These veterans could “grouse,” as the British call it.  Grousing is one of Tommy’s privileges.  When they got to grousing worst on the retreat from Mons, their officers knew that what they really wanted was to make another stand.  They were tired of falling back; they meant to take a rest and fight a while.  Their language was yours, the language in which our own laws and schoolbooks are written.  They made the old blood call.  For months they had been taking bitter medicine; very bitter for a British soldier.  The way they took it will, perhaps, remain a greater tribute than any part they play in future victories.

“How do they feel in the States?” I was asked.  “Against us?”

“No.  By no means.”

“I don’t see how they could be!” Tommy exclaimed.

Tommy may not be much on argument as it is developed by the controversial spirit of college professors, but he had said about all there was to say.  How can we be?  Hardly, after you come to know T. Atkins and his officers and talk English with them around their camp-fires.

“The Germans are always sending up flares,” I remarked.  “You send up none.  How about it?”

“It cheers them.  They’re downhearted!” said one of the group.  “You wouldn’t deny them their fireworks, would you, sir?”

“That shows who is top dog,” said another.  “They’re the ones that are worried.”

I had heard of trench exhaustion, trench despair, but there was no sign of it in a regiment that had been through all the hell and mire that the British army had known since the war began.  To no one had Neuve Chapelle meant so much as to these common soldiers.  It was their first real victory.  They were standing on soil won from the Germans.

“We’re going to Berlin!” said a big fellow who was standing, palms downward to the fire.  “It’s settled.  We’re going to Berlin.”

A smaller man with his back against the sandbags disagreed.  There was a trench argument.

“No, we’re going to the Rhine,” he said.  “The Russians are going to Berlin.” (This was in March, 1915, remember.)

“How can they when they ain’t over the Balkans yet?”

“The Carpathians, you mean.”

“Well, they’re both mountains and the Russians have got to cross them.  And there’s a place called Cracow in that region.  What’s the matter of a pair of mountain ranges between you and me, Bill?  You’re strong on geography, but you fail to follow the campaign.”

“The Rhine, I say!”

“It’s the Rhine first, but Berlin is what you want to keep your mind on.”

Then I asked if they had ever had any doubt that they would reach the Rhine.

“How could we, sir?”

“And how about the Germans.  Do you hate them?”

“Hate!” exclaimed the big man.  “What good would it do to hate them?  No, we don’t hate.  We get our blood up when we’re fighting and when they don’t play the game.  But hate!  Don’t you think that’s kind of ridiculous, sir?”