I showed ‘im next my wife an’ kids, ‘e up an’ showed me ’is,
  Them funny little Frenchy kids with ’air all in a frizz;
  “Annette,” ’e says, “Louise,” ‘e says, an’ ’is tears began to fall;
  We was comrades when we parted, but we’d ’ardly spoke at all.

January, 1916.

The New Year brings us a mixed bag of tricks, good and bad.  Our armies grow in numbers and efficiency, in men and munitions.  The new Commander-in-Chief on the Western front, and his new Chief of Staff, inspire confidence in all ranks, combatant and non-combatant.  John Ward, the Labour Member, hitherto a strong opponent of conscription, and now a full-blown Colonel, has hurried over from the front to defend the Compulsory Service Bill in a manly and animated speech, and the Bill, despite the “Pringling” and pacificism of a small but local minority, has passed through Committee.

Against these encouraging omens we have to set the complete evacuation of Gallipoli, the scene of unparalleled heroism and unavailing sacrifice, the fall of Monastir, the overrunning of Serbia, labour troubles on the Clyde, and the ignominious exemption of Ireland from the Military Service Bill.  General Townshend, rebus angustis animosus—­“in a tight place but full of beans”—­is besieged in Kut, and the relieving forces have not been able to dislodge the Turks.  Climate and weather and terrain are all against us.

Humanitarian Pacificists are much impressed by Germany’s piteous lamentations over the brutality of the blockade.  In these appeals to America optimists detect signs of cracking.  Cooler observers explain them as evidence of her policy of shamming dead.

English mothers who have lost their only sons cannot be expected to show sympathy for an Emperor who combines the professions of a Jekyll with the ferocity of a Hyde.  Yet few of them would rewrite the record of these short lives; their pride is greater than their pain.

While the daily toll of life is heavy, War, shorn of its pomp and pageantry, drags wearily in the trenches.  The Lovelace of to-day is a troglodyte, biding his time patiently, but often a prey to ennui.  This is how he writes to Lucasta to correct the portrait painted by her fancy: 

  Above, the sky is very grey, the world is very damp. 
  His light the sun denies by day, the moon by night her lamp;
  Across the landscape, soaked and sad, the dull guns answer back,
  And through the twilight’s futile hush spasmodic rifles crack.

  The papers haven’t come to-day to show how England feels;
  The hours go lame and languidly between our Spartan meals;
  We’ve written letters till we’re tired, with not a thing to tell
  Except that nothing’s doing, weather beastly, writer well.

  So when you feel for us out here—­as well I know you will—­
  Then sympathise with thousands for their country sitting still;
  Don’t picture battle-pieces by the lurid Press adored,
  But miles and miles of Britishers, in burrows, badly bored.