged parents dependent on him, 
 was the victim of a tragedy which drew 
 tears from our eyes. The woman who 
 neglected her home because she needed 
 a "wider sphere" in which to develop her 
 personality was a champion of women's 
 rights, a pioneer of enlightenment. And, 
 on the other hand, the people who went on 
 making the best of uncongenial drudgery, 
 or in any way subjected their individu- 
 alities to what old-fashioned people called 
 
 66 
 
THE GOOD SIDE OF "MILITARISM" 
 
 duty, were in our eyes contemptible pol- 
 troons. 
 
 It was the same In politics and reli- 
 gion. To be loyal to a party or obedient 
 to a Church was to stand self-confessed 
 a fool or a hypocrite. Self-realization, 
 that was in our eyes the whole duty of 
 man. 
 
 And then I thought of what I had seen 
 only a few days before. First, of bat- 
 talions of men marching in the darkness, 
 steadily and in step, towards the roar of 
 the guns; destined in the next twelve 
 hours to charge as one man, without hesi- 
 tation or doubt, through barrages of cruel 
 shell and storms of murderous bullets. 
 Then, the following afternoon, of a handful 
 of men, all that was left of about three 
 battalions after ten hours of fighting, 
 a handful of men exhausted, parched, 
 strained, holding on with grim determina- 
 tion to the last bit of German trench, 
 until they should receive the order to 
 
 67 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 retire. And lastly, on the days and nights 
 following, of the constant streams of 
 wounded and dead being carried down the 
 trench; of the unceasing search that for 
 three or four days was never fruitless. 
 
 Self-realization! How far we have 
 travelled from the ideals of those pre- 
 war days. And as I thought things over 
 I wondered at how faint a response that 
 phrase, "I loathe militarism in all its 
 forms," found in my own mind. 
 
 Before the war I too hated "militarism." 
 I despised soldiers as men who had sold 
 their birthright for a mess of pottage. 
 The sight of the Guards drilling in Wel- 
 lington Barracks, moving as one man to 
 the command of their drill instructor, 
 stirred me to bitter mirth. They were 
 not men but manikins. When I first 
 enlisted, and for many months after- 
 wards, the "mummeries of military dis- 
 cipline," the saluting, the meticulous 
 
 uniformity, the rigid suppression of indi- 
 es 
 
THE GOOD SIDE OF "MILITARISM" 
 
 vidual exuberance, chafed and infuriated 
 me. I compared it to a ritualistic re- 
 ligion, a religion of authority only, 
 which depended not on individual assent 
 but on tradition for its sanctions. I 
 loathed militarism in all its forms. Now 
 . . . well, I am inclined to reconsider 
 my judgment. Seeing the end of military 
 discipline, has shown me something of its 
 ethical meaning — more than that, of its 
 spiritual meaning. 
 
 For though the part of the "great 
 push'' that it fell to my lot to see was 
 not a successful part, it was none the less 
 a triumph— a spiritual triumph. From 
 the accounts of the ordinary war corre- 
 spondent I think one hardly realizes 
 how great a spiritual triumph it was. 
 For the war correspondent only sees the 
 outside, and can only describe the out- 
 side of things. We who are in the Army, 
 who know the men as individuals, who 
 have talked with them, joked with them, 
 
 69 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 censored their letters, worked with them, 
 lived with them we see below the surface. 
 The war correspondent sees the faces of 
 the men as they march towards the Valley 
 of the Shadow, sees the steadiness of eye 
 and mouth, hears the cheery jest. He 
 sees them advance into the Valley with- 
 out flinching. He sees some of them 
 return, tired, dirty, strained, but still 
 with a quip for the passer-by. He gives 
 us a picture of men without nerves, with- 
 out sensitiveness, without imagination, 
 schooled to face death as they would face 
 rain or any trivial incident of everyday 
 life. The "Tommy'' of the war corre- 
 spondent is not a human being, but a lay 
 figure with a gift for repartee, little more 
 than the manikin that we thought him 
 in those far-off days before the war, when 
 we watched him drilling on the barrack 
 square. We soldiers know better. _ We 
 know that each one of those men is an 
 individual, full of human affections, many 
 
 70 
 
THE GOOD SIDE OF "MILITARISM" 
 
 of them writing tender letters home every 
 week, each one longing with all his soul 
 for the end of this hateful business of 
 war which divides him from all that he 
 loves best in life. We know that every 
 one of these men has a healthy individual's 
 repugnance to being maimed, and a human 
 shrinking from hurt and from the Valley 
 of the Shadow of Death. 
 
 The knowledge of all this does not do 
 away with the even tread of the troops 
 as they pass, the steady eye and mouth, 
 the cheery jest; but it makes these a 
 hundred times more significant. For we 
 know that what these things signify is 
 not lack of human aflfectlon, or weak- 
 ness, or want of imagination, but some- 
 thing superimposed on these, to which 
 they are wholly subordinated. Over and 
 above the individuality of each man, his 
 personal desires and fears and hopes, 
 there is the corporate personality of the 
 soldier which knows no fear and only one 
 
 71 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 ambition — to defeat the enemy, and so to 
 further the righteous cause for which he is 
 fighting. In each of those men there is 
 this dual personality: the ordinary human 
 ego that hates danger and shrinks from 
 hurt and death, that longs for home, 
 and would welcome the end of the war 
 on any terms; and also the stronger 
 personality of the soldier who can tol- 
 erate but one end to this war, cost what 
 that may — the victory of liberty and jus- 
 tice, and the utter abasement of brute 
 force. 
 
 And when one looks back over the 
 months of training that the soldier has 
 had, one recognizes how every feature of 
 it, though at the time it often seemed 
 trivial and ? senseless and irritating, was 
 in reality directed to this end. For from 
 the moment that a man becomes a soldier 
 his dual personality begins. Henceforth 
 he is both a man and a soldier. Before 
 his training is complete the order must 
 
 72 
 
THE GOOD. SIDE OF "MILITARISM" 
 
 be reversed, and he must be a soldier and 
 a man. As a soldier he must obey and 
 salute those whom, as a man, he very- 
 likely dislikes and despises. In his con- 
 duct he no longer only has to consider 
 his reputation as a man, but still more 
 his honour as a soldier. In all the condi- 
 tions of his life, his dress, appearance, 
 food, drink, accommodation, and work, 
 his Individual preferences count for no- 
 thing, his efficiency as a soldier counts 
 for everything. At first he "hates" this, 
 and "can't see the point of" that. But 
 by the time his training Is complete he 
 has realized that whether he hates a 
 thing or not, sees the point of a thing or 
 not. Is a matter of the uttermost unim- 
 portance. If he Is wise, he keeps his likes 
 and dislikes to himself. 
 
 All through, his training he Is learn- 
 ing the unimportance of his individual- 
 ity, realizing that in a national, a world 
 crisis, it counts for nothing. On the other 
 
 73 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 hand, he is equally learning that as a unit In 
 a fighting force his every action is of the 
 utmost importance. The humility which 
 the Army inculcates is not an abject self- 
 depreciation that leads to loss of self-respect 
 and effort. Substituted for the old indivi- 
 dualism is a new self-consciousness. The 
 man has become humble, but in proportion 
 the soldier has become exceeding proud. 
 The old personal whims and ambitions 
 give place to a corporate ambition and 
 purpose, and this unity of will is symbol- 
 ized in action by the simultaneous exacti- 
 tude of drill, and in dress by the rigid 
 identity of uniform. Anything which calls 
 attention to the individual, whether in 
 drill or in dress, is a crime, because it 
 is essential that the soldier's individual- 
 ity should be wholly subordinated to the 
 corporate personality of the regiment. 
 
 As I said before, the personal humility 
 of the soldier has nothing in it of abject 
 self-depreciation or slackness. On the 
 
 74 
 
THE GOOD SIDE OF "MILITARISM" 
 
 contrary, every detail of his appearance, 
 and every most trivial feature of his duty 
 assumes an immense significance. Slack- 
 ness in his dress and negligence in his 
 work are military crimes. In a good regi- 
 ment the soldier is striving after perfection 
 all the time. 
 
 And it is when he comes to the supreme 
 test of battle that the fruits of his train- 
 ing appear. The good soldier has learnt 
 the hardest lesson of all — the lesson of 
 self-subordination to a higher and bigger 
 personality. He has learnt to sacrifice 
 everything which belongs to him individu- 
 ally to a cause that is far greater than 
 any personal ambitions of his own can 
 ever be. He has learnt to do this so 
 thoroughly that he knows no fear — for 
 fear is personal. He has learnt to "hate" 
 father and mother and life itself for the 
 sake of — though he may not call it that — 
 the Kingdom of God on earth. 
 
 It is a far cry from the old days when 
 
 75 
 
A STUDENT IN AEMS 
 
 one talked of self-realization, isn't it? 
 I make no claim to be a good soldier; but 
 I think that perhaps I may be beginning 
 to be one; for if I am asked now whether 
 I "loathe militarism in all its forms/' I 
 think that "the answer is in the negative," 
 I will even go farther, and say that I hope 
 that some of the discipline and self-sub- 
 ordination that have availed to send men 
 calmly to their death in war, will survive 
 in the days of peace, and make of those 
 who are left better citizens, better work- 
 men, better servants of the State, better 
 Church men. j 
 
 76 
 
A MONTH'S REFLECTIONS 
 
 77 
 
IV 
 
 A MONTH'S REFLECTIONS 
 
 Timothy and I are on detachment. We 
 are billeted with M. le Cure, and we mess 
 at the schoolmaster's. Hence we are on 
 good terms with all parties, for of course a 
 good schoolmaster shrugs his shoulders at a 
 priest, and a good priest returns the compli- 
 ment. In war time, however, the hatchet 
 seems to be buried pretty deep. We have 
 not seen it sticking out anywhere. 
 
 M. le Cure has a beautiful rose garden, 
 a cask of excellent cider, a passable Sauterne, 
 and a charming pony. He is a good fellow, 
 I should think, though without much edu- 
 cation. His house — or what I have seen 
 of it — is the exact opposite of what an 
 English country vicar's would be. The 
 
 79 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 only sitting-room that I have seen is as 
 neat as an old maid's. There is a polished 
 floor, an oval polished table on which repose 
 four large albums at regular intervals, each 
 on its own little mat. There is a mantel- 
 piece with gilt candlesticks and an ornate 
 clock under a glass dome. Round the walls 
 are photographs of brother clergy, the 
 place of honour being assigned to a stout 
 Chanoine, The chairs are stiff and un- 
 comfortable. One of them, which is more 
 imposing and uncomfortable than the 
 rest, is obviously for the Bishop when he 
 comes. There are no papers, no books, 
 no ash-trays, no confusion. I have never 
 seen M. le Cure sit there. I fancy he 
 lives in the kitchen and in his garden. 
 
 Timothy sleeps in the bed which the 
 Bishop uses, and is told he ought to feel 
 tres saint. 
 
 The wife of the schoolmaster cooks for 
 us. She is an excellent soul. We give 
 her full marks. She has a smile and an 
 
 80 
 
A MONTH'S REFLECTIONS 
 
 omelette for every emergency, and waves 
 aside all Timothy's vagaries with "Ah, 
 monsieur, la jeunesse!" I am not sure 
 that Timothy quite likes it! 
 
 Timothy is immense. He is that rarest 
 of birds, a wholly delightful egotist. He 
 is the sun, but we all bask and shine with 
 reflected glory. The men are splendid, 
 because they are his men. I am a great 
 success because I am his subaltern. For- 
 tunately we all have a sense of humour 
 and so are highly pleased with ourselves 
 and each other. After all, if one is a 
 Captain at twenty-two . . .! But he's a 
 good soldier, too, and we all believe in 
 him. Timothy's all right, in spite of la 
 jeunesse! 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Rain! The men are fifteen in a tent 
 
 in a sea of mud. Poor beggars! They 
 
 are having a thin time. Working parties 
 
 in the trenches day and night; every one 
 
 soaked to the skin; and then a return 
 e 81 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 to a damp, crowded, muddy tent. No 
 pay, no smokes, and yet they are won- 
 derfully cheery, and all think that the 
 "Push" IS going to end the war. I wish 
 I thought so! 
 
 • • • • • •' • 
 
 These rats are the limit! The dug- 
 out swarms with them. Last night they 
 ate half my biscuits and a good part of 
 Timothy's clean socks, and whenever I 
 began to get to sleep one of them would run 
 across my face, or some other sensitive part 
 of my anatomy, and wake me up. I shall 
 leave the candle alight to-night, to see if that 
 keeps them away. 
 
 • • • • • • • 
 
 Last night the rats tried to eat the candle, 
 and very nearly set me on fire. If it were 
 not for the rain I would try the firestep. 
 
 The men are having a rotten time again 
 — no proper shelter from the rain, and 
 short rations, to say nothing of remarkably 
 good practice by the Boche artillery. C , 
 
 82 
 
A MONTH'S REFLECTIONS 
 
 just out from England, got scuppered this 
 afternoon. A good boy — made his com- 
 munion just before we came in. I suppose 
 he didn't know much about it, and that he 
 is really better off now; but at the same time 
 it makes one angry. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 The rain has lifted, so last night I tried 
 the firestep, and got a good sleep. The 
 absurd thing was that I couldn't wake up 
 properly. I came on duty at midnight, was 
 roused, got to my feet, and started to walk 
 along the trench. And then the Nameless 
 Terror, that lurks in dark corners when one 
 is a small boy, gripped me. I was fright- 
 ened of the dark, filled with a sense of 
 impending disaster! It took about ten 
 minutes to wake properly and shake it off. 
 I must try to get more sleep somehow; but 
 it is jolly difficult. 
 
 The great bombardment has begun, the 
 long-promised strafing of the Boche. Accord- 
 
 83 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 ing to the gunners they will all be dead, 
 buried, or dazed when the time comes for 
 us to go over the top. I doubt it! If 
 they have enough deep dug-outs I don't 
 fancy that the bombardment will worry 
 them very much. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Now we are at rest for a day or two 
 before the Push. I am to be left out — 
 in charge of carriers. Damn! I might 
 as well be A. S. C. I see myself counting 
 ration bags while the battalion is charging 
 with fixed bayonets; and in the evening 
 sending up parties of weary laden carriers 
 over shell-swept areas, while I myself 
 stay behind at the Dump. Damn! Damn!! 
 Damn!!! Then I shall receive ironical 
 congratulations on my "cushy" job. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Have just seen the battalion off. I 
 don't start for another five hours. I loathe 
 war. It is futile, idiotic. I would gladly be 
 out of the Army to-morrow. Glory is a 
 
 84 
 
A MONTH'S REFLECTIONS 
 
 painted idol, honour a phantasy, rehgion a 
 delusion. We wallow in blood and torture 
 to please a creature of our imagination. We 
 are no better than South Sea Islanders. 
 • •••••• 
 
 Just here the attack was a failure. When 
 I got to the Dump I found the battalion 
 still there. By an irony of fate I was the 
 only officer of my company to set foot in the 
 German lines. After a day of idleness and 
 depression I had to detail a party to carry 
 bombs at top speed to some relics of the lead- 
 ing battalions, who were still clinging to 
 the extremest corner of the enemy's front 
 line some distance to our left. Being fed 
 up with inaction, I took the party myself. 
 It was a long way. The trenches were 
 choked with wounded and stragglers and 
 troops who had never been ordered to 
 advance. In many places they were broken 
 down by shell-fire. In others they were 
 waist-deep in water. By dint of much 
 shouting and shoving and cursing I man- 
 
 85 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 aged to get through with about ten of my 
 men, but had to leave the others to follow 
 with a sergeant. 
 
 At last we sighted our objective, a cluster 
 of chalk mounds surrounded with broken 
 wire, shell craters, corpses, wreathed in 
 smoke, dotted with men. I think we all ran 
 across the ground between our front line 
 and our objective, though it must have 
 been more or less dead ground. Anyhow, 
 only one man was hit. When we got close 
 the scene was absurdly like a conventional 
 battle picture — the sort of picture that one 
 never believes in for a minute. There was a 
 wild mixture of regiments — Jocks, Irishmen, 
 Territorials, etc., etc. There was no proper 
 trench left. There were rifles, a machine 
 gun, a Lewis rifle, and bombs all going at the 
 same time. There were wounded men sit- 
 ting in a kind of helpless stupor; there were 
 wounded trying to drag themselves back to 
 our own lines ; there were the dead of whom 
 no one took any notice. But the prevailing 
 
 86 
 
A MONTH'S REFLECTIONS 
 
 note was one of utter weariness coupled 
 with dogged tenacity. 
 
 Here and there were men who were self- 
 conscious, wondering what would become 
 of themselves. I was one of them, and we 
 were none the better for it. Most of the 
 fellows, though, had forgotten themselves. 
 They no longer flinched, or feared. They 
 had got beyond that. They were just set 
 on clinging to that mound and keeping the 
 Huns at bay until their oflScer gave the word 
 to retire. Their spirit was the spirit of the 
 oarsman, the runner, or the footballer, who 
 has strained himself to the utmost, who if 
 he stopped to wonder whether he could go 
 on or not would collapse; but who, because 
 he does not stop to wonder, goes on miracu- 
 lously long after he should, by all the 
 laws of nature, have succumbed to sheer 
 exhaustion. 
 
 Having delivered my bombs into eager 
 hands, I reported to the officer who seemed 
 to be in charge, and asked if I could do 
 
 87 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 anything. I must frankly admit that my 
 one hope was that he would not want me 
 to stay. He began to say how that morning 
 he had reached his objective, and how for 
 lack of support on his flank, for lack of 
 bombs, for lack of men, he had been forced 
 back; and how for eight hours he had dis- 
 puted every inch of ground till now his men 
 could only cling to these mounds with the 
 dumb mechanical tenacity of utter exhaus- 
 tion. "You might go to H. Q.," he said 
 at last, "and tell them where I am, and that 
 I can't hold on without ammunition and a 
 barrage. '' 
 
 I am afraid that I went with joy on 
 that errand. I did not want to stay on 
 those chalk mounds. 
 
 I only saw a very little bit of the battle. 
 Thank God it has gone well elsewhere; 
 but here we are where we started. Day and 
 night we have done nothing but bring in 
 the wounded and the dead. When one sees 
 
 88 
 
A MONTH'S REFLECTIONS 
 
 the dead, their limbs crushed and mangled, 
 their features distorted and blackened, one 
 can only have repulsion for war. It is easy 
 to talk of glory and heroism when one is 
 away from it, when memory has softened 
 the gruesome details. But here, in the 
 presence of the mutilated and tortured 
 dead, one can only feel the horror and 
 wickedness of war. Indeed it is an evil 
 harvest, sown of pride and arrogance and 
 lust of power. Maybe through all this 
 evil and pain we shall be purged of many 
 sins. God grant it! If ever there were 
 martyrs, some of these were martyrs, 
 facing death and torture as ghastly as any 
 that confronted the saints of old, and 
 facing it with but little of that fierce fanati- 
 cal exaltation of faith that the early Chris- 
 tians had to help them. 
 
 For these were mostly quiet souls, loving 
 their wives and children and the little com- 
 forts of home life most of all, little stirred by 
 
 great emotions or passions. Yet they had 
 
 so 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 • 
 
 some love for liberty, some faith in God, — 
 not a high and flaming passion, but a quiet 
 insistent conviction. It was enough to 
 send them out to face martyrdom, though 
 their lack of imagination left them merci- 
 fully ignorant of the extremity of its 
 terrors. It was enough, when they saw 
 their danger in its true perspective, to 
 keep them steadfast and tenacious. 
 For them "it is finished." R. L P. 
 
 90 
 
ROMANCE 
 
 91 
 
V 
 
 ROMANCE 
 
 I SUPPOSE that there are very few officers 
 or men who have been at the front for any 
 length of time who would not be secretly, 
 if not openly, relieved and delighted if 
 they "got a cushy one" and found them- 
 selves en route for "Blighty''; yet in many 
 ways soldiering at the front is infinitely 
 preferable to soldiering at home. One of 
 the factors which count most heavily in 
 favour of the front, is the extraordinary 
 affection of officers for their men. 
 
 In England, officers hardly know their 
 men. They live apart, only meet on par- 
 ade, and their intercourse is carried on 
 through the prescribed channels. Even if 
 you do get keen on a particular squad of 
 
 93 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 recruits, or a particular class of would-be 
 bombers, you lose them so soon that your 
 enthusiasm never ripens into anything like 
 intimacy. But at the front you have your 
 own pLtoon; and week after week, month 
 after month, you are living in the closest 
 proximity; you see them all day, you get to 
 know the character of each individual man 
 and boy, and the result in nearly every 
 case is this extraordinary affection of which 
 I have spoken. 
 
 You will find it in the most unlikely 
 subjects. I have heard a Major, a Regular 
 with, as I thought, a good deal of regimental 
 stiffness, talk about his men with a voice 
 almost choked with emotion. "When you 
 see what they have to put up with, and how 
 amazingly cheery they are through it all, you 
 feel that you can't do enough for them. 
 They make you feel that you're not fit to 
 black their boots. " And then he went on to 
 tell how it was often the fellows whom in 
 England you had despaired of, fellows who 
 
 94 
 
ROMANCE 
 
 were always "up at orders/' who out at the 
 front became your right-hand men, the men 
 on whom you found yourself relying. 
 
 I had a letter not long ago from a gunner 
 Captain, also a Regular, who has been 
 out almost since the beginning of the war. 
 He wrote: *'One of my best friends has 
 just been killed"; and the "best friend" 
 was not the fellow he had known at "the 
 shop," or played polo with in India, or 
 hunted with in Ireland, but a scamp of 
 a telephonist, who had stolen his whisky 
 and owned up; who had risked his life 
 for him, who had been a fellow-sportsman 
 who could be relied on in a tight corner 
 in the most risky of all games. 
 
 There is indeed a glamour and a pathos 
 about the private soldier, especially when, 
 as so often happens, he is really only a 
 boy. When you meet him in the trenches, 
 wet, covered with mud, with tired eyes 
 speaking of long watches and hours of 
 risky work, he never fails to greet you 
 
 95 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 with a smile, and you love him for it, 
 and feel that nothing you can do can 
 make up to him for it. For you have 
 slept in a much more comfortable place 
 than he has. You have had unlimited 
 tobacco and cigarettes. You have had 
 a servant to cook for you. You have 
 fared sumptuously compared with him. 
 You don't feel his superior. You don't 
 want to be "gracious without undue famili- 
 arity. " Exactly what you want to do is 
 a bit doubtful — the Major said he wanted 
 to black his boots for him, and that is per- 
 haps the best way of expressing it. 
 
 When he goes over the top and works 
 away in front of the parapet with the 
 moon shining full and the machine guns 
 busy all along; when he gets back to billets, 
 and throws off his cares and bathes and 
 plays games like any irresponsible school- 
 boy; even when he breaks bounds and is 
 
 found by the M. P. skylarking in , 
 
 you can't help loving him. Most of all, 
 
 96 
 
ROMANCE 
 
 when he lies still and white with a red stream 
 trickling from where the sniper's bullet has 
 made a hole through his head, there comes a 
 lump in your throat that you can't swallow; 
 and you turn away so that you shan't have 
 to wipe the tears from your eyes. 
 
 Gallant souls, those boys, and all the 
 more gallant because they hate war so 
 much. Their nerves quiver when a shell or 
 a "Minnie" falls into the trench near them, 
 and then they smile to hide their weak- 
 ness. They hate going over the parapet 
 when the machine guns are playing; so 
 they don't hesitate, but plunge over with 
 a smile to hide their fears. Their cure 
 for every mental worry is a smile, their 
 answer to every prompting of fear is a 
 plunge. They have no philosophy or 
 fanaticism to help them — only the sport- 
 ing instinct which is in every healthy 
 British boy. 
 
 Then there are **the old men," less 
 attractive, less stirring to the imagination, 
 
 7 97 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 less sensitive, but wlio grow upon you 
 more and more as you get to know them. 
 Any one over twenty-three or so is an 
 ''old man/* They have lost the grace, the 
 irresponsibility, the sensibility of youth. 
 Their eyes and mouths are steadier, their 
 movements more deliberate. But they are 
 the fellows whom you would choose for a 
 patrol, or a raid, where a cool head and a 
 stout heart are what is wanted. It takes 
 you longer to know these. They are less 
 responsive to your advances. But when 
 you have tested them and they have tested 
 you, you know that you have that which is 
 stronger than any terror of night or day, a 
 loyalty which nothing can shake. 
 
 And then when he thinks how little 
 he deserves all this love and loyalty, the 
 subaltern's heart aches with a feeling that 
 can find no expression either in word or 
 deed. 
 
 This is a tale that has often been told, 
 and that people in England know by 
 
 98 
 
ROMANCE 
 
 heart. It cannot be told too often. It 
 cannot be learnt too well. For the time 
 will come when we shall need to remember 
 it, and when it will be easy to forget. Will 
 you remember it, ye people, when the 
 boy has become a man, and the soldier 
 has become a workman? But there are 
 other tales to tell. There are the tales 
 of the sergeant-major and the sergeants, 
 the corporals and the "lance-jacks." 
 Sergeant-majors, sergeants, and corporals 
 are not romantic figures. If you think of 
 them at all, you probably think of rum- 
 jars and profanity. Yet they are the 
 very backbone of the Army. I have been 
 a sergeant and I have been a private sol- 
 dier, and I know that the latter has much 
 the better time of the two. He at least ^has 
 the kind of liberty which belongs to utter 
 irresponsibility. If he breaks bounds in 
 the exuberance of his spirits, no one thinks 
 much worse of him as long as he does not 
 make a song about paying the penalty! 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Of course he has to be punished. So 
 many days of sleeping in the guard tent, 
 extra fatigues, pack-drill, and perhaps a 
 couple of hours tied up, as an example to 
 evil-doers. But if he has counted the 
 cost, and pays the price with a grin, we 
 just say "Young scamp!" and dismiss the 
 matter. But if a sergeant or a corporal 
 does the same, that's a very diflferent 
 matter. He has shown himself unfit for 
 his job. He has betrayed a trust. We 
 cannot forgive him. Responsibility has 
 its disadvantages. The senior N. C. O. gets 
 no relaxation from discipline. In the line 
 and out of it he must always be watch- 
 ful, self-controlled, orderly. He must never 
 wink. These men have not the glamour 
 of the boy private; but their high sense of 
 duty and discipline, their keenness and 
 efficiency, merit all the honour that we 
 can give them. 
 
 Finally — for it would not do for a sub- 
 altern to discuss his superiors — we come 
 
 100 
 
ROMANCE 
 
 to the junior officer. Somehow I fancy 
 that in the public eye he too is a less roman- 
 tic figure than the private. One does not 
 associate him with privations and hard- 
 ships, but with parcels from home. Well, 
 it is quite right. He has such a much less 
 uncomfortable time than his men that he 
 does not deserve or want sympathy on that 
 score. He is better off in every way. 
 He has better quarters, better food, more 
 kit, a servant, and in billets far greater 
 liberty. And yet there is many a man 
 who is now an officer who looks back 
 on his days as a private with regret. 
 Could he have his time over again . . . 
 yes, he would take a commission; but 
 he would do so, not with any thought 
 for the less hardship of it, but from a stern 
 sense of duty — the sense of duty which 
 does not allow a man with any self-respect 
 to refuse to shoulder a heavier burden when 
 called upon to do so. 
 
 Those apparently irresponsible subalterns 
 
 101 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 whom you see entertaining their lady 
 friends at the Carlton or Giro's do, when 
 they are at the front, have very heavy 
 responsibilities. Even in the ordinary 
 routine of trench life, so many decisions 
 have to be made, with the chance of a 
 ** telling off whichever way you choose, 
 and the lives of other men hanging in the 
 balance. Suppose you are detailed for a 
 wiring party, and you arrive to find a full 
 moon beaming sardonically down at you. 
 What are you to do? If you go out you 
 may be seen. Half a dozen of your men 
 may be mown down by a machine gun. 
 You will be blamed and will blame your- 
 self for not having decided to remain 
 behind the parapet. If you do not go 
 out you may set a precedent, and night 
 after night the work will be postponed, 
 till at last it is too late, and the Hun has 
 got through, and raided the trench. If 
 you hesitate or ask advice you are lost. 
 You have to make up your mind in an 
 
 102 
 
ROMANCE 
 
 instant, and to stand by it. If you waver 
 your men will never have confidence in 
 you again. 
 
 Still more in a push; a junior subaltern 
 is quite likely to find himself at any time 
 in command of a company, while he may 
 for a day even have to command the relics 
 of a battalion. I have seen boys almost 
 fresh from a Public School, in whose faces 
 there were two personalities expressed: the 
 one full of the lighthearted, reckless, irre- 
 sponsible vitality of boyhood, and the other 
 scarred with the anxious lines of one to 
 whom a couple of hundred exhausted and 
 nerve-shattered men have looked, and not 
 looked in vain, for leadership and strength 
 in their grim extremity. From a boy in 
 such a position is required something far 
 more difficult than personal courage. If we 
 praise the boy soldier for his smile in 
 the face of shells and machine guns, don't 
 let us forget to praise still more the boy 
 officer who, in addition to facing death on 
 
 103 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 his own account, has to bear the respon- 
 sibility of the Hves of a hundred other men. 
 There is many a man of undoubted courage 
 whose nerve would fail to bear that strain. 
 A day or two ago I was reading Romance^ 
 by Joseph Conrad and Ford Madox Hueflfer. 
 It is a glorious tale of piracy and adventure 
 in the West Indies; but for the moment 
 1 wondered how it came about that Con- 
 rad, the master of psychology, should have 
 helped to write such a book. And then 
 I understood. For these boys who hate 
 the war, and suffer and endure with the 
 smile that is sometimes so difficult, and 
 long with a great longing for home and 
 peace — some day some of them will look 
 back on these days and will tell them- 
 selves that after all it was Romance, the 
 adventure, which made their lives worth 
 while. And they will long to feel once 
 again the stirring of the old comrade- 
 ship and love and loyalty, to dip their 
 clasp-knives into the same pot of jam, and 
 
 104 
 
ROMANCE 
 
 lie in the same dug-out, and work on the 
 same bit of wire with the same machine gun 
 striking secret terror into their hearts, and 
 look into each other's eyes for the same 
 courageous smile. For Romance, after 
 all, is woven of the emotions, especially 
 the elemental ones of love and loyalty and 
 fear and pain. 
 
 We men are never content! In the 
 dull routine of normal life we sigh for 
 Romance, and sometimes seek to create 
 it artificially, stimulating spurious pas- 
 sions, plunging into muddy depths in 
 search of it. Now we have got it we 
 sigh for a quiet life. But some day those 
 who have not died will say: "Thank God 
 I have lived! I have loved, and endured, 
 and trembled, and trembling, dared. I 
 have had my Romance. '' 
 
 105 
 
IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 107 
 
VI 
 
 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 Scene. A field in Flanders," All round 
 the edge are bivouacs^ built of sticks 
 and waterproof sheets. Three men are 
 squatting round a small fire, waiting 
 for a couple of mess-tins of water to 
 boil. 
 
 Bill {gloomily). The last three of the 
 old lot! Oo's turn next? 
 
 Fred. Wot's the bleedin' good of bein' 
 dahn in the mahf abaht it? Give me the 
 bleedin' 'ump, you do. 
 
 Jim. Are we dahn-'earted ? Not 'alf, 
 we ain't ! 
 
 109 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Bill. I don't know as I cares. Git it 
 over, I sez. 'Ave done wiv it! I dessay 
 as them wot's gone West is better off nor 
 wot we are, arter all. 
 
 Jim. Orlright, old sport, you go an* 
 look for the V. C, and we'll pick up the 
 bits an' bury 'em nice an' deep! 
 
 Bill. If this 'ere bleedin' war don't 
 finish soon that's wot I bleedin' well will 
 go an' do. Wish they'd get a move on 
 an' finish it. 
 
 Fred. If ever I gets 'ome agin, I'll 
 never do another stroke in my natural. 
 
 The old woman can keep me, 'er, an' if 
 
 she don't I'll— well— 'er . 
 
 Jim {indignantly). Nice sort o' bloke 
 you are! Arter creatin' abaht ole Bill 
 makin' you miserable, you goes on to 
 plan 'ow you'll make other folks miser- 
 able! Wot's the bleedin' good o' that? 
 Keep smilin', I sez, an' keep other folks 
 smilin' too, if you can. If ever I gets 
 
 'ome I'll go dahn on my bended, I will, 
 
 no 
 
IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 and I'll be a different sort o' bloke to 
 wot I been afore. Swelp me, Bob, I will! 
 My missus won't 'ave no cause to wish 
 as I've been done in. 
 
 Bill. Ah well, it don't much matter. 
 We're all most like to go afore this war's 
 finished. 
 
 Jim. If yer goes yer goes, and that's 
 all abaht it. A bloke's got to go some 
 day, and fer myself I'd as soon get done 
 in doin' my dooty as I would die in my 
 bed. I ain't struck on dyin' afore my 
 time, and I don't know as I'm greatly 
 struck on livin', but, whichever it is, you 
 got ter make the best on it. 
 
 Bill {meditatively), I woulden mind 
 stoppin' a bullet fair an' square; but I 
 woulden like one of them 'orrible lingerin' 
 deaths. " Died o' wounds " arter six munfs' 
 mortal hagony — that's wot gets at me. Git 
 it over an' done wiv, I sez. 
 
 Fred {querulously). Ow, chuck it. Bill. 
 
 You gives me the creeps, you do. 
 
 Ill 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Jim. I knowed a bloke onest in civil 
 life wot died a lingerin* death. Lived 
 in the second-floor back in the same *ouse 
 as me an' my missus, 'e did. Suffered 
 somefink' 'orrible, 'e did, an' lingered 
 more nor five year. Yet I reckon 'e was 
 one o' the best blokes as ever I come acrost. 
 Went to 'eaven straight, 'e did, if ever any 
 one did. Wasn't 'alf glad ter go, neither. 
 " I done my bit of 'ell, Jim, " 'e sez to me, an' 
 looked that 'appy you'd a' thought as 'e 
 was well agin. Shan't never forget 'is face, 
 I shan't. An' I'd sooner be that bloke, for 
 all 'is sufferin's, than I'd be old Fred 'ere, 
 an' live to a 'undred. 
 
 Bill {philosophically), You'm right, 
 matey. This is a wale o' tears, as the 
 'ymn sez, and them as is out on it is best 
 off, if so be as they done their dooty in 
 that state o' life . . . Where's the corfee, 
 Jim .? The water's on the bile. 
 
 112 
 
THE FEAR OF DEATH IN WAR 
 
 113 
 
VII 
 
 THE FEAR OF DEATH IN WAR 
 
 I AM not a psychologist, and I have not 
 seen many people die In their beds; but 
 I think it Is established that very few 
 people are afraid of a natural death when 
 it comes to the test. Often they are so 
 weak that they are Incapable of emotion. 
 Sometimes they are In such physical pain 
 that death seems a welcome deliverer. 
 
 But a violent death such as death In 
 battle Is obviously a different matter. 
 It comes to a man when he Is In the full 
 possession of his health and vigour, and 
 when every physical Instinct Is urging 
 him to self-preservation. If a man feared 
 death In such circumstances one could not 
 be surprised, and yet In the present war 
 
 115 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 hundreds of thousands of men have gone 
 to meet practically certain destruction 
 without giving a sign of terror. 
 
 The fact Is that at the moment of a charge 
 men are In an absolutely abnormal condi- 
 tion. I do not know how to describe their 
 condition in scientific terms; but there 
 Is a sensation of tense excitement com- 
 bined with a sort of uncanny calm. Their 
 emotions seem to be numbed. Noises, 
 sights, and sensations which would ordina- 
 rily produce Intense pity, horror, or dread, 
 have no effect on them at all, and yet 
 never was their mind clearer, their sight, 
 hearing, etc, more acute. They notice all 
 sorts of little details which would ordina- 
 rily pass them by, but which now thrust 
 themselves on their attention with absurd 
 definlteness — absurd because so utterly 
 incongruous and meaningless. Or they sud- 
 denly remember with extraordinary clear- 
 ness some trivial incident of their past life, 
 hitherto unremembered, and not a bit worth 
 
 116 
 
THE FEAR OF DEATH IN WAR 
 
 remembering! But with the issue before 
 them, with victory or death or the prospect 
 of eternity, their minds blankly refuse to 
 come to grips. 
 
 No; it is not at the moment of a charge 
 that men fear death. As in the case of 
 those who die in bed. Nature has an an- 
 aesthetic ready for the emergency. It is 
 before an attack that a man is more liable 
 to fear — ^before his blood is hot, and while he 
 still has leisure to think. The trouble may 
 begin a day or two in advance, when he is 
 first told of the attack which is likely to 
 mean death to himself and so many of his 
 chums. This part is comparatively easy. 
 It is fairly easy to be philosophic if one 
 has plenty of time. One indulges in regrets 
 about the home one may never see again. 
 One is rather sorry for oneself; but such self- 
 pity is not wholly unpleasant. One feels 
 mildly heroic, which is not wholly dis- 
 agreeable either. Very few men are afraid 
 of death in the abstract. Very few men 
 
 117 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 believe in hell, or are tortured by their 
 consciences. They are doubtful about after- 
 death, hesitating between a belief in eternal 
 oblivion and a belief in a new life under 
 the same management as the present; and 
 neither prospect fills them with terror. 
 If only one's "people'' would be sensible, 
 one would not mind. 
 
 But as the hour approaches when the 
 attack is due to be launched the strain 
 becomes more tense. The men are pro- 
 bably cooped up in a very small space. 
 Movement is very restricted. Matches 
 must not be struck. Voices must be hushed 
 to a whisper. Shells bursting and machine 
 guns rattling bring home the grim reality of 
 the affair. It is then more than at any other 
 time in an attack that a man has to "face 
 the spectres of the mind, " and lay them if 
 he can. Few men care for those hours of 
 waiting. 
 
 Of all the hours of dismay that come to a 
 soldier there are really few more trying to 
 
 118 ' 
 
THE FEAR OF DEATH IN WAR 
 
 the nerves than when he is sitting in a trench 
 under heavy fire from high-expIosive shells 
 or bombs from trench mortars. You can 
 watch these bombs lobbed up Into the 
 air. You see them slowly wobble down to 
 earth, there to explode with a terrific 
 detonation that sets every nerve In your 
 body a-jangllng. You can do nothing. 
 You cannot retaliate in any way. You 
 simply have to sit tight and hope for the 
 best. Some men joke and smile; but 
 their mirth is forced. Some feign stoical 
 indifference, and sit with a paper and a 
 pipe; but as a rule their pipes are out and 
 their reading a pretence. There are few 
 men, indeed, whose hearts are not beating 
 faster, and whose nerves are not on edge. 
 But you can't call this "the fear of 
 death''; it is a purely physical reaction 
 of danger and detonation. It is not fear 
 of death as death. It is not fear of hurt 
 as hurt. It is an infinitely intensified dislike 
 of suspense and uncertainty, sudden noise 
 
 119 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 and shock. It belongs wholly to the phy- 
 sical organism, and the only cure that I 
 know is to make an act of personal disso- 
 ciation from the behaviour of one's flesh. 
 Your teeth may chatter and your knees 
 quake, but as long as the real you dis- 
 approves and derides this absurdity of the 
 flesh, the composite you can carry on. 
 Closely allied to the sensation of nameless 
 dread caused by high explosives is that 
 caused by gas. No one can carry out a 
 relief in the trenches without a certain 
 anxiety and dread if he knows that the 
 enemy has gas cylinders in position and 
 that the wind is in the east. But this, 
 again, is not exactly the fear of death ; but 
 much more a physical reaction to uncer- 
 tainty and suspense combined with the 
 threat of physical suffering. 
 
 Personally, I believe that very few men 
 indeed fear death. The vast majority 
 experience a more or less violent physical 
 shrinking from the pain of death and 
 
 120 
 
THE FEAR OF DEATH IN WAR 
 
 wounds, especially when they are obliged 
 to be physically Inactive, and when they 
 have nothing else to think about. This 
 kind of dread Is, In the case of a good 
 many men, intensified by darkness and 
 suspense, and by the deafening noise and 
 shock that accompany the detonation of 
 high explosives. But it cannot properly 
 be called the fear of death, and It Is a 
 purely physical reaction which can be, and 
 nearly always is, controlled by the mind. 
 
 Last of all there is the repulsion and 
 loathing for the whole business of war, 
 with its bloody ruthlessness. Its fiend- 
 ish ingenuity, and its insensate cruelty, 
 that comes to a man after a battle, when 
 the tortured and dismembered dead lie 
 strewn about the trench, and the wounded 
 groan from No-Man's-Land. But neither 
 is that the fear of death. It is a repulsion 
 which breeds hot anger more often than cold 
 fear, reckless hatred of life more often than 
 abject clinging to It. 
 
 121 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 The cases where any sort of fear, even 
 for a moment, obtains the mastery of a 
 man are very rare. Sometimes in the case 
 of a boy, whose nerves are more sensitive 
 than a man's, and whose habit of self- 
 control is less formed, a sudden shock 
 will upset his mental balance. Sometimes 
 a very egotistical man will succumb to 
 danger long drawn out. The same applies 
 to men who are very introspective. I 
 have seen a man of obviously low intelli- 
 gence break down on the eve of an attack. 
 The anticipation of danger makes many 
 men "windy,'' especially officers who are 
 responsible for other lives than their own. 
 But even where men are afraid it is generally 
 not death that they fear. Their fear is a 
 physical and instinctive shrinking from hurt, 
 shock, and the unknown, which instinct 
 obtains the mastery only through sur- 
 prise, or through the exhaustion of the 
 mind and will, or through a man being 
 excessively self-centred. It is not the 
 
 122 
 
THE FEAR OF DEATH IN WAR 
 
 fear of death rationally considered; but 
 an irrational physical instinct which all 
 men possess, but which almost all can 
 control. 
 
 123 
 
IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 125 
 
VIII 
 
 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 II 
 
 Scene. A dug-out in a wood somewhere in 
 Flanders, Officers at tea. 
 
 Hancock. Damned glad to be out of 
 that infernal firing trench, anyway. {A 
 dull report is heard injhe distance.) There 
 goes another torpedo! Wonder who's copt 
 it this time ! 
 
 Smith. For Christ's sake talk about 
 something else! 
 
 Hancock {ignoring him). Are we com- 
 ing back to the same trenches, sir? 
 
 Captain Dodd. 'Spect so. 
 
 Hancock. At the present rate we shall 
 
 127 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 last another two spells. I hate this sort 
 of bisnay. You go on month after month 
 losing fellows the whole time, and at the 
 end of it you're exactly where you started. 
 I wish they'd get a move on. 
 
 Whiston. Tired of life ? 
 
 Hancock. If you call this life, yes! 
 If this damned war is going on another 
 two years, I hope to God I don't live to 
 see the end of it. 
 
 Smith. If ever I get home . . .1 
 
 Whiston. Well? 
 
 Smith. Won't I paint the town red, 
 that's all! 
 
 Whiston. If ever I get home . . . well, 
 I guess I'll go home. No more razzle- 
 dazzle for master! No, there's a little girl 
 awaiting, and I know she thinks of me. 
 Shan't wait any longer. 
 
 Hancock {heavily). Don't think a chap's 
 got any right to marry a girl under present 
 circs. It's ten to one she's a widow before 
 she's a mother. 
 
 128 
 
IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 Smith. Oh, shut up ! 
 Captain Dodd {gently). To some wo- 
 men the kid would be just the one thing 
 that made life bearable. 
 
 Hancock {reddening). Sorry, sir; for- 
 got you'd just done it. Course you're 
 right. Depends absolutely on the girl. 
 
 Captain Dopd. Thanks. I say, Whis- 
 ton, I'm going to B. H. Q. Care to come 
 along ? 
 
 {They go out together,) 
 Scene. A path through a wood. Cap- 
 tain Dodd and Whiston walking to- 
 gether, followed by a Lance-Cor- 
 poral. 
 
 Dodd. D'you believe in presentiments, 
 Whiston \ 
 
 Whiston {doubtfully). A year ago I 
 should have laughed at you for asking. 
 Now . . . 
 
 Dodd. More things in heaven and 
 earth . . .? 
 
 129 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Whiston. My rationalism is always be- 
 ing upset! 
 
 DoDD. How exactly? 
 
 Whiston. For instance, I simply can't 
 believe that old John is finished. Can 
 you? 
 
 DoDD {quietly). No. 
 
 Whiston. Funny thing. As far as I'm 
 concerned I can quite imagine myself 
 just snuffing out. You can put one word 
 on my grave, if I have one — "Napu." 
 But as for John, no. I want something 
 else. Something about Death being scored 
 off after all. 
 
 DoDD. I know. "0 Death, where is thy 
 sting? Grave, where is thy victory?" 
 
 Whiston. Just that. Mind you, I 
 don't think I'm afraid of Death. I don't 
 want to get killed. But if I saw him 
 coming I think I could smile, and feel 
 that after all he wasn't getting much of 
 a bargain. But the idea of his getting 
 old John sticks in my gullet. I believe in 
 
 130 
 
IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 all sorts of things for him. Resurrection 
 and life and Heaven, and all that. 
 
 DoDD. What do you think about it, 
 Corporal ? 
 
 Lance-Corporal. Same as Mr. Whis- 
 ton, sir. 
 
 Whiston. But what about presenti- 
 ments ? 
 
 DoDD. Oh, I don't know. Funny thing; 
 but all through this fortnight IVe been 
 absolutely certain that I was not for it. 
 
 Lance-Corporal. Beg pardon, sir, we 
 noticed that, sir! 
 
 Whiston. Well, it's practically over 
 now. 
 
 DoDD. Tm not so sure. Fm not in 
 a funk, you know. It's simply that I 
 don't feel so sure. 
 
 Whiston. Oh, rot, sir! I don't be- 
 lieve in that sort of presentiment. 
 
 DoDD. What do you think, Corporal ? 
 
 Lance-Corporal. I think you goes 
 when your time comes, sir. But it won't 
 
 131 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 come to-night, sir. Not after all we been 
 through this spell, and the spell just 
 finished. 
 
 DoDD. I believe you're right. Corporal. 
 We shall go when our time comes, and not 
 before. I like that idea, you know. It 
 means one hasn't got to worry. 
 
 Whiston. If it means that you go on as 
 you've done the last fortnight, it's a dam- 
 nable doctrine, sir. You've no business to 
 go taking unnecessary risks simply because 
 you've got bitten by Mohammedanism. 
 
 DoDD {thoughtfully). You're right, too, 
 Whiston. "Thou shalt not tempt the 
 Lord thy God." One shouldn't take un- 
 necessary risks. Mind you, I don't admit 
 that I have. It just enables one to do 
 one's job with a quiet mind, that's all. 
 
 Two Days Later 
 Scene. A billet. Hancock and Smith. 
 
 Hancock. Damn ! 
 
 132 
 
IMAGINAHY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 Smith. What's up? Aren't you satis- 
 fied? The brigade's bound to go back 
 and re-form now, and that means that we 
 shan't be in the trenches for a couple of 
 months at least. We may even go where 
 there's a pretty girl or two. My word! 
 
 Hancock. Damnation! 
 
 Smith {genuinely astonished). What the 
 hell's wrong? Any one would think you 
 liked the trenches! Personally, I don't 
 care if I never see them again. England's 
 full of nice young, bright young things cry- 
 ing to get out. Let 'em all come! They 
 can have my job and welcome ! 
 
 Hancock {to himself). God! Why 
 Dodd and Whiston? Why, why, why? 
 Why not me? Why just the fellows we 
 can't afford to lose ? 
 
 Smith. Oh, for God's sake stow it! 
 What the hell's the good of going on like 
 that ? Of course I'm sorry for them and all 
 that. But I don't see that It's going to help 
 them to make oneself miserable about it. 
 
 133 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Hancock {fiercely). Sorry for them! 
 It's not them I'm sorry for! They . . . 
 they're the lucky ones! God! I suppose 
 that's the answer! They'd earned it! 
 
 Smith {satirically). Have you turned 
 pi? We shall have you saying the prayers 
 that you learnt at your mother's knee next, 
 I suppose! I shall have to tell the Padre, 
 and he'll preach a sermon about It! I 
 should never have thought you would have 
 been frightened into religion ! 
 
 Hancock. Frightened! You little 
 swine! You talk about being frightened 
 after last night! I tell you I'd rather 
 be lying out there with Dodd and Whiston 
 than be sitting here with you. Fright- 
 ened into religion! 
 
 Smith. Oh, I suppose you're the next 
 candidate for death or glory! Good luck 
 to you! I'm not competing. I'll do my 
 job; but I'm not going to make a fool of 
 myself. Dodd and Whiston deserved all 
 they got. You're right there. You'll get 
 
 134 
 
IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 what you deserve some day, I expect! 
 Don't look at me like that. I've said 
 I'm sorry, and all that. But it's the 
 truth I'm speaking, all the same. 
 
 Hancock. And you'll get what you 
 deserve too, I suppose, which is to live 
 in your own company till the end of your 
 miserable existence. I won't deprive you 
 of your reward more than I can help, I 
 promise you! 
 
 (Hancock goes out,) 
 
 135 
 
THE WISDOM OF 
 A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 137 
 
IX 
 
 THE WISDOM OF " A STUDENT IN 
 ARMS " 
 
 It is no good trying to fathom "things" 
 to the bottom; they have not got one. 
 
 Knowledge is always descriptive, and 
 never fundamental. We can describe the 
 appearance and conditions of a process; 
 but not the way of it. 
 
 Agnosticism is a fundamental fact. It 
 is the starting-point of the wise man who 
 has discovered that it needs eternity to 
 study infinity. 
 
 Agnosticism, however, is no excuse for 
 indolence. Because we cannot know all, 
 we need not therefore be totally ignorant. 
 
 The true wisdom is that in which all 
 knowledge is subordinate to practical aims, 
 
 139 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 and blended Into a working philosophy 
 of life. 
 
 The true wisdom is that it is not what 
 a man does, or has, or says, that matters; 
 but what he is. 
 
 This must be the aim of practical philo- 
 sophy — to make a man be something. 
 
 The world judges a man by his station, 
 inherited or acquired. God judges by his 
 character. To be our best we must share 
 God's viewpoint. 
 
 To the world death is always a tragedy; 
 to the Christian it is never a tragedy unless 
 a man has been a contemptible character. 
 
 Religion is the widening of a man's 
 horizon so as to include God. 
 
 It is in the nature of a speculation, but 
 its returns are immediate. 
 
 True religion means betting one's life 
 that there is a God. 
 
 Its immediate fruits are courage, stabil- 
 ity, calm, unselfishness, friendship, gener- 
 osity, humility, and hope. 
 
 140 
 
THE WISDOM OF "A STUDENT IN ARMS" 
 
 Religion is the only possible basis of 
 optimism. 
 
 Optimism is the essential condition of 
 progress. 
 
 One is what one believes oneself to be. 
 If one believes oneself to be an animal 
 one becomes bestial; if one believes one- 
 self spiritual one becomes Divine. 
 
 Faith is an effective force whose meas- 
 ure has never yet been taken. 
 
 Man is the creature of heredity and 
 environment. He can only rise superior 
 to circumstances by bringing God into 
 environment of which he is conscious. 
 
 The recognition of God's presence upsets 
 the balance of a man's environment, and 
 means a new birth into a new life. 
 
 The faculties which perceive God in- 
 crease with use like any other perceptive 
 faculties. 
 
 Belief in God may be an illusion; but it 
 is an illusion that pays. 
 
 If belief in God is illusion, happy is 
 
 141 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 he who is deluded! He gains this world 
 and thinks he will gain the next. 
 
 The disbeliever loses this world, and 
 risks losing the next. 
 
 To be the centre of one's universe is 
 misery. To have one's universe centred 
 in God is the peace that passeth under- 
 standing. 
 
 Greatness is founded on inward peace. 
 
 Energy is only effective when it springs 
 from deep calm. 
 
 The pleasure of life lies in contrasts; 
 the fear of contrasts is a chain that binds 
 most men. 
 
 In the hour of danger a man is proven. 
 The boaster hides, and the egotist trem- 
 bles. He whose care is for others forgets 
 to be afraid. 
 
 Men live for eating and drinking, passion 
 and wealth. They die for honour. 
 
 Blessed is he of whom it has been said 
 that he so loved giving that he even gave 
 his own life. 
 
 142 
 
IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 143 
 
X 
 
 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 III 
 
 Scene. -^ trench unpleasantly near the 
 firing line. There has been an hours 
 intense bombardment by the British^ 
 with suitable retaliation by the Boches, 
 The retaliation is just dying down. 
 
 Characters.^ kLBEKr-^Round-eyed^ ro- 
 tund, red-cheeked, yellow-haired, and 
 deliberate; in civil life probably a dray- 
 man, Jim — Small, lean, sallow, grey- 
 eyed, with a kind of quiet restlessness; 
 in civil life probably a mechanic with 
 leanings towards Socialism, Pozzie — 
 A thick-set, low-browed, impassive, silent 
 
 10 145 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 country youth, with a face the colour 
 of the soil. Jinks — An old soldier^ redy 
 leany wrinkled, with very blue eyes. 
 His face is rough-hewn, almost grotesque 
 like a gargoyle. In his eyes there is a 
 'perpetual glint of humour, and in the 
 poise of his head a certain irrepressible 
 jauntiness, 
 
 Albert {whose eyes are more staring 
 than ever, his cheeks pendulous and crim- 
 son, his general air that of a partly deflated 
 air-cushion) . Gawd's truth ! 
 
 Jinks {gagging his head). Well, my old 
 sprig o' mint, what's wrong wi' you? 
 
 Albert. It ain't right. (Sententiously) 
 It's agin natur'. Flesh an' blood weren't 
 made for this sort o' think. 
 
 Jim. It ain't flesh an' blood that can't 
 stand it. It's Mind. Look at old Pozzie. 
 'E's flesh an' blood, and don't turn an 
 'air! For myself I'll go potty one o' 
 these days. 
 
 146 
 
IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 Jinks (slapping Pozzie on the back). 
 You don't take no notice, do you, old 
 lump o' duff? 
 
 Pozzie. Oi woulden moind if I got 
 moy rations; but a chap can't keep a 
 good 'eart if 'e's got an empty stum- 
 mick. 
 
 Jim {sarcastically). You keep yer 'eart 
 in yer stomach, don't yer? You ain't 
 got no mind, you ain't. Jinks was born 
 potty, an' the rest of us'll all go potty 
 except you. It's you an' yer Ally Sloper's 
 Cavalry what'll win the war, I don't think! 
 
 Albert. What I wants ter know is 
 'ow long the bleedin' war's a-goin' ter 
 last. If it goes on much longer I'll be 
 potty if I ain't a gone 'un. 
 
 Jim. There's only one way of ending 
 it as I knows on. 
 
 Albert. What's that, matey? 
 
 Jim. Put all the bleedin' politicians 
 on both sides in the bleedin' trenches. 
 Give 'em a week's bombardment, an' 
 
 147 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 send 'em away for a week to make peace, 
 with a promise of a fortnight's intense at 
 the end of it if they've failed. They'd 
 find a way, sure enough. 
 
 Albert {admiringly). Ah, that they 
 would an' all. If old ''Wait and See" 'ad 
 been 'ere these last four days 'e wouldn't 
 talk about fightin' to the last man! 
 
 Jinks. Don't talk stoopid. 'Oo be- 
 gan the bloomin' war? Don't yer know 
 what you're fightin' for? D'you want 
 ter leave the 'Uns in France an' Belgium 
 an' Serbia an' all? It ain't fer us to make 
 peace. It's fer the 'Uns. An' if you arc 
 done in, you got to go under some day. I 
 ain't sure as they ain't the lucky ones what's 
 got it over and done with. And arter all, 
 it's not us what's not proper. The Uns 
 'ave 'ad two fer our one. 
 
 Albert. They got dug-outs as deep as 
 'ell, it don't touch 'em. 
 
 Jinks {but without conviction). Don't 
 talk silly. 
 
 148 
 
IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 PozziE. Oi reckon we got to go through 
 with it. But they didn^t ought to give 
 a chap short rations. That's what takes 
 the 'cart out of a chap. 
 
 149 
 
LETTER TO AN ARMY 
 CHAPLAIN 
 
 151 
 
^ XI 
 LETTER TO AN ARMt CHAPLAIN^ 
 
 Jpril 17, 1916. 
 
 Thank you very much for your letter 
 of a week ago, which I should have tried 
 to answer before if I had had time. I 
 am afraid that your confidence in me as 
 an oracle will be severely shaken when I 
 confess that I was once on the eve of being 
 ordained, and that in the end I funked it 
 because it seemed such an awfully diffi- 
 cult job, and I couldn't see my way to 
 going through with it. 
 
 However, I must try to answer your 
 
 * This chapter is the actual text of a letter from " A Student 
 in Arms," and like the most of the other chapters appeared 
 originally in the Spectator. 
 
 153 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 letter as best I can, and I hope that you 
 will not mind my speaking plainly what 
 I think, and will remember that I do so 
 in no spirit of superiority, but very humbly, 
 as one who has funked the great work 
 that you have had the pluck to take up, 
 and who has even failed in the little bit 
 of work that he himself did try and do. 
 This last means that I have no business 
 to be an officer. It was the biggest mis- 
 take in my life, for my position in the 
 ranks did give me a hold on the fellows, 
 the strength of which I have only realized 
 since I left. 
 
 Now then to the point. As I under- 
 stand you, your difficulty is that you 
 feel that you must devote yourself to 
 strengthening a very few men who are 
 already Churchmen, and to whom you 
 can talk in the language of the Church 
 of things which you know they want to 
 hear about, or you must appeal to the 
 crowd of those who are merely good fellows 
 
 154 
 
LETTER TO AN ARMY CHAPLAIN 
 
 and often sad scamps too, who must be 
 caught with buns and cinemas and who 
 are very difficult to get any farther. 
 
 I fancy that you, Hke me, when you 
 see a fine dashing young fellow, with a 
 touch of honesty and recklessness and 
 wonderful mystery of youth in his eyes, 
 love him as a brother, and long to do some- 
 thing to keep him clean, and to keep him 
 from the sordid things to which you and 
 I know well enough he will descend in the 
 long run if one cannot put the love of clean, 
 wholesome life into his heart. But how to 
 get at him ? If you talk to him about his 
 soul you disgust him, and you feel a sort 
 of sneaking sympathy with him too. It 
 does not seem the thing to make a chap 
 self-conscious and a bit of a prig when he 
 is not one to start with. On the other 
 hand, if you just keep to buns and cinemas 
 you never get any jfarther. Well, it is a 
 big difficulty. The only experience that 
 I have had which counts at all is experi- 
 
 155 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 ence that I gained while trying to run a 
 boys* club In South London, and you must 
 not think me egotistical if I tell you what 
 seems to me to have been the secret of any 
 power that I seem to have had over fellows. 
 At first I used to have a short service 
 at the close of the club every evening, to 
 which most of the boys used to stay. I 
 also had a service on Sunday afternoon. 
 Something of the same sort might perhaps 
 be possible in the Y. M. C. A. tent if there is 
 one where you are. When I was talking 
 to them at these services I always used 
 to try and make them feel that Christ 
 was the fulfilment of all the best things 
 that they admired, that He was their 
 natural hero. I would tell them some 
 story of heroism and meanness contrasted, 
 of courage and cowardice, of noble for- 
 giveness and vile cruelty, and so get them 
 on the side of the angels. Then I would 
 try and spring it upon them that Christ 
 was the Lord of the heroes and the brave 
 
 156 
 
LETTER TO AN ARMY CHAPLAIN 
 
 men and the noble men, and that He was 
 fighting against all that was mean and 
 cruel and cowardly, and that it was up 
 to them to take their stand by His side 
 if they wanted to make the world a little 
 better instead of a little worse, and I would 
 try to show them how in little practical 
 ways in their homes and at their work and 
 in the club they could do a bit for Christ. 
 Well, they listened pretty well, and I 
 think that they agreed in a general sort of 
 way, only they knew that I was a richish 
 man in comparison with them, and that 
 I didn't have their difficulties to contend 
 with, and that all tended to undo the 
 effect of what I had said. And then 
 accident gave me a sort of clue to the 
 way to get them to take one seriously. 
 For some idiotic reason — I really couldn't 
 say just what it was — I dressed up as a 
 tramp one day, and spent a night in a 
 casual ward. I didn't do it for any very 
 worthy motive, and I didn't mean any 
 
 157 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 one to know about it; but it got round, 
 and I suddenly found that it had caught 
 the imaginations of some of the fellows, 
 and I realized that if one was to have 
 any power over them one must do sym- 
 bolic things to show them that one meant 
 what one said about love being really 
 better than money, and all that sort of 
 thing. So in rather a half-hearted way I 
 did try to do things which would show them 
 that I was in earnest. I took a couple of 
 rooms in a little cottage in a funny little 
 bug-ridden court, instead of living at the 
 mission-house. I went out to Australia 
 steerage to see why emigration of London 
 boys was not a success, and when war 
 broke out I enlisted, although I had pre- 
 viously held a commission. And all these 
 little things, though on reasonable grounds 
 often rather indefensible, undoubtedly had 
 the effect of making my South London boys 
 take me more seriously than they did at first. 
 Well, I am quite sure that with Tommies, if 
 
 158 
 
LETTER TO AN ARMY CHAPLAIN 
 
 ever you get a chance of doing something 
 in the way of sharing their privations and 
 dangers when you aren't obliged to, or of 
 showing in practical ways humility and un- 
 selfishness, that will endear you to them, 
 and give you weight with them more than 
 anything else. In my time in the ranks 
 I had that proved over and over again. 
 If once I was able to do even a small kind- 
 ness for a fellow which involved a bit of 
 unnecessary trouble, he would never for- 
 get it, and would repay me a thousand 
 times over. I was a sergeant for about 
 nine months in England, and had one or 
 two chances. Then I reverted to the 
 ranks, and for that the men could not do 
 enough to show me kindness. (It was 
 my not valuing rank and comparative 
 comfort for its own sake that appealed to 
 them.) Continually I have reaped a most 
 gigantic reward of goodwill for actions 
 which cost very little, and which were not 
 always done from the motives imputed. 
 
 159 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 I am not swanking — at least, I don't 
 mean to — but that Is just my experience, 
 that with Tommy it is actions, and spe- 
 cially actions that imply and symbolize 
 humility, courage, unselfishness, etc., that 
 count ten thousand times more than the 
 best sermons in the world. I am afraid 
 that all this is not much good because 
 you are an officer, and your course of 
 action is very clearly marked out for you 
 by authority. But I do say that if ever 
 you have a chance of showing that you 
 are willing to share the often hard and 
 sometimes humiliating lot of the men it 
 is that which above all things will give 
 you power with them; just as it Is the 
 Cross of Christ, and the spitting and the 
 mocking and the scourging, and the de- 
 gradation of His exposure in dying, that 
 gives Him His power far more than even 
 the Sermon on the Mount. After all, it 
 Is always what costs most that is best 
 worth having, and if you only see Tommy 
 
 160 
 
LETTER TO AN AEMY CHAPLAIN 
 
 In his easiest moments, when he is at the 
 Y. M. C. A. or the club, you see him at the 
 time when he is least impressionable in a 
 permanent manner. 
 
 Well, I must apologize for writing such 
 an egotistical and intimate sort of letter 
 on so slight a provocation. But this that 
 I have said is all that my experience has 
 taught me about influencing the Tommy. 
 No doubt there are other ways ; but I have 
 not been able to strike them. 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 Donald Hankey, 2nd Lieut. 
 
 P. S. — Of course in becoming a Second 
 Lieutenant I have dished my own in- 
 fluence most effectually. It has often 
 appeared to me that among ordinary 
 working men humility was considered the 
 Christian virtue par excellence. Humility 
 combined with love is so rare, I suppose, 
 and that is why it is marvelled at. 
 
 II 161 
 
"DON'T WORRY" 
 
 16S 
 
XII 
 
 "DON'T WORRY" 
 
 -This is at present the soldier's favourite 
 chorus at the front — 
 
 " What*s the use of worrying? 
 It never was worth while! 
 Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag 
 . And Smile, Smile, Smile!" 
 
 Not a bad chorus, either, for the trenches! 
 You can't stop a shell from bursting in 
 your trench, even if Mr. Rawson can! 
 You can't stop the rain, or prevent a 
 light from going up just as you are half- 
 way over the parapet ... so what on 
 earth is the use of worrying? If you can't 
 alter things, you must accept them, and 
 make the best of them. 
 
 165 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Yet some men do worry, and by so 
 doing effectually destroy their peace of 
 mind without doing any one any good. 
 What is worse, it is often the religious 
 man who worries. I have even heard 
 those whose care was for the soldier's 
 soul, deplore the fact that he did not 
 worry! I have heard it said that the 
 soldier is so careless, realizes his position 
 so little, is so hard to touch! And, on 
 the other hand, I have heard the soldier 
 say that he did not want religion, because 
 it would make him worry. Strange, isn't 
 it, if Christianity means worry and anxiety, 
 and if it is only the heathen who is cheer- 
 ful and free from care.^ Yet the feeling 
 that this is so undoubtedly exists, and 
 it must have some foundation. Perhaps 
 It is one of the subjects which ought to 
 engage the attention of Churchmen in 
 these days of "repentance and hope." 
 
 Of course, worrying is about as un- 
 christian as anything can be. " pi-^ fxepijxvats 
 
 166 
 
"DONT WOURY" 
 
 rrj ipvxff vMGov'' — "Don't worry about your 
 life"' — is the Master's express command. 
 In fact, the call of Christ is a call to 
 something very Hke the cheerfulness of the 
 soldier in the trenches. It is a call to a 
 life of external turmoil and internal peace. 
 "I came not to bring peace, but a sword"; 
 "take up your cross and follow Me"; "ye 
 shall be hated"; "he that would save 
 his life shall lose it. " It is a call to take 
 risks, to risk poverty, unpopularity, humilia- 
 tion, death. It is a call to follow the 
 way of the Cross. But the way of the 
 Cross is also the way of peace, the peace 
 of God that passeth understanding. It 
 is a way of freedom from all cares, and 
 anxieties, and fears; but not a way of 
 escape from them. 
 
 Yet worrying is often a feature of the 
 actual Churchman. The actual Church- 
 man is often a man whose conscience is 
 an incubus. He can do nothing without 
 weighing motives and calculating results. 
 
 167 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 It makes him introspective to an extent 
 that is positively morbid. He is continu- 
 ally probing himself to discover whether 
 his motives are really pure and disinterested, 
 continually trying to decide whether he is 
 "worthy" or "fit" to undertake this or that 
 responsibility, or to face this or that eventu- 
 ality. He is full of suspicion of himself, of 
 self-distrust. In the trenches he is always 
 wondering whether he is fit to die, whether 
 he will acquit himself worthily in a crisis, 
 whether he has done anything that he 
 ought not to have done, or left undone 
 anything that he ought to have done. 
 Especially if he is an officer, his responsi- 
 bility weighs on him terribly, and I have 
 known more than one good fellow and 
 conscientious Churchman worry himself 
 into thinking that he was unfit for his 
 responsibilities as an officer, and ask to 
 be relieved of them. 
 
 There must be something wrong about 
 the Christianity of such men. Their 
 
 168 
 
**DONT WORRY 
 
 over-conscientiousness seems to create a 
 wholly wrong sense of proportion, an ex- 
 aggerated sense of the significance of their 
 own actions and characters which is as far 
 removed as can be from the childlike hu- 
 mility which Christ taught. The truth 
 seems to be that we lay far too much stress 
 on conscience, self-examination, and per- 
 sonal salvation, and that we trust the 
 Holy Spirit far too little. 
 
 If we look to the teaching of Christ, we 
 do not find any recommendation to me- 
 ticulous self-analysis, but rather we are 
 taught a kind of spiritual recklessness, 
 an unquestioning confidence in what seem 
 to be right impulses, and that quite regard- 
 less of results. We are not told to be 
 careful to spend each penny to the best 
 advantage ; but we are told that if our money 
 is preventing us from entering the Kingdom, 
 we had better give it all away. We are not 
 told to set a high value on our lives, and 
 to spend them with care for the good of the 
 
 169 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Kingdom. On the contrary, we are told 
 to risk our lives recklessly if we would pre- 
 serve them. A sense of anxious responsibil- 
 ity is discouraged. If our limbs cause us to 
 offend, we are advised to cut them off. 
 
 The whole teaching of the Gospels is 
 that we have got to find freedom and 
 peace in trusting ourselves implicitly to 
 the care of God. We have got to follow 
 what we think right quite recklessly, and 
 leave the issue to God; and in judging 
 between right and wrong we are only 
 given two rules for our guidance. Every- 
 thing which shows love for God and love 
 for man is right, and everything which 
 shows personal ambition and anxiety is 
 wrong. 
 
 What all this means as far as the trenches 
 are concerned is extraordinarily clear. The 
 Christian is advised not to be too pushing or 
 ambitious. He is advised to "take the 
 lowest room. " But if he is told to move up 
 higher, he has got to go. If he is given 
 
 170 
 
DON'T WORRY 
 
 responsibility, there is no question of refus- 
 ing it. He has got to do his best and leave 
 the issue to God. If he does well, he will be 
 given more responsibility. But there is no 
 need to worry. The same formula holds 
 good for the new sphere. Let him do his 
 best and leave the issue to God. If he does 
 badly, well, if he did his best, that means 
 that he was not fit for the job, and he 
 must be perfectly willing to take a hum- 
 bler job, and do his best at that. 
 
 As for personal danger, he must not 
 think of it. If he is killed, that is a sign 
 that he is no longer indispensable. Per- 
 haps he is wanted elsewhere. The enemy 
 can only kill the body, and the body is 
 not the important thing about him. Every 
 man who goes to war must, if he is to be 
 happy, give his body, a living sacrifice, to 
 God and his country. It is no longer his. 
 He need not worry about it. The peace of 
 God which passeth all understanding sim- 
 ply comes from not worrying about results 
 
 171 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 because they are God's business and not 
 ours, and in trusting implicitly all impulses 
 that make for love of God and man. Few 
 of us perhaps will ever attain to a full 
 measure of such faith ; but at least we can 
 make sure that our "Christianity'' brings 
 us nearer to it. 
 
 172 
 
IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 178 
 
XIII 
 
 IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 IV 
 
 AU COIFFEUR 
 
 Scene. A barber's shop in a small French 
 town about thirty miles from the front, 
 A Subaltern and a stout Bour- 
 geois are waiting their turn. 
 
 Bourgeois. Is it that it is the mud of 
 the trenches on the boots of Monsieur? 
 
 Subaltern. Ah! but no, Monsieur, for 
 then it would reach to my waist ! 
 
 Bourgeois. Nevertheless, Monsieur is 
 but recently come from the trenches, is 
 it not so? 
 
 175 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Subaltern. Yes, I am arrived from the 
 trenches yesterday. 
 
 Bourgeois. Then Monsieur has as- 
 sisted at the great attack! 
 
 Subaltern. Oh, yes, I helped a very 
 little bit. 
 
 Bourgeois. There have; been immense 
 losses, is it not so? 
 
 Subaltern {vaguely). There are always 
 great losses when one attacks. 
 
 Bourgeois. Ah! but much greater 
 than one expected — I have seen, I, the 
 wounded coming down the river. 
 
 Subaltern. I — I have always expected 
 great losses. 
 
 Bourgeois. 'Tis true. There are al- 
 ways great losses when one attacks. But 
 all goes well, Monsieur, is it not so.? 
 
 Subaltern. It is difficult to estimate 
 the success of an attack until after several 
 weeks. But I think that all goes well. 
 
 Bourgeois. But yes, the French, they 
 have had a great success, and also the 
 
 176 
 
IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 
 
 English. The English are wonderful. 
 Their equipment! It is that which as- 
 tonishes me. Everything is complete. 
 They say that the English have saved 
 France; but the French also, they have 
 saved England, is it not so. Monsieur ? 
 
 Subaltern. But we are saving each 
 other ! 
 
 Bourgeois. Good! We are saving 
 each other! Very good! But after the 
 war. Monsieur, England will fight against 
 France, hein? 
 
 Subaltern. Never! 
 
 Bourgeois. Never? 
 
 Subaltern. Never in life! 
 
 Bourgeois. You think so? 
 
 Subaltern. We do not love war. We 
 do not seek war. It is only when a nation 
 is so execrable that one is compelled to 
 fight, as have been the Germans, that we 
 make war. 
 
 Bourgeois. You do not love war, eh? 
 Before the war you had a very small Army, 
 
 la 177 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 about three hundred thousand, Is It not so ? 
 And now you have about three million. 
 You do not love war, you others. 
 
 Subaltern. The Germans thought that 
 they loved war, but I do not believe that 
 they will love It very much longer! 
 
 Bourgeois. No! The war will give 
 them the stomach-ache. They will love 
 it no longer! 
 
 Coiffeur. But these English, whom 
 did they fight before? The Boers, was 
 It not? 
 
 Subaltern. Yes, but a great many 
 English think now that It was a hetise. 
 There was also great provocation. And 
 nevertheless, who knows If there was not 
 In that affair also a German plot? 
 
 Bourgeois. It Is very likely. Then 
 Monsieur thinks that we are true friends, 
 the English and the French? 
 
 Subaltern. But yes, Monsieur, be- 
 cause we love, both of us, liberty and 
 peace. 
 
 178 
 
A PASSING IN JUNE, 1915 
 
 179 
 
XIV 
 
 A PASSING IN JUNE, 1915 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 Scene. The parlour of an Auherge, 
 
 Persons. A stout motherly Madame, a 
 wrinkled fatherly Monsieur, and a 
 plain hut pleasant Ma'mselle. Some 
 English soldiers drinking, Cecil is 
 talking in French to Monsieur, and 
 they are all very friendly, 
 
 Madame. Alors, vous n'avez pas en- 
 core ete aux tranchees? 
 
 Cecil. Mais non, Madame, peut-etre 
 ce solr. 
 
 (Monsieur and Madame exchange Ranees, 
 Cecil rises to go.) 
 
 181 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Cecil. A Jeudi, Monsieur, Madame, 
 Ma'mselle. 
 
 Monsieur, Madame, and Ma'mselle 
 (in chorus). A Jeudi, Monsieur. 
 
 Madame (earnestly). Bon courage. Mon- 
 sieur! 
 
 (Curtain) 
 ACT I. DAWN 
 
 Cecil is discovered lying behind a wall of 
 sandbags. On one side are the sand- 
 bags^ and on the other an idyllic spring 
 scene, with flowers and orchards seen 
 in the half-light of a spring morning. 
 The dawn breaks gently, and soon bullets 
 begin to ping through the air, flattening 
 themselves against the sandbags, or pass- 
 ing over Cecil's head. He wakes and 
 yawns, and then composes himself with 
 his eyes open. 
 
 Enter Allegorical personages: Father Sun, 
 
 182 
 
A PASSING IN JUNE, 1915 
 
 Mother Earth, and a chorus of 
 Grasses, Poppies, Cornflowers, 
 Ragged Robins, Daisies, Beetles, 
 Bees, Flies, and insects of all kinds. 
 
 Father Sun. 
 Wake, children, rub your eyes. 
 Up and dance and sing and play. 
 Not a cloud is in the skies; 
 This is going to be my day. 
 See the tiny dew-drop glisten 
 In my glancing golden ray; 
 See the shadows dancing, listen 
 To the lark so blithe and gay. 
 Up, children, dance and play, 
 This is my own festal day. 
 Flowers, Beetles, etc. 
 
 Dance and sing 
 
 In a ring. 
 Naughty clouds are chased away; 
 
 Oh what fun, 
 
 Father Sun 
 Is going to shine the whole long day. 
 
 183 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Mother Earth. That's right, child- 
 ren. This is the day to grow in; but 
 don't forget to come home to dinner; 
 I've got such a nice dinner for you. 
 
 {The children dance away delightedly, while 
 Cecil watches them, fascinated,) 
 
 Mother Earth. What's this absurd 
 young man doing, sitting behind that 
 ugly wall? Why don't he sit under a 
 tree if he must sit ? 
 
 Father Sun. Oh, he's a lunatic! Must 
 be. 
 
 (Random Bullet jumps over the sandbags 
 into the dug-out, and jibbers impo- 
 tently at Cecil, who glances up at him 
 with a look of disgust,) ^ 
 
 Random Bullet. Ping! Ping. It's 
 me he's afraid of. He daren't stir a yard 
 from this wall, or I'd tear his brains out. 
 Ping ! Ping ! 
 
 184 
 
A PASSING IN JUNE, 1915 
 
 Mother Earth. Who are you, Monster ? 
 
 Random Bullet. I'm Random Bullet. 
 I am a monster, I am ! Ping ! 
 
 Mother Earth. Who sent you, any- 
 way ? 
 
 Random Bullet. Why, the Idiots be- 
 hind the other wall, over there! Some- 
 times I jiimp at them, and sometimes I 
 jump over here. I don't care which way 
 it is; but I like tearing their brains out, 
 I do. I don't care which lot it is. 
 
 Mother Earth. What madness! 
 
 Father Sun {indignantly). On my day 
 too! 
 
 Random Bullet. Mad! I should think 
 they were! Never mind, they give me 
 some fun! Ping! So long, I'm off, going 
 to jump at the other fellows, back in a sec- 
 ond if you like to wait. 
 
 (Random Bullet jumps out of sight, and 
 Mother Earth and Father Sun 
 
 move disgustedly away?) 
 
 185 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Cecil {getting up). Mad! By God, we 
 are mad! Curse the war! Curse the 
 fools who started it! Why did I ever 
 come out here? What a way to spend 
 a morning in June! 
 
 {Curtain?) 
 
 ACT II. MIDDAY 
 
 Scene. The same. Cecil as before, hut 
 sweltering in the sun. Enter the Spirit 
 OF Thirst. 
 
 Thirst. Oh for a drink! Water, any- 
 thing! I could drink a bath full. What 
 a place to spend a June day in! When 
 one thinks of all the drinks one might 
 be having, it is really infuriating. Gad! 
 The very thought of 'em makes me feel 
 quite poetic! Think of the great barrels 
 of still cider in cool Devonshire cellars! 
 Think of the sour refreshing wine we used 
 
 186 
 
A PASSING IN JUNE, 1915 
 
 to get in Italy! And the iced cocktails 
 of Colombo! And Pimm's No. i in the 
 City. Anywhere but here it's a pleasure 
 to be a Thirst; but here! Good Lord, 
 it will send me off my head. How would 
 a bath go now, old chap? By God, don't 
 you wish you were back in your canoe, 
 drawn up among the rushes near I slip, 
 and you just going to plunge into the cool 
 waters of the Char? Or think of that day 
 you bathed in the deep still pool at the foot 
 of the Tamarin Falls, with the water crash- 
 ing down above you, into the deep shady 
 chasm. Even a dip in the sea at Mount 
 Lavinia wouldn't be bad now, — or, better 
 still, a dive into Como from a rowboat ; you 
 remember that hot summer we went to 
 Como? I'll tell you another thing that 
 wouldn't go down badly either. Do you 
 remember a great bowl of strawberries and 
 cream with a huge ice in it, that you had the 
 day before you left school, after that hot 
 bike ride to Leamington ? Not bad, was it ? 
 
 187 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Cecil {fiercely). Shut up, you beast! 
 Oh, curse this idiotic war! Why are we 
 such fools? 
 
 {Curtain^ 
 
 ACT III. LATE AFTERNOON 
 
 Scene. As before, Cecil is discovered 
 reading a letter from home. 
 
 Cecil {to himself). Tom dead. Good 
 Lord! What times we have had together! 
 Where are all the good fellows I used to 
 know? Half of them dead, and the rest 
 condemned to die! No more yachting on 
 the broads! No more convivial evenings 
 at the Troc. ! No more long nights spinning 
 yarns in Tom's old rooms in the Temple ! 
 Curse this blasted war that robs one of 
 everything worth having, that dulls every 
 sense of decency and kills all feeling for 
 beauty, destroys the joy of life, and muti- 
 lates one's dearest friends. Curse it! 
 
 188 
 
A PASSING IN JUNE, 1915 
 
 {A sound as of an express train is heard, 
 followed by the roar of an explosion, 
 while a dense cloud of smoke and dust 
 rises immediately in view of the trench.) 
 
 Portentous Voice. Prepare to face 
 eternity ! 
 
 Cecil {clenching his fists). Beast, loath- 
 some beast! Don't think I am afraid of 
 you. 
 
 {The sounds are repeated as a second shell 
 drops, rather nearer, A Shadow ap- 
 pears round the dug-out, and hesitates?) 
 
 Cecil {to the Shadow), Who is that? 
 Is that the Shadow of Fear? 
 
 A Thin, Quavering Voice. Yes, shall 
 I come in? 
 
 Cecil {furiously). Out of my sight, vile, 
 cringing wretch! Not even your shadow 
 will I tolerate in my presence! 
 
 {A third shell bursts nearer still.) 
 
 189 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Portentous Voice {thunderously). Set 
 not your affections on things below. 
 
 (Cecil pauses in a listening attitude), 
 
 Cecil {more quietly, and with a new look 
 in his eyes). I think I have forgotten some- 
 thing, — something rather important. 
 
 {Enter the twin Spirits of Honour and 
 Duty, Spirits of a very noble and 
 courtly mien.) 
 
 Cecil {simply and humbly). Gentlemen, 
 to my sorrow and loss I had forgotten 
 you. You are doubly welcome. 
 
 The Spirit of Duty. Young sir, we 
 thank you. After all, it is but right 
 that in this hour of danger and dismay 
 we should be with you. 
 
 The Spirit of Honour. I am so old 
 a friend of you and yours, Cecil, that 
 you may surely trust me. I was your 
 father's friend. Side by side we stood in 
 every crisis of his varied life. Together 
 
 190 
 
A PASSING IN JUNE, 1915 
 
 faced the Dervish rush at Abu Klea, and 
 afterwards in India took our part in many 
 a desperate unnamed frontier tussle. I 
 helped him woo your mother, spoke for 
 him when he put up for Parliament, ad- 
 vised him when he visited the city. In 
 fact, I was his companion all through 
 life, and I stood beside his bed at death. 
 
 The Spirit of Duty. I too may claim 
 to have been as much your father's friend 
 as was my brother. Indeed, where one 
 is, the other is never far away. We do 
 agree most wonderfully, and since our 
 birth, no quarrel has ever disturbed the 
 harmony of our ways. 
 
 Cecil. Gentlemen, you have recalled 
 me to myself. I had forgotten that I 
 was no more a child. I wanted to dance 
 in the sun with the flowers, and sing with 
 the birds, to swim in the pool with yon- 
 der newt, and lie down to dry in the long 
 meadow grass among the poppies. Because 
 I might not do this and other things as fond 
 
 191 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 and foolish, I was petulant and peevish, like 
 a spoilt child. I look to you, gentlemen, to 
 help me to be a man, and play a man's part 
 in the world. 
 
 Honour. We will remain at hand, call 
 us when you need us, we shall not fail you. 
 
 (The bombardment increases in intensity. 
 Shrapnel bursts overhead. Shells with 
 increasing rapidity and accuracy ex- 
 plode both short and over the trench. 
 The hail of bullets is continuous. An 
 N, C, 0, rushes by shouting ''Stand 
 to''; men rush from the dug-outs and 
 seize their rifles; Cecil, like the others, 
 grasps his rifle and sees that it is fully 
 loaded,) 
 
 {Curtain,) 
 
 ACT IV. SUNSET 
 
 Scene. The same, but the wall of sand- 
 
 192 
 
A PASSING IN JUNE, 1915 
 
 bags is broken in many places. The 
 dead lie half -buried beneath them, 
 Cecil lies^ badly wounded, against a 
 gap in the wall, his rifle by his side. 
 Honour and Duty kneel beside him 
 tenderly. The last rays of the sun 
 light up his painful smile. Thirst 
 stands gloomily over him, and the wild 
 flowers are peeping at him with sleepy 
 eyes through the gap, while Mother 
 Earth calls to them to go to bed. 
 Father Sun leans sadly over the broken 
 parapet, 
 
 Cecil {slowly and with difficulty). Hon- 
 our, Duty, I thank you. You did not 
 fail me. 
 
 Honour. You played the man, Cecil, 
 as your father did before you. 
 
 Duty. Your example it was that 
 steadied your comrades, and kept craven 
 fear at a distance. You saved the 
 trench. 
 
 13 193 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Honour. This Is the beauty of man- 
 hood, to die for a good cause. There 
 is no fairer thing in all God's world. 
 
 Cecil. I thank you. Good-night, Sun; 
 good-night, Mother Earth. Think kindly 
 of me. I don't think I was mad after all. 
 
 Sun. Good-night, brave lad. {To 
 Mother Earth) I can hardly bear to 
 look on so sad a sight. 
 
 Cecil. Good-night, Ragged Robins; 
 good-night. Poppies. You have played 
 your game, and I mine. Only they are 
 different because we are different. 
 
 Chorus of Flowers. Good-night, dear 
 Cecil. We are so very sorry that you are 
 hurt. 
 
 {Enter the Master, flowers shyly following 
 him. Honour and Duty raise Cecil 
 gently to a standing position,) 
 
 The Master {extending his arms with a 
 loving smile). "Well done, good and faith- 
 
 194 
 
A PASSING IN JUNE, 1915 
 
 ful servant. Enter thou into the joy of 
 thy Lord." 
 
 (Cecil, with a look of wonder and joyy is 
 borne forward,) 
 
 {Curtain.) 
 
 105 
 
MY HOME AND SCHOOL 
 A Fragment of Autobiography 
 
 197 
 
XV 
 
 MY HOME AND SCHOOL* 
 I 
 
 MY HOME 
 
 What is one to say of home? It is diffi- 
 cult to know. I find that biographers 
 are particular about the date of birth, the 
 exact address of the babe, the social posi- 
 tion and ancestry of the parent. I suppose 
 that it is all that they can learn. But as 
 an autobiographer I want to do something 
 better; to give a picture of the home where, 
 as I can now see, ideals, tastes, prejudices 
 and habits were formed which have per- 
 
 *"A Student" left a great deal of manuscript, among 
 which this fragment of autobiography is not the least 
 interesting, 
 
 109 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 sisted through all the internal revolutions 
 that have since upheaved my being. 
 
 I try to form the picture in my mind, 
 and a crowd of detail rushes in which 
 completely destroys its simplicity and 
 harmony. How hard it is to judge, even 
 at this distance, what are the salient fea- 
 tures. I must try, but I know that from 
 the point of view of psychological develop- 
 ment I may easily miss out the very factors 
 which were really most important. 
 
 I remember a big house, in a row of 
 other big houses, in a side street leading 
 from the East Cliff at Brighton right up 
 to the edge of the bare rolling downs. It 
 was exactly like almost every other house 
 in that part of Brighton — stucco fronted, 
 with four stories and a basement, three 
 windows in front on each of the upper 
 stories, and two windows and a door on 
 the ground floor and basement. At the 
 back was a small garden, with flower beds 
 surrounding a square of gravel, and a 
 
 200 
 
MY HOME 
 
 tricycle house in one corner. There was 
 a back door in this garden, which gave 
 on to a street of cottages. This back 
 door was a point of strategic importance. 
 
 But I need not describe the house in de- 
 tail. It was exactly Hke thousands of other 
 houses built in the beginning of the nine- 
 teenth century. High, respectable, ugly 
 and rather inconvenient, with many stairs, 
 two or three big rooms, a lot of small ones 
 and no bathroom. It was essentially a 
 family house, intended for people of moder- 
 ate means and large families. Nowadays 
 they build houses which are prettier, and 
 have bathrooms ; but they are not meant for 
 large families. 
 
 We were a large family, and a fairly 
 noisy one. Moreover, we were singularly 
 self-sufficing. We hadn't many friends, 
 we didn't entertain much, we had dinner 
 in the middle of the day, and supper in the 
 evening. 
 
 There was my father who was a recluse, 
 
 201 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 my mother who was essentially our mother, 
 the two girls and four boys. I was an 
 afterthought, being seven years younger 
 than my next brother, who for seven years 
 had been called B. (for baby), and couldn't 
 escape from it even after my appearance. 
 
 In addition to these, B. and I both had 
 Inseparable friends, who lived within a 
 stone's throw. Ronnie was my alter ego 
 till I was fourteen: so much so that I had 
 no other friend. Even now, though our 
 ways have kept us apart, and our Interests 
 and opinions are fundamentally different, 
 we can sit In each other's rooms with per- 
 fect content. We know too much of each 
 other for it to be possible to pretend to be 
 what we are not. We sit and are our- 
 selves, naked and unashamed so to speak, 
 and it Is very restful. 
 
 Pictures float before my mind. Let me 
 select a few. I see a rather fat, stolid 
 little boy in a big airy nursery at the top 
 of the house, sitting in the middle of the 
 
 £02 
 
MY HOME 
 
 floor playing with bricks. Outside it is 
 gusty and wet, and the small boy hopes 
 that he will be allowed to stay in all the 
 afternoon, and play with bricks. But that 
 is not to be. A small thin man, with 
 gentle grey eyes, short curly beard, an old 
 black greatcoat and a black square felt 
 hat, comes in. The child must have some 
 air. The child is resentful, but resigned, 
 is wrapped up well, put in his pram and 
 wheeled up and down the Madeira Road. 
 
 "Pa'' didn't appear very much except 
 on some such errand; but "Ma" was In 
 and out all the time. "Ma" was every- 
 thing, the only woman who has ever had 
 my whole love, my whole trust and has 
 made my heart ache with the desire to 
 show my love. 
 
 A later picture. The boy Is bigger, 
 and not so fat. He no longer has a nurse. 
 He has vacated the nursery, which Is now 
 tenanted by his big sisters. He has a little 
 room all his own: a very small room, 
 
 203 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 looking west. The south-west gales beat 
 upon the window in the winter, and not so 
 far away is the roar of the sea. It is good 
 to curl up in a nice warm little bed, and 
 listen to the howling of the wind and the 
 waves. 
 
 In the morning come lessons from his 
 eldest sister G. The schoolroom has rings 
 and a trapeze, a bookshelf full of boys' 
 books, and cupboards full of stone bricks, 
 cannon and soldiers. The boy's mind Is 
 set on bricks and soldiers. Lessons and 
 walks with "Ma" and his sisters or Ronnie 
 and his nurse down the town are a nuisance. 
 They interfere with the building of cathe- 
 drals and the settling of the destinies of 
 nations by the arbitrament of war. 
 
 It was a stolid, placid boy, intensely 
 wrapt up in his cathedrals and his generals, 
 intensely devoted to *^Ma," and regard- 
 ing all else as rather a nuisance. Ronnie 
 he liked. He liked going to tea with 
 him, and going walks with him and his 
 
MY HOME 
 
 nurse ; but they didn't have much in com- 
 mon except cricket. Ronnie had big sol- 
 diers which could not be knocked down 
 by cannon balls, and which couldn't make 
 history because they were few in number, 
 and nearly all English. Mine were of 
 every European power, and many Asiatic 
 ones. They were diminutive and numerous, 
 could take shelter in a forest of pine cones 
 and were admirably suited to be mown 
 down at the cannon's mouth. The King 
 of England was a person with a fine figure. 
 He had one leg and one arm, and the plume 
 of his dragoon's helmet was shorn off; 
 but his slight, erect figure still looked noble 
 on a stately white palfrey. The French 
 armies were usually commanded by Mar- 
 shal Petit, a gay fellow with his full com- 
 plement of limbs, who sat a horse well. 
 He had a younger brother almost equally dis- 
 tinguished. I have no recollection of a King 
 of France. He must have been a poor fel- 
 low. The Sultan of Turkey, the Khedive, 
 
 205 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 and Li Hung Chang still live in my memory 
 as persons of distinction; but I have no 
 personal recollection of the Tsar, or the 
 Emperors of Germany or Austria, or of 
 the King of Italy, though I know they 
 existed. 
 
 Into this placid existence turmoil would 
 enter three times a year. The elder broth- 
 ers, Hugh, Tommy and B., would come 
 home for the holidays from Sandhurst and 
 Rugby, and R. would appear, and become 
 almost one of the family. Then would occur 
 troublous times, with a few advantages and 
 many disadvantages. 
 
 "Tommy" was a curiously solitary youth 
 as I remember him, who played the 'cello 
 with great perseverance and considerable 
 success. At soldiers he was something of 
 a genius, though his games were of an in- 
 tricacy which failed to commend itself to 
 me altogether. In his great soldier days 
 he not only made history, but wrote it — a 
 height to which I never attained. 
 
 206 
 
MY HOME 
 
 In the holidays, cricket in the back 
 garden became a great feature, and Tommy 
 was a demon bowler. I fancy, too, that 
 the very elaborate but highly satisfactory 
 form of the game must have originated 
 with him. In the back garden we not 
 merely played cricket, but made history — 
 cricket history. Two county sides were 
 written out, and we batted alternately 
 for the various cricketers, doing our best 
 to imitate their styles. We bowled also 
 in a rough imitation of the styles of the 
 county bowlers whom we represented. This 
 arrangement secured us against personal 
 rivalry, kept up a tremendous interest in 
 first-class cricket and enabled matches to 
 continue, if necessary, for weeks at a time. 
 It encouraged, too, a fair, impersonal and 
 unprejudiced view of outside events. 
 
 In cricket, war and music we undoubt- 
 edly benefited by the holidays, especially 
 in the summer, when we used to go to 
 the country, often occupying a school-house 
 
 207 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 with gym, cricket nets and a fair-sized 
 garden. Ecclesiastical architecture suf- 
 fered, however. . . . 
 
 Hugh was a great and glorious person, 
 a towering beneficent despot when he did 
 appear. ... As for me I adored him 
 with whole-hearted hero-worship. He was 
 the "protector of the poor," who kept the 
 rest of us in order. He was a magnificent 
 person who revolutionized the art of war 
 by the introduction of explosives. He was 
 a tremendous walker, and first taught me 
 to love great tramps over the downs, to 
 sniff appreciatively the glorious air and 
 to love their bare, storm-swept outlines. 
 Hugh stood for all that Is wholesome, 
 strenuous, out of doors in my life. With- 
 out him I should have been a mere 
 sedentary. Among other things he was 
 an enthusiastic boxer and gymnast. For 
 these pursuits I sturdily feigned enthu- 
 siasm and suppressed timidity. 
 
 A few more pictures. First, Sunday 
 
 208 
 
MY HOME 
 
 morning. Gertrude goes off to Sunday 
 School. She likes teaching and bossing. 
 Hilda and Hugh, who are greater pals than 
 brother and sister can often be, go off to 
 St. James', where there will be good music 
 and an interesting sermon. Tommy goes 
 to St. Mark's, a good Protestant place, or 
 to the beach, where curious and recondite 
 doctrines are weekly disputed. B. goes to 
 St. George's, protesting. There is plenty 
 of room for his hat, there is a congenially 
 aggressive spirit against Rome and it 
 slightly irritates Ma. Pa is not up yet. 
 Ma and I go to All Souls', because it is the 
 nearest poor church, and Ma finds it 
 easier to worship where there are no pew 
 rents, and the seats are uncushioned, and 
 there are few rich people. I am ever 
 loyal to Ma. 
 
 I often wonder whether the reason why 
 my family are all Churchgoers now is not 
 that at that time we could choose our 
 church. 
 
 14 209 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 The next picture is Sunday night. "Pa" 
 and I, and perhaps some of the other boys, 
 set out for St. Paul's, at the other end of 
 the town. Then, after the service, follows 
 an immense walk all through the slums of 
 the town. We talk of Australia, where Pa 
 once had a sheep run; of theology, of the 
 past and the future. This weekly walk is 
 something of a privilege, and rather solemn. 
 It makes me feel older. 
 
 It is spring. I am at Rugby, and in 
 the "San'' with ophthalmia. The South 
 African war is raging. Hugh is there. 
 I am told that Hugh is dead. He has 
 been shot in a glorious but futile charge 
 at Paardeberg. I can't realize it. I am 
 an object of interest, of envy almost, 
 to the whole school. The flag is half- 
 mast because my brother is dead. Every 
 one is kind, touched. I put on an air as of 
 a martyr. 
 
 I get a heartbroken letter from my 
 mother. Will I come home? Or hadn't 
 
 210 
 
MY HOME 
 
 I better go to Uncle Jack's? If I go 
 home we shall make each other worse. 
 It is better for me than for Maurice, who 
 is with the fleet In the Mediterranean 
 with no one to comfort him. 
 
 Ma has had a great shock. She feels It 
 desperately. She thinks all the others feel 
 it as much. Except Hilda, we don't. There 
 is a huge piece taken out of Ma's life 
 and Hilda's life, because they were so un- 
 selfishly devoted to Hugh. Pa, also, has 
 lost much, but he is a philosopher. 
 
 I go to Uncle Jack's and shoot rabbits. 
 The holidays come and go. Tommy is at 
 Oxford; I am at Rugby. Pa is immersed 
 in theological speculation about the next 
 world; B. is in the Mediterranean. Ma 
 sends Gertrude and Hilda away for a long 
 change. They go, and come back. Some- 
 thing about Ma frightens them. She and 
 Pa come near Rugby and stay with Uncle 
 Jack. The holidays come. I learn that for 
 the first time for about twenty years Ma 
 
 211 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 is to go away without Pa. I am to meet 
 her at Hereford, and we are to go to Wales. 
 Ma forgets things. She is more loving than 
 ever, but her memory is going. We go to com- 
 munion together in the little village church. 
 
 A few weeks later. We are back in 
 Brighton. An Australian uncle and family 
 are staying with us. Ma is ill in bed. I 
 get up at 6 A.M., tramp over the downs 
 and in a place I wot of, some five miles 
 away, I gather heather for Ma. I run. I 
 get back by 8.30. I find my uncle and 
 cousins getting into a cab. Some one says, 
 "How lovely! Are these for me?" I grip 
 them in despair. They are for Ma. "Quite 
 right, " says some one. A day or two later 
 my heather was placed, still blooming, on 
 Ma's grave. 
 
 I was sixteen then. Six years later I 
 return home from abroad. Within a few 
 weeks of my return I am sitting in Pa's 
 room in agony, listening to him fight 
 for breath. The fight at last weakens. I 
 
 212 
 
MY HOME 
 
 hear him whisper, "Help ! help !" I set my 
 teeth. The others come in. There is silence. 
 All is over. I am given my father's ring. 
 It is my most treasured possession. 
 
 Henceforth all I have left of home is 
 Hilda, for she alone is unmarried. Ever 
 since my mother's death she has been my 
 confidante. As far as was possible she 
 has taken Ma's place in my life, and I 
 have taken Hugh's place in hers. We 
 are substitutes. For that reason as we 
 get older we get to know each other better, 
 and to know better how much we can 
 give to each other. There is more criti- 
 cism between us than there would have 
 been between Ma and me, and Hilda and 
 Hugh. But it has its advantages. We live 
 apart, but we correspond weekly, and 
 holiday together. It is all that is left 
 of home, and it is infinitely precious. 
 
 Now that I have written these pages I 
 can see as I have never seen before how 
 much the child was father of the man. 
 
 213 
 
A. STUDENT IN AHMS 
 
 Since those home days I have had more 
 variety of experience perhaps than falls 
 to the lot of most men, and I would almost 
 say more varied and more epoch-making 
 friendships. Yet in these pages that I 
 have written I seem to see all the essential 
 and salient features of my character already 
 mirrored and formed. 
 
 I am still by nature lethargic and placid. 
 I could still occupy myself contentedly 
 with bricks and soldiers, art and history, 
 and trouble no one. But there is still 
 that other element, instilled by Hugh — a 
 love of the open air, of strugglewith the 
 elements, in lonely desert places. 
 
 I have never lost the craving for true 
 religion, which induced my mother to go to 
 a poor church to worship, and to visit 
 the drunken and helpless in their slums. 
 I have never lost the desire for her single- 
 ness of mind, and simple loyalty to Christ 
 and His Church. At the same time I have 
 never lost my father's inquiring spirit, 
 
 214 
 
MY HOME 
 
 broad view, love of doctrine tempered by 
 reason and founded on history and tested by 
 human experience. When these two be- 
 loved ones passed from this world I learnt 
 the meaning of the text, "Where your trea- 
 sure is, there will your heart be also. '' My 
 heart has never been wholly in this world. 
 So, too, I have always been a man of few 
 friends. Ronnie has had many succes- 
 sors; but seldom more than one at a time. 
 I have never cared much for society. 
 My father and mother neither of them 
 attached much importance to conven- 
 tions, or to the fictitious values which 
 society puts on clothes or money or posi- 
 tion. I have always looked rather for 
 some one to admire, some one whose ideals 
 and personality were congenial, whatever 
 their position or occupation. I have also, 
 on the whole, always preferred comfort 
 to show, simple to elaborate living. This 
 I trace to the simple comfort and natural- 
 ness of my old home. 
 
 215 
 
II 
 
 SCHOOL 
 
 I WENT to a day school kept by Ronnie's 
 father when I was nine. At least, It was 
 a day school for me; but nearly all the 
 boys were boarders. I worked fairly hard, 
 and got prizes. I was fairly good at 
 cricket, and not much good at football. 
 I had only one friend — Ronnie — and 
 about two enemies, both of whom were 
 day boys, and whom I should have liked 
 to have fought If I had dared. My mem- 
 ories of the school are few. I best re- 
 member leaving home, and going back, 
 and also playing cricket. Ronnie's father 
 lives as a just and straightforward gentle- 
 man, who never caned a boy except for 
 what was mean or dirty, and whom we all 
 
 216 
 
SCHOOL 
 
 loved and respected. But then I have 
 known and loved him and his wife all 
 my life. If our house was a second home 
 to Ronnie, theirs has always been a second 
 home to me. 
 
 There was one master whom I liked, and 
 who perhaps did something to develop my 
 character. He was fond of poetry and 
 history, and from him I learnt — an easy 
 lesson for me — to love history; but what is 
 more, he first gave me a glimmering idea, 
 which was to develop long after, that the 
 classics are literature, and not torture. 
 
 I left there to go to Rugby. 
 
 Never did a boy enter Rugby with 
 better chances. The memory of my three 
 brothers still lived in the house. They 
 had all achieved distinction in games, 
 and been leading prefects (or sixths as they 
 are called at Rugby) in the house. Many 
 masters remembered them for good, parti- 
 cularly Jacky, the housemaster, who had 
 loved them all, especially Hugh. 
 
 217 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 In addition to this, one of the leading 
 fellows in the house, who was afterwards 
 to be captain of the school fifteen and 
 cricket eleven, lieutenant in the corps, 
 and one of the raquet pair, had been at 
 my private school. I shared a study 
 with another fellow who had been at my 
 private school. Two boys accompanied 
 me from there, one of whom was my next 
 best friend to Ronnie. His parents were 
 in India, and he had spent some of his 
 holidays with Ronnie and me. 
 
 But though I loved Rugby and was 
 happy there, I can't say I was a success. 
 I made few friends, who have since, with 
 one exception, drifted out of my life. I 
 was too timid to enjoy Rugger. I never 
 achieved distinction at cricket. I got into 
 the sixth my last term, but hadn't the 
 force of character to enjoy the prefec- 
 tural powers which that fact conferred 
 upon me. The fact is that I left when I was 
 i6, and it is between i6 and i8 that the 
 
 218 
 
SCHOOL 
 
 full enjoyment of school life comes and 
 boys reap the harvest they have sown. Had 
 I stayed another year I should have be- 
 longed to the leading generation, strength- 
 ened my friendships and developed what 
 was latent in my character. As it was, I 
 left at an unfortunate age. I was pushed 
 Into the sixth a year before my contemi- 
 poraries. My friendships were only half 
 formed, and I had only just begun to feel 
 strength of body and mind developing In me. 
 
 As a junior I was too conscientious, 
 and not light-hearted enough. I hardly 
 had any adventures at Rugby, because 
 I had an incurable instinct for keeping 
 rules. I worked hard at mathematics 
 and French, and my report generally read, 
 " Good ability. Might exert himself more. " 
 At classics and chemistry I did as little work 
 as possible, and any report generally read, 
 "Hard-working but not bright. " 
 
 On the whole I think I was pretty happy 
 at Rugby; but I never look back to my 
 
 219 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 school days as the happiest part of my life. 
 I have had many happier times since. But 
 still, my house was a good one. Jacky, the 
 housemaster, was wonderfully kind and wise. 
 He hardly ever interfered with the affairs 
 of the house, but left it all — in appearance — 
 to the " Sixths. " Actually, nothing escaped 
 him. The tone of the house was on the 
 whole extraordinarily clean and whole- 
 some, and the fellows who had dirty minds 
 were a small minority, and easily avoided. 
 At all events, very little of that sort of thing 
 reached me. 
 
 At sixteen and a half I went to the Royal 
 Military Academy at Woolwich, commonly 
 known as "the Shop.'' There I spent the 
 two most miserable years of my life, and 
 made the second of my great friendships. 
 In these days the Shop was still a pretty 
 rough place, and at the moment it was 
 unusually full. I think there were over 
 300 fellows there altogether, and there 
 
 were about 70 in my term. My first 
 
 220 
 
SCHOOL 
 
 experience was unfortunate. I was inter- 
 viewing the Adjutant, a keen sportsman 
 and a bit of a tartar. He eyed me un- 
 favourably, asked what games I could 
 play, and when I replied that I had no 
 great proficiency in any he commented, 
 "Humph, a good-for-nothing!" and dis- 
 missed me. 
 
 I am by nature slow, stolid and clumsy. 
 1 was bad at being "smart"; I was slow 
 and clumsy at drill; map making and 
 geometrical drawing were physical impos- 
 sibilities to me; I was incredibly slow 
 and stupid at machinery, mechanism and 
 electricity. The only subject which inter- 
 ested me was military history. In my first 
 term I dropped from about forty-fourth 
 to about seventieth in my class, and I kept 
 near the bottom until my fourth term, when 
 I failed in my electricity exam., and had to 
 stay one term more. In the same term 
 I received a prize for the best essay on the 
 lessons of the South African War. 
 
 221 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Oh, the misery of those terms at Wool- 
 wich! I hated the work, the drill, the 
 gym and even the riding school. I hated 
 the officers, and above all I hated the spirit 
 of the place. As far as I remember, the 
 one eternal topic of conversation and sub- 
 ject of "wit" was the sexual relation. 
 Of course the boys had never been taught 
 sensibly anything about it. Consequently 
 the place was continually circulated with 
 filthy books, pictures, stories, etc. When 
 I went there I was extraordinarily inno- 
 cent, and devoid of furiosity, I had been 
 recently the more disposed to purity through 
 the death of my mother. At Woolwich I 
 remained extraordinarily innocent and un- 
 curious, letting the poisonous stream flow 
 continually by me, shrinking from its 
 stench, and finding more and more relief 
 in my own company. I must have been a 
 very unpleasant person at that time. 
 
 One friend I had. He was a small, 
 compact, keen, and capable little Rug- 
 
SCHOOL 
 
 blan named F . He was like me In 
 
 that he had recently lost his parents, 
 and was interested In religion and philo- 
 sophy in a boyish way. Unlike me he 
 rather enjoyed Woolwich. He had a lot 
 of friends, was keen on riding and on a 
 good deal of the work, and generally speak- 
 ing plunged into life, taking the rough with 
 the smooth, and both in good part. Al- 
 though we have drifted far apart in ideals 
 and sympathies, and though misunderstand- 
 ing has come in and destroyed our friend- 
 ship, I shall never cease to be grateful for all 
 
 that F did for me in those days. He 
 
 routed mxe out when I was in the blues, 
 laughed at me, cheered me up and made 
 me look at life with new eyes. Moreover he 
 did this, as I know, in defiance of the set 
 with whom he was friendly, who despised 
 me for a milksop, and were at no pains to 
 
 conceal the fact. But for F , my life at 
 
 the Shop would have been intolerable. 
 Besides him, I had a few associates, 
 
 223 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 boys with whom I naturally associated 
 for the simple reason that they, too, were 
 left out of the main current of the life of 
 the place. But they were not particularly 
 congenial. One or two were hard workers. 
 One was a great slacker, and more timid, 
 physically and morally, than even I. He 
 was a boy with a fatal facility for doing 
 useless things moderately well, especially 
 in the musical line. He was even more 
 frightened of gym and horses than I was, 
 and unlike me was not ashamed to show 
 it. If the Shop was purgatory to me, 
 it must have been hell to him. 
 
 My happiest times were week-ends spent 
 at home. I used to arrive on Saturday 
 evening and leave on Sunday evening. 
 About now I began to get to know my 
 father much better, and to develop my 
 theological bent under his advice. In 
 my disillusionment as to my capacity 
 for military life I began to wish I had 
 chosen the clerical profession. I think 
 
 224 
 
SCHOOL 
 
 my father had the shrewdness to see that 
 failure in one profession was not neces- 
 sarily the sign of a '' call " in another 
 direction. Anyway, he did not discourage 
 me; but spoke of five years in the Army 
 as the best training for a parson. 
 
 I remember avowing my intention of 
 becoming a parson to one of my more 
 friendly acquaintances at the Shop, and 
 he replied that I wouldn't set the Thames 
 on fire, because I had such a monotonous 
 voice. 
 
 In spite of seeking relief from my uncon- 
 genial surroundings in religion and theology, 
 I did not join myself to any one else. There 
 was a so-called "Pi Squad," or Bible class, 
 held weekly, but I only went once, and didn't 
 like It. I was always peculiarly sensitive 
 about prigglshness in those who professed 
 themselves to be religious openly, and 
 generally thought I detected prigglshness 
 In any "Bible circle" or similar institution 
 that I came across. I think my theology 
 
 IS 225 
 
A STUDENT IN AEMS 
 
 mainly consisted in speculations about the 
 future state — I remember I emphatically de- 
 clined to believe in hell — and my religion 
 consisted mainly in fairly regular attend- 
 ance at Matins and Communion. 
 
 Another effect of the intensity with 
 which I hated my surroundings was that 
 I read a lot of good novels — George Eliot, 
 the Brontes, Scott, Dickens, Jane Austen, 
 Thackeray, Besant, etc. A book which 
 I read over and over again was Arthur 
 Benson's Hill of Trouble ^ and other Stories, 
 Those legends, with their imaginative set- 
 ting, charm of language and beautiful 
 religious ideas were more restful to my 
 unquiet spirit than anything else I read. 
 
 The actual conditions of life at the 
 Shop were pretty barbaric. The aim was 
 to make it as much like barracks as possible. 
 Each term was housed in a different side of 
 the square of buildings which form the 
 Academy, and the fourth term were spread 
 among the houses of the other terms as 
 
 226 
 
SCHOOL 
 
 corporals. My first term I shared a room 
 with three other fellows. I think it was the 
 ugliest room I have ever lived in, without 
 exception. It had high whitewashed brick 
 walls. In each corner was a bed which 
 folded up against the wall in the day time, 
 and was concealed by a square of print cur- 
 tains. There were a deal table, four Wind- 
 sor chairs, a shelf with four basins, and a 
 cupboard with four lockers. All the wood- 
 work was painted khaki. The contrast 
 with the little study at Rugby, with its 
 diamond-paned window, its matchboard 
 panelling surmounted by a paper of one's 
 own choosing, its ledge for photos and orna- 
 ments ("bim ledge" so called), its eggshell 
 blue cupboards, baize curtains and window 
 box, was striking. 
 
 It used to be the custom to go to and 
 from the bathroom attired in a sponge, in 
 connexion with which an amusing incident 
 once happened. 
 
 A cadet in his second year was on'^the 
 
 227 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 bathroom landing, when he perceived that 
 the mother and sisters of another cadet were 
 coming upstairs. From sounds in the bath- 
 room he realized that they would meet a 
 naked corporal just as they reached the 
 landing. The door of the bathroom opened 
 outwards, and with admirable presence of 
 mind he rushed back, and putting his back 
 against the door and his feet against the wall, 
 imprisoned the corporal. The corporal, in 
 the approved Shop version of Billings- 
 gate, began to blaspheme at the top of his 
 voice, so when the ladies reached the top of 
 the stairs they saw a vision of a cadet with 
 his feet to the wall and his back to a door 
 singing at the top of his voice to drown a 
 commotion within ! 
 
 On another occasion in my second year, 
 when I was sharing a room with one other 
 fellow, I had a sister to tea. On arriving 
 in my room I found that my stablemate 
 had been playing hockey, and was at the 
 moment in the bathroom, having thought- 
 
 228 
 
SCHOOL 
 
 lessly left all his clothes in the room — 
 mostly on the floor. 
 
 On the last day of my first term the 
 corporals and officers were all absent at a 
 farewell dinner to the former, and we 
 received information that the third term 
 were going to raid our house, with a view 
 to "toshing" us in a cold bath. We 
 therefore prepared for action. Every re- 
 ceptacle which would hold water was 
 taken to the upper landing, full. Then 
 all the chairs in the house were roped to- 
 gether, and placed on the stairs as an 
 obstacle. The defenders then took up 
 their position at the windows and at 
 the top of the stairs. In due course the 
 enemy's forces arrived, and stormed the 
 stairs, under a heavy fire of water. The 
 obstacle was at length destroyed, and a 
 solid phalanx of wet bodies swarmed up 
 the stairs. We formed a similar phalanx 
 and charged to meet them. I happened 
 to be first, and much to my discomfiture 
 
 229 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 the enemy's phalanx parted in the middle, 
 and I was rapidly passed down the stairs 
 — a prisoner! Fortunately at the bottom I 
 found a relieving party from the next house, 
 making a diversion on the enemy's rear. 
 With great valour we dragged down a foe, 
 and toshed him in the bath that had been 
 made ready for us. "The tosher toshed!" 
 
 The next day we surveyed the damage. 
 All the chairs and banisters were broken, 
 the whitewash was rubbed off the bricks 
 by wet shoulders and nearly all the basins 
 were broken. That day was the day of 
 Lord Roberts's half-yearly inspection ! 
 
 There was not such another battle until 
 my third term, when we were the aggres- 
 sors. This time the damage was even 
 greater, for the defenders let down tables 
 across the stairs as an obstacle, and we 
 battered our way through with scaffolding 
 poles. There were some casualties that 
 day, owing to an indiscriminate use of 
 mop handles. 
 
 230 
 
SCHOOL 
 
 On the day of Lord Roberts's inspection 
 we had to change from parade dress to 
 gym dress, and it was during the change 
 that Lord Roberts inspected our quarters. 
 He went into one room and found a fellow 
 just half-way through his change — ^with 
 nothing at all on! The room was called 
 to attention, and with great presence of 
 mind the boy dashed into the bed curtains 
 and stood to attention there, while Lord 
 Roberts had an animated conversation 
 with him! 
 
 There were jolly moments in the life at 
 the Shop. On Saturdays, after dinner, the 
 unfortunates who had not got away for 
 the week-end used to have *' stodges'' 
 after dinner. Having put away a sub- 
 stantial dinner, we changed into flannels, 
 and used to crowd into some one's room, 
 and eat muffins and smoke cigars. I re- 
 member one night there were eighteen of 
 us in one small room. 
 
 In order to go away for a week-end one 
 
 231 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 had to obtain (i) an invitation, (2) per- 
 mission from parent or guardian to accept 
 the invitation. One week my brother, 
 who was working at the Admiralty, oflfered 
 
 his flat to myself and F , as he was 
 
 going to Brighton himself. Fleming wrote 
 to his guardian — a Scotsman — for per- 
 mission to stay with Captain Hankey. 
 The guardian wrote back for more informa- 
 tion. He saw by the Army List that Cap- 
 tain Hankey existed, but who were the 
 
 Hankeys? etc., etc. F wrote back a 
 
 furious letter, saying that he expected to 
 have his friends accepted without ques- 
 tion, and received the permission. We 
 went. The awkward thing was that Cap- 
 tain Hankey was not there, and we shud- 
 dered to think of the rage of F 's 
 
 guardian if he should find out. Worse 
 still, the guardian was supposed to be 
 staying at the Oriental Club in Hanover 
 Square, and my brother's flat was in Oxford 
 Street ! However, we didn't meet. 
 
 232 
 
SCHOOL 
 
 F and I neither of us knew Lon- 
 don, and had the time of our Hves. We 
 dined at Frascati's — a palace of splendour 
 in our eyes — and went to His Majesty's to 
 see Beerbohm Tree in Ulysses. When it 
 came to Hades, we held each other's hands ! 
 On Sunday we went to St. Peter's, Vere 
 Street, but were so furious at being kept 
 waiting for pew holders long after service 
 had commenced, that we went on to the 
 Audley Street Chapel, a most queer little 
 place. It was full of monuments to the 
 dependents of peers, in which the peers 
 figured very largely and the dependents 
 fared humbly — the epitome of flunkey dom. 
 Among these tablets was one inscribed — 
 
 " To Jolm Wilkes, 
 Friend of Liberty.** 
 
 Truly refreshing! 
 
 We finished the day at some old friends 
 of mine, and voted the week-end a huge 
 success. 
 
 233 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 When I went to Woolwich I was just 
 on the verge of getting keen on games 
 and beginning to feel self-confident, and 
 to enjoy the fellowship of my comrades. 
 Woolwich nipped this in the bud. I left 
 with no self-confidence, having renounced 
 games, and with a sense of solitariness 
 among my comrades. I was a misan- 
 thrope, and the unhappiest sort of egotist 
 — the kind that dislikes himself. To say 
 the truth, too, I was then, and always 
 have been, a bit of a funk, physically, 
 which didn't make me happier. On the 
 other hand, I was an omnivorous reader of 
 everything which did not concern my pro- 
 fession, and a dabbler in military history. 
 
 I have sometimes thought that I was 
 unconsciously a bit of a hero at Woolwich, 
 standing out for purity and religion in an 
 atmosphere of filth and blasphemy. I have 
 come to the conclusion, however, that 
 there was nothing in this. As to the general 
 atmosphere, there is no doubt that it was 
 
 234 
 
SCHOOL 
 
 singularly pernicious; even the officers and 
 instructors contributed their quota of filthy 
 jokes, and there was no religious instruction 
 or influence at all except the parade service 
 at the garrison church on Sunday, if one 
 happened not to be on leave. But as to my 
 heroism I am reluctantly compelled to be 
 sceptical. I went as far as I felt my inclina- 
 tion, and stopped after a time because 
 instinct was too strong the other way. 
 
 As I have said before, I have always 
 had an insurmountable instinct for keeping 
 rules. At school I could never bring myself 
 to transgress, although I knew that trans- 
 gression was the road to adventure. So 
 at the Shop, however much I may have 
 wished to be in the swim, my instinct for the 
 moral and religious code of home was too 
 strong for me. It required no self-control 
 to prevent myself from slipping into blas- 
 phemy and filth. On the contrary, in 
 order to do so I should have had to violate 
 my strongest instincts, and exercised a 
 
 235 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 will to evil much stronger than any will 
 power that I possessed at that time. If, 
 when I left Woolwich, I was compara- 
 tively pure, it was because nature did not 
 allow me to be anything else. 
 
 To say the truth, I have never felt the 
 sway of passions to anything like the same 
 extent as most men seem to. I have never 
 cared for the society of women for its 
 sexual attraction. Consequently all my 
 women friends have been just the same 
 to me as my men friends — friends whom 
 I could talk to about the things that inter- 
 ested me. 
 
 I don't boast of this, I only state the 
 fact. I am not proud of it because I know 
 that some passion is necessary to make 
 heroes and even saints. 
 
 236 
 
SOME NOTES ON THE FRAGMENT 
 OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY BY "HILDA" 
 
 I HAVE before me as I write a pencil sketch, 
 limned with considerable care, of a rather 
 disagreeable looking young man, and be- 
 neath it is written — 
 
 "D. W. A. H., by Himself." 
 
 It is a profile. The eye has almost dis- 
 appeared under the brow, the mouth is 
 tightly closed to a degree that is quite un- 
 pleasant and there is a deliberate exag- 
 geration .of a slight defect he actually had 
 — a tendency for the lower jaw to protrude 
 a little. This little defect hardly any of 
 his friends seem to have noticed, for most 
 of them execrate it as a libel in the other- 
 wise admittedly beautiful photograph at 
 the beginning of this volume. The ex- 
 pression in the sketch is above all — dubious. 
 So did Donald see himself. 
 
 237 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 For the rest of us no doubt the lessons 
 Mr. Haselden has for us in his caricatures, 
 *' ourselves as we see ourselves'' and "as 
 others see us," are necessary. But not 
 for Donald. The drawing is pasted into 
 an album which contains mainly Oxford 
 College groups, and there is a certain un- 
 pleasant resemblance between it and his 
 full face presentment in one of the groups 
 — in which he has *'the group expression'* 
 rather badly. Assuming it to have been 
 drawn at Oxford, or not very long after 
 he left, I think it must belong very nearly to 
 a time when he was going off abroad on one 
 of his long trips, and I had the sympathy 
 of a dear old lady friend of ours on having 
 to part with him. I remember replying, 
 "Yes, it always seem.s as if peace and 
 happiness, truth and justice, religion and 
 piety went with him when he goes!" She 
 laughed a good deal, and then said, seri- 
 ously, repeating over to herself the stately 
 mounting sixteenth century phrases, " But 
 it's quite true, you know!" I hardly 
 think, though, that I should have said it of 
 the young man in the sketch! 
 
 I am now going to make a comment or 
 
 238 
 
NOTES 
 
 two on my brother's word-pictures as 
 I should if he were by my side. But 
 first I should like his readers to know 
 and realize that both were written before 
 the period of what I may call Donald's 
 "Renaissance," a period that can be 
 roughly marked by the publication of his 
 first book, The Lord of all Good Life, 
 
 Up to then he had been struggling in vain 
 for self-expression. How he had worked the 
 amount of MSS. he has left alone proves — 
 for we have it on a friend's testimony that 
 "he tore up much of what he wrote"; 
 and he also had experienced and suffered, 
 violating his natural "timidity" and his 
 in some ways, precarious health, for he had 
 never got over certain weaknesses en- 
 gendered by his illness in Mauritius — in his 
 struggle to get a true basis for a solution of 
 the meaning of life and of religion. What 
 cost him most was the knowledge that he 
 was frequently doubted and misunder- 
 stood by many of those whose approbation 
 would have been very dear to him. This 
 is proved by his constantly expressed 
 gratitude to the one or two who never 
 doubted him for one moment. 
 
 239 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 With the writing of this book, as we 
 know, all his difficulties began to clear 
 away, and at the same time he began to 
 reap the harvest of love and admiration 
 that he had sown in his toils to produce it. 
 And the result was he opened out like a 
 flower to the sun! No one can doubt this 
 for a moment who has read his book of 
 a year later. The Student in ArmSy and 
 rejoiced in the radiant happiness of its 
 inspiration. 
 
 He had more than once said to me dur- 
 ing the past two years, "You know it 
 makes a tremendous difference to me when 
 people really like me.^' No longer was it 
 a case of "one friend at a time.'* The 
 period for that was over and done with. 
 He had come into his own. He was ready 
 for a universal brotherhood, and no hand 
 would ever be held out to him in vain. 
 
 It is impossible to believe that he does 
 not now know of and appreciate all the 
 beautiful tributes that have come to him 
 since his "passing" — from the perfect 
 wreath of immortelles weaved by Mr. 
 Strachey to the sweet pansy of thought 
 dropped by a little fellow V. A. D. of mine 
 
 240 
 
NOTES 
 
 who said beautifully and courageously — 
 though knowing him solely through his 
 book — "We feel since he gave us his thought 
 that he belongs a tiny bit to us, too, '* thus 
 voicing the feeling of many. 
 
 I believe the paper entitled "'My Home" to 
 have been written at Oxford, and "School" 
 not so very long after. In any case, I have 
 definite proof of their both belonging to 
 Donald's pre-" Renaissance" period, for the 
 
 friendship with F , that began at "the 
 
 Shop" and went under a cloud for a time, 
 was renewed with fresh vigour in 19 14, and 
 has burned brightly ever since. Only last 
 
 July was I sent by him a letter of F 's 
 
 from the trenches, with the injunction, 
 "Please put this among my treasures," 
 and there is an allusion to a story told 
 in this letter in the article entitled "Ro- 
 mance" of the present volume. 
 
 To return to "My Home," I question 
 whether the love and devotion of "Hilda" 
 and " Ma" for Hugh was so entirely unselfish. 
 For my mother I fully believe, as for 
 "Hilda," Hugh was the epitome of all 
 that was fine, splendid and joyous in life. 
 He was the glorious knight, the "preux 
 
 x6 241 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 chevalier" "sans peur et sans reproche," 
 who rode forth at dawn with clean sword and 
 shining armour, and all the world before 
 him, yet keeping his heart for ever in his 
 home. He was the child of her youth as 
 Donald was the child of her maturity. 
 Deep down in her wonderfully varied nature 
 there were certain bottomless springs of cour- 
 age, daring and enterprise which she herself 
 had little chance of expressing and of which 
 Hugh alone was the personification. 
 
 As long as I can remember Hugh had 
 been my ideal and made all the interest and 
 joy of life for me. Whether he were at home 
 or abroad I never had a thought I did not 
 share with him. When he died, the best 
 part of me died too, or was paralysed 
 rather, and Heaven knows what sort of a 
 ''substitute'' I should have been for "Ma'' 
 to Donald, had not the baby Hugh come, 
 just in time, with healing in his wings to 
 restore life to the best part of me ! 
 
 I am glad to think that Donald's "Auto- 
 biography" was written before 19 14, for I 
 know that even before that I was becom- 
 ing more to him than a "substitute." I too 
 have my memories and pictures ! 
 
 242 
 
NOTES 
 
 It Is May, 1915. I am in the country- 
 house — cleaning is going on at home. 
 
 I get a letter to say that the Rifle Brigade 
 may leave for France at any time, and that 
 Donald may get some ** leave'' on Saturday 
 or Sunday. 
 
 I make a dash for town. 
 
 There I find a telegram of reckless and 
 unconscionable length, running into two 
 pages. He cannot come up — they may 
 leave at any moment. It seems hardly 
 worth while my bothering to come to 
 Aldershot on the chance — he may be unable 
 to leave barracks. 
 
 I write a return telegram — also of reck- 
 less and unconscionable length, and reply 
 paid — it is a relief to do so — asking for a 
 place of meeting at Aldershot to be sug- 
 gested. 
 
 I get no answer at all, and on Sunday 
 morning, in despair, I go over to see my 
 aunt and cousin. My aunt is my mother's 
 sister and a sportswoman. She counsels, 
 " Go at all costs. " Dorothy will come with 
 me: Dorothy is Donald's best woman 
 pal — ^she reminds him of his mother. She 
 is all that is wholesome and comportable. 
 
 243 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 The element of enjoyment comes in, and 
 I go home and pack a nice lunch. 
 
 We arrive at Aldershot. 
 
 There is no one on the platform to meet 
 us, and we push our way through the turn- 
 stile. 
 
 There is Donald, on the outskirts of the 
 waiting crowd — a tall, soldierly figure in 
 the uniform of a private — for he has resigned 
 his sergeant's stripes by now. 
 
 His face is very boyish — not the face of 
 the photograph at the beginning of this 
 book: that was taken after he had been 
 to France, and had been wounded, and had 
 written "A Passing in June,'* and "The 
 Honour of the Brigade" — but a much 
 younger face, really boyish. 
 
 He glances quickly and anxiously at 
 every face that passes, and each time he 
 is a little more disappointed — but he tries 
 not to show it. 
 
 I am not tall and cannot catch his eye. 
 It is like being at a play, watching him! 
 All at once he sees me! Involuntarily a 
 sudden quick spasm of joy passes across 
 his face, absolutely transfiguring it. 
 
 He smooths it away quickly, for he is a 
 
 244 
 
NOTES 
 
 Briton and does not like to show his feel- 
 ings — but he has given himself away! 
 
 Dorothy and I shall never forget that 
 look. And it was for me — at first he does 
 not see Dorothy. When he does it is an 
 added pleasure. 
 
 With two ladies to escort he assumes 
 a lordly air. 
 
 He had thought of everything. We 
 would like some tea? Yes, all the big 
 places are shut as it is Sunday, but he 
 has marked down a little place on his way 
 to the station. 
 
 It is a lovely day, and we are very 
 happy! 
 
 The girl who waits upon us at the little 
 tea place likes us, and so do the other 
 Tommies and their friends who are having 
 tea there. 
 
 We sit at little tables, but at very close 
 quarters with each other, and we smile at 
 them and they at us. 
 
 I have brought Donald some letters, 
 which pleases him, and Dorothy has brought 
 him some splendid socks, knitted by herself. 
 
 After tea we walk across an arid plain 
 to a little wood, and sit down under the trees. 
 
 245 
 
A STUDENT IN ARMS 
 
 Donald changes to the new socks — those he 
 had on were wringing wet ! 
 
 He picks us little bunches of violets, 
 hyacinths and wild strawberry flowers — 
 we have them still. 
 
 We are very happy the whole of the day, 
 and have my sandwiches and cake and 
 fruit for supper, there under the trees. 
 And here in thought let me leave "The 
 Student in Arms,"' who was to me part 
 son, best pal, brother, comrade, and coun- 
 sellor on all subjects — and more than a 
 little bit of grandpapa ! 
 
 He could be so many different things 
 because, as another friend and cousin 
 said, " he seemed to know everything about 
 everybody. ^' 
 
 I like to think of those two fine spirits 
 — Hugh and Donald — each with a hand 
 to the tiny baby nephew, and a word of 
 greeting for me when I go over the top. 
 
 THE END 
 
 246 
 
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