Hirgen at 04:17, 19 September 2008

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	with relish and eloquence that is sometimes lacking in good taste.		with relish and eloquence that is sometimes lacking in good taste.
	But let it pass. In view of his real heroism we cannot grudge		But let it pass. In view of his real heroism we cannot grudge
−	him this one prized luxury.~~<HR ALIGN=LEFT>~~	+	him this one prized luxury.
	<hr>		<hr>

	<center>Return to '''[[A Student in Arms]]'''</center>		<center>Return to '''[[A Student in Arms]]'''</center>

Hirgen at 04:16, 19 September 2008

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← Older revision		Revision as of 04:16, 19 September 2008
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	But let it pass. In view of his real heroism we cannot grudge		But let it pass. In view of his real heroism we cannot grudge
	him this one prized luxury.<HR ALIGN=LEFT>		him this one prized luxury.<HR ALIGN=LEFT>
		+	<hr>
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		+	<center>Return to '''[[A Student in Arms]]'''</center>

Hirgen at 19:49, 7 September 2008

2008-09-07T19:49:47Z

New page

<CENTER>VI 

"THE COCKNEY WARRIOR"</CENTER>

 WHEN war broke out the public-school man applied for his commission
in the firm conviction that war was a glorified form of big-game
hunting---the highest form of sport. His whole training, the traditions
of his kind, had prepared him for that hour. From his earliest
school days he had been taught that it was the mark of a gentleman
to welcome danger, and to regard the risk of death as the most
piquant sauce to life. At school he had learnt, too, to sleep
on a hard bed, to endure plenty of fresh air, and a cold bath
on even the coldest mornings, and generally speaking to

<BLOCKQUOTE>
<BLOCKQUOTE>
 Welcome each rebuff 
That turns earth's smoothness rough.</BLOCKQUOTE>
</BLOCKQUOTE>

 While in his holidays the joys of shooting and fishing, and
perhaps even hunting, had accustomed him to the idea of taking
life, so that if the odds were even, it would even be a recognized
form of sport to hunt, and to be hunted by, his fellow man.

 We who knew him had no doubt about the public-school boy; and
when we read of his spirit, his courage, his smiling contempt
of death, we told ourselves with pride that we knew it would be
so with him. But with the Cockney it was different. When on all
hands we heard praise of his bravery, his cheerfulness, his patience,
his discipline, even we who knew him best were relieved, and very
glad. For in every respect where the traditions of the public
school make for soldierly qualities, the traditions of the East
End seem to be against their formation. Tell a public-school boy
a thrilling tale of adventure and the tradition dictates that
he should say, "Oh, how jolly!" Tell the same story
to a boy in an East End club and convention demands that he shall
say, "Ow, I'm glad I wernt there!" The Cockney is not
brought up to see anything good in danger. He is brought up to
fear it and avoid it. Nor is be taught to welcome hardship. For
him and his kin life is so hard already that he naturally embraces
any mitigation of its rigors. He sleeps on a feather bed if possible,
with the tiny windows of the tiny room tight shut, and with his
brothers nestling close to him for greater warmth. Even when he
"changes" for football he generally only takes off his
coat, and puts on his jersey over his waistcoat. Well might those
who knew him mistrust his power to endure bravely the constant
exposure to the elements inseparable from a campaign. Moreover,
the Cockney is over-sensitive to pain. About hurt he is fearfully
sentimental. He is a thoroughly kind-hearted little fellow, who
not only doesn't want to hurt anything, but doesn't want himself
or anyone else to be hurt. True, the dangers of the boxing ring
have an enormous attraction for him, but as a rule it is a fearful
fascination far removed from the idea of emulation. In his quarrels
with his mates he often boasts great things; but his anger nearly
always evaporates in wordiness. He was, in fact, the last person
in the world that we could imagine going out with set teeth to
hurt and slay the enemies of his country. To all this we had to
add that he was an intense lover of home. The sights, the sounds
and smells of his native London are infinitely dear to him. Transplant
him even to the glories of a Kentish spring, and in a fortnight
he will begin to pine for home. Exile him to the Australian bush,
and no matter how high the pay, or rosy the prospects, he will
drift inevitably to Sydney or Melbourne, the nearest available
imitation of his beloved London. And so we couldn't help wondering
how he would endure month after month of exile, subject to every
discomfort and danger that he would be most likely to dread, and
committed to the very sort of action from which he would be most
likely to shrink.

 Well, he surprised us all, as we have said, and has given to
the world the amazing picture of a soldier who is infinitely brave
without vindictiveness, terrible without hate, all-enduring and
yet remaining his simple, kindly, jaunty self. For the Cockney
warrior does not hate the Hun. Often and often you will hear him
tell his mate that "the Bosches is just like us, they wants
to get 'ome as much as we do; but they can't 'elp theirselves."
At times he has regretful suspicions of the humanity of the Prussians
and Bavarians; but they are not long-lived, and even while they
endure he consoles himself with the proved good fellowship of
the Saxon. Did not such and such a regiment walk out of their
trenches and talk to them as man to man? The Cockney reckons that
when peace is declared both sides will run out of their trenches
and shake hands, and be the best of pals. "They can't 'elp
theirselves." This is the burden of the Cockney's philosophy
of war---a phrase that seems like the echo of a statelier word
of charity, "Father, forgive them, they know not what they
do." Caught up from his civilian life by a wave of tremendous
enthusiasm that completely overwhelmed his emotional nature, he
found himself swimming in a mighty current, the plaything of forces
he could neither understand nor control. But in splendid faith
in the righteousness of those forces he is content to give up
his will completely, and by swimming his best to do his bit to
help them to attain their appointed end. In a dim way he feels
the conflict of world forces, and is certain that he is on the
side of Michael and the Angels, and that the Kaiser is Lucifer
and Antichrist.

 The Cockney's sacrifice of his personality is for all practical
purposes complete, and sublimely heroic. He only makes one reservation---the
right so dear to all Englishmen---the right to grumble. To his
tongue he allows full license, because he knows that in such liberty
there is no real disloyalty because there is no efficacy. He curses
the war, the Kaiser, the weather, the food, and everything indiscriminately,
with relish and eloquence that is sometimes lacking in good taste.
But let it pass. In view of his real heroism we cannot grudge
him this one prized luxury.<HR ALIGN=LEFT>

VI "THE COCKNEY WARRIOR" - Revision history

Hirgen at 04:17, 19 September 2008

Hirgen at 04:16, 19 September 2008

Hirgen at 19:49, 7 September 2008