A young officer said to me one day -- "Horrible as the whole thing is, yet it almost seems worth while, when you think of the splendid things done -- and done too in such a simple matter-of-fact way: when you think of all the love and devotion poured out, and the lives our men have given one for the sake of another." Great indeed is the spirit of such an army, great its magnanimity, its simplicity of mind, its unself-consciousness, its single concentration on its purpose. Yet perhaps the most surprising thing about our men is that they have done all this with so little hatred in their hearts for the enemy. Whatever the Germans may have felt, and whatever the French, the Britishers have just done their fighting in their own nonchalant way "because they had to" -- with scarcely a shadow of malice or revenge -- rather with that respect for a doughty opponent which always distinguishes the true fighter. Think of that quaint story (Between The Lines, by Boyd Cable, pp 188 ff) of the German Burschen in their trenches, singing with pious enthusiasm the Song of Hate (probably commanded and compelled, poor devils, to sing it) and our men for days secretly listening, learning the words, practicing the tune on their muffled, mouth-organs; till having got it all complete they one morning, burst it forth in full chorus on the astonished Teutons, nor failed at the end to blaze out "Gott strafe England" at the top of, their voices as if they really meant it -- and then subsided into a roar of laughter. They simply would not take the German "Hate" seriously. Well, what can an enemy do with such an army? It would seem indeed to be invincible. The other surprising thing about this Army is (but it is also in part true of the Russians and others) that the members of it not only bear so little malice in their heart of hearts against the enemy, but that all the time they (or nine-tenths of them) are giving their life-blood, for a Country which in hardly any available or adequate sense can really be said to belong to them. Not one man of ours in ten, probably not one in a hundred, has any direct rights or interest in his native soil; and the Motherland has too often (at any rate in the past) turned out a stepmother who disowned him later when crippled in her service. He is told that he is fighting for his country, but he finds that his real privilege is to die at the foot of a Trespass-board on some rich man's estate, singing bravely to the last that "Britons never, never shall be slaves!" He is told that he is defending his hearth and his home, and to prove that that is so, he is sent out on a far campaign to further some dubious scheme -- in Mesopotamia! I think we cannot refuse to say that the good temper and they single-heartedness and the single mindedness of the British soldier are beyond all praise. But, in another way, how admirable and how great has the French soldier proved himself to be!