stiff upper lips under a square quarter of an inch of fair bristles, went into this war with unemotional and unconscious heroism.  Unlike the French officer, who had just that touch of emotionalism and self-consciousness which delights in the hero-worship in the streets, the cheers of great crowds, the fluttering of women’s handkerchiefs, and the showering of flowers from high balconies, these English boys had packed up their traps and gone away from homes just as they had got back to school after the holidays, a little glum, and serious, at the thought of work.  “Good-bye, mother.”

The embrace had lasted a few seconds longer than usual.  This mother had held her son tight, and had turned a little pale.  But her voice had been steady and she had spoken familiar words of affection and advice, just as if her boy were off to the hunting-fields, or a polo match.

“Good-bye, darling.  Do be careful, won’t you?  Don’t take unnecessary risks.”

“Right-o! ...  Back soon, I hope.”  That was all, in most cases.  No sobs or heartbreaks.  No fine words about patriotism, and the sweetness of death for the Mother Country, and the duty of upholding the old traditions of the Flag.  All that was taken for granted, as it had been taken for granted when this tall fellow in brand new khaki with nice-smelling belts of brown leather, was a bald-headed baby on a lace pillow in a cradle, or an obstreperous boy in a big nursery.  The word patriotism is never spoken in an English household of this boy’s class.  There are no solemn discourses about duty to the Mother Country.  Those things have always been taken for granted, like the bread and butter at the breakfast table, and the common decencies of life, and the good manners of well-bred people.  When his mother had brought a man-child into the world she knew that this first-born would be a soldier, at some time of his life.  In thousands of families it is still the tradition.  She knew also that if it were necessary, according to the code of England, to send a punitive expedition against some native race, or to capture a new piece of the earth for the British Empire, this child of hers would play his part, and take the risks, just as his father had done, and his grandfather.  The boy knew also, though he was never told.  The usual thing had happened at the usual age.

“I suppose you will soon be ready for Sandhurst, Dick?” “Yes, I suppose so, father.”

3

So when the war came these young men who had been gazetted six months or so before went out to France as most men go to do their job, without enthusiasm, but without faltering, in the same matter-of-fact way as a bank clerk catches the 9.15 train to the city.  But death might be at the end of the journey?  Yes.  Quite likely.  They would die in the same quiet way.  It was a natural incident of the job.  A horrid nuisance, of course, quite rotten, and all that, but no more to be shirked than the risk of taking a toss over an ugly fence.  It was what this young man had been born for.  It was the price he paid for his caste.