Ruritania offered the apology, the indemnity, and the public degradation of Captain Tomsk, but urged that this last ceremony would be better performed by the Commander–in–Chief of the Ruritanian Army; otherwise Ruritania might as well cease to be a sovereign state, for she would lose her prestige in the eyes of Europe, and sink to the level of a fifth–rate power.
There was only one possible reply to this, and Essenland made it. She invaded Ruritania.
("Aren't they wonderful?" said the gods in Olympus to each other.
"But haven't you made a mistake?" asked the very young god. "Porkins lives in England, not Essenland."
"Wait a moment," said the others.)
In the capital of Borovia the leader–writer of the "Borovian Patriot" got to work. "How does Borovia stand?" he asked. "If Essenland occupies Ruritania, can any thinking man in Borovia feel safe with the enemy at his gates?" (The Borovian peasant, earning five marks a week, would have felt no less safe than usual, but then he could hardly be described as a thinking man.) "It is vital to the prestige of Borovia that the integrity of Ruritania should be preserved. Otherwise we may resign ourselves at once to the prospect of becoming a fifth–rate power in the eyes of Europe." And in a speech, gravely applauded by all parties, the Borovian Chancellor said the same thing. So the Imperial Army was mobilized and, amidst a wonderful display of patriotic enthusiasm by those who were remaining behind, the Borovian troops marched to the front….
_("And there you are," said the gods in Olympus.
"But even now—" began the very young god doubtfully.
"Silly, isn't Felicia the ally of Essenland; isn't Marksland the ally of Borovia; isn't England the ally of the ally of the ally of the Country which holds the balance of power between Marksland and Felicia?"
"But if any of them thought the whole thing stupid or unjust or—"
"Their prestige," said the gods gravely, trying not to laugh.
"Oh, I see," said the very young god.)_
And when a year later the hundred–thousandth English mother woke up to read that her boy had been shot, I am afraid she shed foolish tears and thought that the world had come to an end.
Poor short–sighted creature! She didn't realize that Porkins, who had marched round in ninety–six the day before, was now thoroughly braced up.
("What babies they all are," said the very young god.)
Gold Braid
Same old crossing, same old boat, Same old dust round Rouen way, Same old narsty one–franc note, Same old "Mercy, sivvoo play"; Same old scramble up the line, Same old 'orse–box, same old stror, Same old weather, wet or fine, Same old blooming War.
Ho Lor, it isn't a dream, It's just as it used to be, every bit; Same old whistle and same old bang, And me out again to be 'it.
'Twas up by Loos I got me first; I just dropped gently, crawled a yard And rested sickish, with a thirst— The 'eat, I thought, and smoking 'ard…. Then someone 'ands me out a drink, What poets call "the cooling draft," And seeing 'im I done a think: "Blighty," I thinks—and laughed.
I'm not a soldier nacheral, No more than most of us to–day; I runs a business with a pal (Meaning the Missis) Fulham way; Greengrocery—the cabbages And fruit and things I take meself, And she has dafts and crocuses A–smiling on a shelf.
"Blighty," I thinks. The doctor knows; 'E talks of punctured damn–the–things. It's me for Blighty. Down I goes; I ain't a singer, but I sings. "Oh, 'oo goes 'ome?" I sort of 'ums; "Oh, 'oo's for dear old England's shores?" And by–and–by Southampton comes— "Blighty!" I says, and roars.
I s'pose I thort I done my bit; I s'pose I thort the War would stop; I saw meself a–getting fit With Missis at the little shop; The same like as it used to be, The same old markets, same old crowd, The same old marrers, same old me, But 'er as proud as proud….
The regiment is where it was, I'm in the same old ninth platoon; New faces most, and keen becos They thinks the thing is ending soon; I ain't complaining, mind, but still, When later on some newish bloke Stops one and laughs, "A blighty, Bill," I'll wonder, "Where's the joke?"
Same old trenches, same old view, Same old rats as blooming tame, Same old dug–outs, nothing new, Same old smell, the very same, Same old bodies out in front, Same old strafe from 2 till 4, Same old scratching, same old 'unt. Same old bloody War.
Ho Lor, it isn't a dream, It's just as it used to be, every bit; Same old whistle and same old bang. And me to stay 'ere till I'm 'it.
Toby
It will save trouble if I say at once that I know nothing about horses. This will be quite apparent to you, of course, before I have finished, but I don't want you to suppose that it is not also quite apparent to me. I have no illusions on the subject; neither, I imagine, has Toby.
To me there are only two kinds of horse. Chestnuts, roans, bay rums—I know nothing of all these; I can only describe a horse simply as a nice horse or a nasty horse. Toby is a nice horse.
Toby, of course, knows much more about men than I do about horses, and no doubt he describes me professionally to his colleagues as a "flea–bitten fellow standing about eighteen hoofs"; but when he is not being technical I like to think that he sums me up to himself as a nice man. At any rate I am not allowed to wear spurs, and that must weigh with a horse a good deal.
I have no real right to Toby. The Signalling Officer's official mount is a bicycle, but a bicycle in this weather—! And there is Toby, and somebody must ride him, and, as I point out to the other subalterns, it would only cause jealousy if one of them rode him, and—"
"Why would it create more jealousy than if you do?" asked one of them.
"Well," I said, "you're the officer commanding platoon number—"
"Fifteen."
"Fifteen. Now, why should the officer commanding the fifteenth platoon ride a horse when the officer commanding the nineteenth—"
He reminded me that there were only sixteen platoons in a battalion. It's such a long time since I had anything to do with platoons that I forget.
"All right, we'll say the sixteenth. Why shouldn't he have a horse? Of all the unjust—Well, you see what recriminations it would lead to. Now I don't say I'm more valuable than a platoon–commander or more effective on a horse, but, at any rate, there aren't sixteen of me. There's only one Signalling Officer, and if there is a spare horse over—"
"What about the Bombing Officer?" said O.C. Platoon 15 carelessly.
I had quite forgotten the Bombing Officer. Of course he is a specialist too.
"Yes, quite so, but if you would only think a little," I said, thinking hard all the time, "you would—well, put it this way. The range of a Mills bomb is about fifty yards; the range of a field telephone is several miles. Which of us is more likely to require a horse?"
"And the Sniping officer?" he went on dreamily.
This annoyed me.
"You don't shoot snipe from horseback," I said sharply. "You're mixing up shooting and hunting, my lad. And in any case there are reasons, special reasons, why I ride Toby—reasons of which you know nothing."
Here are the reasons:—