Chukovsky, the subtle critic, calling in upon me after braving the wintry seas to see the British fleet; M.Joseph Reinach follows them presently upon the same errand; and then appear photographs of Mr.Arnold Bennett wading in the trenches of Flanders, Mr.Noyes becomes discreetly indiscreet about what he has seen among the submarines, and Mr.Hugh Walpole catches things from Mr.Stephen Graham in the Dark Forest of Russia.All this is quite over and above such writing of facts at first hand as Mr.Patrick McGill and a dozen other real experiencing soldiers--not to mention the soldiers' letters Mr.James Milne has collected, or the unforgettable and immortal /Prisoner of War/ of Mr.Arthur Green--or such admirable war correspondents' work as Mr.Philip Gibbs or Mr.Washburne has done.Some of us writers--I can answer for one--have made our Tour of the Fronts with a very understandable diffidence.For my own part I did not want to go.I evaded a suggestion that Ishould go in 1915.I travel badly, I speak French and Italian with incredible atrocity, and am an extreme Pacifist.I hate soldiering.And also I did not want to write anything "under instruction".It is largely owing to a certain stiffness in the composition of General Delme-Radcliffe is resolved that Italy shall not feel neglected by the refusal of the invitation from the Commando Supremo by anyone who from the perspective of Italy may seem to be a representative of British opinion.If Herbert Spencer had been alive General Radcliffe would have certainly made him come, travelling-hammock, ear clips and all--and I am not above confessing that I wish that Herbert Spencer was alive--for this purpose.I found Udine warm and gay with memories of Mr.Belloc, Lord Northcliffe, Mr.Sidney Low, Colonel Repington and Dr.Conan Doyle, and anticipating the arrival of Mr.Harold Cox.So we pass, mostly in automobiles that bump tremendously over war roads, a cloud of witnesses each testifying after his manner.Whatever else has happened, we have all been photographed with invincible patience and resolution under the direction of Colonel Barberich in a sunny little court in Udine.
My own manner of testifying must be to tell what I have seen and what I have thought during this extraordinary experience.It has been my natural disposition to see this war as something purposeful and epic, as it is great, as an epoch, as "the War that will end War"--but of that last, more anon.I do not think I am alone in this inclination to a dramatic and logical interpretation.The caricatures in the French shops show civilisation (and particularly Marianne) in conflict with a huge and hugely wicked Hindenburg Ogre.Well, I come back from this tour with something not so simple as that.If I were to be tied down to one word for my impression of this war, I should say that this war is /Queer./ It is not like anything in a really waking world, but like something in a dream.It hasn't exactly that clearness of light against darkness or of good against ill.
But it has the quality of wholesome instinct struggling under a nightmare.The world is not really awake.This vague appeal for explanations to all sorts of people, this desire to exhibit the business, to get something in the way of elucidation at present missing, is extraordinarily suggestive of the efforts of the mind to wake up that will sometimes occur at a deep crisis.My memory of this tour I have just made is full of puzzled-looking men.Ihave seen thousands of /poilus/ sitting about in cafes, by the roadside, in tents, in trenches, thoughtful.
I have seen Alpini sitting restfully and staring with speculative eyes across the mountain gulfs towards unseen and unaccountable enemies.I have seen trainloads of wounded staring out of the ambulance train windows as we passed.I have seen these dim intimations of questioning reflection in the strangest juxtapositions; in Malagasy soldiers resting for a spell among the big shells they were hoisting into trucks for the front, in a couple of khaki-clad Maoris sitting upon the step of a horse-van in Amiens station.It is always the same expression one catches, rather weary, rather sullen, inturned.The shoulders droop.The very outline is a note of interrogation.They look up as the privileged tourist of the front, in the big automobile or the reserved compartment, with his officer or so in charge, passes--importantly.One meets a pair of eyes that seems to say:
"Perhaps /you/ understand....
"In which case---...?"
It is a part, I think, of this disposition to investigate what makes everyone collect "specimens" of the war.Everywhere the souvenir forces itself upon the attention.The homecoming permissionaire brings with him invariably a considerable weight of broken objects, bits of shell, cartridge clips, helmets; it is a peripatetic museum.It is as if he hoped for a clue.It is almost impossible, I have found, to escape these pieces in evidence.I am the least collecting of men, but I have brought home Italian cartridges, Austrian cartridges, the fuse of an Austrian shell, a broken Italian bayonet, and a note that is worth half a franc within the confines of Amiens.But a large heavy piece of exploded shell that had been thrust very urgently upon my attention upon the Carso I contrived to lose during the temporary confusion of our party by the arrival and explosion of another prospective souvenir in our close proximity.And two really very large and almost complete specimens of some species of /Ammonites/ unknown to me, from the hills to the east of the Adige, partially wrapped in a back number of the /Corriere della Sera/, that were pressed upon me by a friendly officer, were unfortunately lost on the line between Verona and Milan through the gross negligence of a railway porter.But I doubt if they would have thrown any very conclusive light upon the war.
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