America at War.
By Ian Hay.
II.[1]—Civilian Effort.
The American soldier is fortunate, above all, in respect of his social welfare. The Americans do not claim to be a military nation—they hate the word—but they do claim, rightly, to understand home life. They are the most domestic and home-loving nation on earth—possibly because there is no need for them to stray outside their own great land in search of adventure or profit. An American citizen cherishes a sentimental affection for his home town quite inexplicable to the roaming Englishman, who can make himself equally comfortable in Wei-Hai-Wei or Wigan. "Home. Sweet Home" was written by an American. Home and mother reign supreme in the American heart, and the American is not ashamed to own it. And, therefore, since the American boy in camp to-day is often undoubtedly and frankly home-sick—a condition which the more reticent Englishman but rarely admits the whole motherhood of America to-day is, mobilizing to set the matter right.
Social Centres.
The attention lavished upon the American "Rookie" of 1918 would rouse envy in the breast of many of his British forerunners of 1914, whose opportunities for social relaxation were usually limited to the regimental canteen or a distant and overcrowded Y.M.C.A, hut or movie show. And national anxiety for the welfare of her soldiers has produced in America to-day a most happy alliance between America's two outstanding characteristics—generosity and organizing ability. As a start, the American Y.M.C.A, was given the supreme direction of the social life of the Army and Navy. The Y.M.C.A, promptly appealed for 35 millions of dollars, and raised them within a fortnight. To-day in each camp and naval base stands a huge Y.M.C.A, social centre, with recreation rooms, writing-rooms, and an auditorium capable of holding three or four; thousand men. There is also a so-called Hostess House, for lady visitors to the camp. The female element is strongly represented. On Sunday afternoon in particular a military camp in the neighbourhood of a large town is a vortex—a vortex of sweethearts and wives—encircled by an impassable barrier of Ford cars. In fact, the military authorities of the camps have been compelled to intimate on more than one occasion that one may have too much of a good thing, and that there is a war to be finished. Consequently, a good deal of this kind of exuberance has been sensibly modified by the removal of units to camps at some distance from their home district.
In the great cities, too, are countless clubs and rest-houses for soldiers and sailors, though there is nothing to compare with our own Union Jack Club. These are in the main admirably administered, and varied to suit all tastes. In some the, outstanding feature is extensive spiritual supervision; in others, as an American marine once appreciatively remarked to me, "They pull no preacher stuff on you!" Another common form of hospitality is to invite a couple of soldiers or sailors to spend the week-end with one's family. In self-conscious, caste-observing England one would see rocks ahead in such an enterprise—in fact, it would be difficult to imagine which would be the more uncomfortable, hosts or guests—but in America, where native politeness underlies every variety of manners, the scheme appears to present no such difficulty.
Popular Recruits.
Altogether, the American recruit cannot complain that his patriotism is unappreciated. In America to-day every man in khaki or blue is a hero; and his countrymen, being more demonstrative than we, do not hesitate to tell him so. Roughly speaking, he receives about as much, petting as one of our wounded or convalescent men. In return, an extremely high standard of conduct is expected of him. A carping critic might call it impossibly high. He is forbidden partake of alcohol in any form, while his morals are ruthlessly safeguarded at every turn. The Americans are essentially a race of idealists, not afraid to express their ideals. Their ideal of this new Army of theirs is an Army of Ironsides, blessed by abstention from strong waters and upheld by the Sword of the Lord and Gideon. Reduced to terms of prohibition from beer, and supervision by innumerable vigilance societies, these blessings may strike the prosaically minded bénéficiare as a trifle drastic. Still, the big idea is there all the time; and America excels at carrying big ideas into execution.
Public Self-Denial.
So much for the soldier. But the civilian is doing his "bit" too. Her soil is so rich and her territory so vast that we in England and France are apt to overlook the fact that America is feeling the war pinch too. The cost of living has doubled. Sugar is nearly as scarce as with us. There is a serious scarcity of casual labour, for the tide of immigration which supplies that demand has ceased to flow since the outbreak of the war. There has been a coal famine so serious that it was actually found necessary at one period to import coal from England in order to enable certain liners to sail from American ports. There is a scarcity of meat and wheat, largely because America must feed the Allies as well as herself. Compulsory rationing is on the way; and no bad thing either; for, as with us, the just are making sacrifices for the benefit of the unjust. Meanwhile a voluntary programme of self-denial has been promulgated by the Government. Thousands of men, women, and children are cheerfully submitting to that programme, not because it is compulsory, but because it is "playing the game." The following popular ditty gives succinct expression to the soul-anguish of the patriotic American to-day:—
You tell me to eat less?
Well—Tuesday is meatless;
I grow a bit thinner each day.
My socks, they are feetless.
My beds, they are sheetless;
(All gone to the Y.M.C.A.);
My Mondays are heatless,
My Wednesdays wheatless;
I live just as mean as a miser;
My coffee is sweetless,
My trousers are seatless—
Oh Hell, how I do hate the Kaiser!
Individual effort and individual sacrifice are everywhere apparent. Hundreds of wealthy and prominent men, over military age, have abandoned their business for the duration of the war and are now serving in various Departments of State at a nominal salary of one dollar (4s. 2d.) a year. Hundreds more are engaged in the manifold activities of the Red Cross and Y.M.C.A. And it is the same with their wives and children. Still, this work is only individual work. To-day the American nation, in the first year of its war, is divided (as was another country with which we are more familiar) into people who realize the war and people who do not. Those who do are contributing to the common cause a measure of effort and devotion out of all proportion to their numbers. In fact, it is not too much to say that every American to-day who does realize the war with the realization that goes deeper than flag-waving is straining every nerve to win it. And his numbers are increasing week by week. But America is a big country.
- ↑ The previous article appeared in The Times yesterday.
