To be perfectly candid, before the war, the Army had placed very little reliance upon the patriotism or integrity of the country.  The Army was a thing apart—­detached from the swirl of conflicting ideas, and the eddies of political strife.  The Army was, so to speak, on the bank, and it looked with stern disapproval at the river sweeping so swiftly by.  It neither understood the forces that were hurrying the waters along, nor did it realise the goal that they were striving to reach.  Perhaps it did not take the trouble, perhaps it could not.

Then, when the war clouds began to blacken the horizon, the Army, having so little sympathy with the vast and complex civilisation which it was to defend, felt convinced that the national feelings and political sense of the nation would be slumbering so soundly that no call of honour could awaken it to the realisation of either its duty or its danger.  But the horse which all the expert trainers had dismissed as a “non-starter” for the next great race, suddenly gathered his haunches under him, and shot out on the long track to victory.  The Army, with the rest of the world, realised that, after all, the heart of the nation was in the right place.  Nevertheless, the tremendous wave of patriotism that had swept so splendidly over Britain caused, at first, not a little suspense.

“Good Heavens! he’s asking for a million men,” gasped the Subaltern.

“Well, if he doesn’t get them, this Company will go over and fight for Germany,” said the Captain.  “The country isn’t worth fighting for if it can’t raise a million men.”

“The Government seem to be doing jolly well,” some one volunteered.

“And so they darn well ought,” said the Senior Subaltern.  “But you wait and see.  If something wonderful does not happen in about six months’ time, all sorts of fools will be up on their hind legs, shouting out how the show, as they would do it, should be run.”

As events turned out, the Senior Subaltern was not far wrong.

At this time, too, the country was thrilled with its first feeling of pride in the Army since Waterloo.  The dramatic rush of events—­Mons, the Retreat, the dramatic rally when all seemed lost, and the splendid victory of the Marne, the continued advance, the deadlock on the Aisne—­people were gasping at the magnificence of the success.  They realised that the swift and sudden victory which Germany had counted on had been frustrated, and that owing to the French and the “contemptible little Army” eventual victory had been assured.

Every one who had the ear of the “public” was raining praise upon this contemptible little Army, and the contemptible little Army was surprised; but although they classified the eloquent speeches and dashing articles under the sweeping phrase of “hot air,” these things pleased them a good deal, although they never have admitted it.  The country, it appeared, had learned to appreciate them—­a little late, it is true; still, in the volatile imagination of the public, they had arrived.  They were quietly pleased, and awoke to the realisation of what fine fellows they were.