It has borne the horrors of the
retreat from Mons, when what the Kaiser called "General French's
contemptible little army" was forced back by oncoming hosts of many
times its number. It has fought, as the English will always fight,
with unequalled heroism but without heroics.
To-day, after many months of war, the British Army in the field is as
smart, in a military sense, as tidy--if it will forgive me the
word--as well ordered, as efficiently cared for, as the German Army
was in the beginning. Partly this is due to its splendid equipment.
Mostly it is due to that fetish of the British soldier wherever he may
be--personal neatness.
Behind the lines he is jaunty, cheerful, smart beyond belief. He hates
the trenches--not because they are dangerous or monotonous but because
it is difficult to take a bath in them. He is four days in the
trenches and four days out. On his days out he drills and marches, to
get back into condition after the forced inaction of the trenches. And
he gets his hair trimmed.
There is something about the appearance of the British soldier in the
field that got me by the throat. Perhaps because they are, in a sense,
my own people, speaking my tongue, looking at things from a view-point
that I could understand. That partly. But it was more than that.
These men and boys are volunteers, the very flower of England.
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