The Cologne Gazette has stated that “there is in England no real soldiers’ humour such as we have.”  Certainly we have nothing like it, though we confess to preferring the home-grown brand.

December, 1915

Kut and Ctesiphon, Ctesiphon and Kut.  Thus may the events of the last month in Mesopotamia, no longer a “blessed word,” be expressed in a bald formula, which takes no account of the unavailing heroism of General Townshend’s small but splendid force.  Things have not been going well in the East.  The Allies have been unable to save Serbia, Monastir has fallen, and our lines have been withdrawn to Salonika.  The experts are now divided into two camps, the Westerners and the Easterners, and the former, pointing to the evacuation of Gallipoli, are loud in their denunciations of costly “side-shows,” and the folly of strengthening Germany’s hold on Turkey by killing out the Turks, instead of concentrating all our forces on killing the Germans on the Western front.  The time is not yet come to decide which is right.  But all are agreed with the British officer who described the Australian soldier at Gallipoli as “the bravest thing God ever made,” and so prompted these lines: 

  Bravest, where half a world of men
    Are brave beyond all earth’s rewards,
  So stoutly none shall charge again
    Till the last breaking of the swords;
  Wounded or hale, won home from war,
    Or yonder by the Lone Pine laid;
  Give him his due for evermore—­
    “The bravest thing God ever made!”

Though the wings of the angel of Peace cannot be heard, peace kite-flying has already begun in Vienna, but Germany is anxious to represent it as unauthorised and improper.  Mr. Henry Ford’s voyage to Europe on the Oscar II with a strangely assorted group of Pacificists does more credit to his heart than his head, and the conflicting elements in his party have earned for his ship the name of “The Tug of Peace.”  Anyhow, England is taking no risks on the strength of these irregular “overtures.”  A vote has been passed for a further increase of our “contemptible little Army” to four millions; and the manufacture of high explosive goes on in an ever-increasing ratio.  Sir Douglas Haig has succeeded Sir John French as Commander-in-Chief of our Armies in France; Sir William Robertson is the new Chief of Staff—­Scotsmen both of the finest type—­and the appointments are universally approved, even by the Daily Mail.  The temper of the men in France is well hit off by an officer when he says that “Atkins is really best when an ordinary mortal might be contemplating suicide or desertion.”  And officers arriving on leave at Victoria at 2 A.M. are driven to the conclusion that they are sent back to England from time to time to check their optimism, which at the front survives even being sent to so-called rest camps in the middle of a malodorous marsh for nine hours’ military training per diem.  The “philosophy of Thomas” is inscrutable, but no doubt he derives satisfaction from comparisons: