all roads lead to calvary-第53节
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g them away。 'They shan't pass；' 'They shan't pass！'that's all they kept saying。〃 His voice had sunk to a thin whisper。
A young officer was lying in a corner behind a screen。 He leant forward and pushed it aside。
〃Oh； give the devil his due； you fellows；〃 he said。 〃War isn't a pretty game； but it does make for courage。 We all know that。 And things even finer than mere fighting pluck。 There was a man in my company； a Jacques Decrusy。 He was just a stupid peasant lad。 We were crowded into one end of the trench； about a score of us。 The rest of it had fallen in； and we couldn't move。 And a bomb dropped into the middle of us； and the same instant that it touched the ground Decrusy threw himself flat down upon it and took the whole of it into his body。 There was nothing left of him but scraps。 But the rest of us got off。 Nobody had drugged him to do that。 There isn't one of us who was in that trench that will not be a better man to the end of his days； remembering how Jacques Decrusy gave his life for ours。〃
〃I'll grant you all that； sir；〃 answered the young soldier who had first spoken。 He had long； delicate hands and eager； restless eyes。 〃War does bring out heroism。 So does pestilence and famine。 Read Defoe's account of the Plague of London。 How men and women left their safe homes； to serve in the pest…houses； knowing that sooner or later they were doomed。 Read of the mothers in India who die of slow starvation； never allowing a morsel of food to pass their lips so that they may save up their own small daily portion to add it to their children's。 Why don't we pray to God not to withhold from us His precious medicine of pestilence and famine？ So is shipwreck a fine school for courage。 Look at the chance it gives the captain to set a fine example。 And the engineers who stick to their post with the water pouring in upon them。 We don't reconcile ourselves to shipwrecks as a necessary school for sailors。 We do our best to lessen them。 So did persecution bring out heroism。 It made saints and martyrs。 Why have we done away with it？ If this game of killing and being killed is the fine school for virtue it is made out to be； then all our efforts towards law and order have been a mistake。 We never ought to have emerged from the jungle。〃
He took a note…book from under his pillow and commenced to scribble。
An old…looking man spoke。 He lay with his arms folded across his breast； addressing apparently the smoky rafters。 He was a Russian； a teacher of languages in Paris at the outbreak of the war； and had joined the French Army。
〃It is not only courage；〃 he said； 〃that War brings out。 It brings out vile things too。 Oh； I'm not thinking merely of the Boches。 That's the cant of every nation： that all the heroism is on one side and all the brutality on the other。 Take men from anywhere and some of them will be devils。 War gives them their opportunity； brings out the beast。 Can you wonder at it？ You teach a man to plunge a bayonet into the writhing flesh of a fellow human being； and twist it round and round and jamb it further in； while the blood is spurting from him like a fountain。 What are you making of him but a beast？ A man's got to be a beast before he can bring himself to do it。 I have seen things done by our own men in cold blood； the horror of which will haunt my memory until I die。 But of course； we hush it up when it happens to be our own people。〃
He ceased speaking。 No one seemed inclined to break the silence。
They remained confused in her memory； these talks among the wounded men in the low； dimly lighted hut that had become her world。 At times it was but two men speaking to one another in whispers； at others every creaking bed would be drawn into the argument。
One topic that never lost its interest was： Who made wars？ Who hounded the people into them； and kept them there； tearing at one another's throats？ They never settled it。
〃God knows I didn't want it； speaking personally；〃 said a German prisoner one day； with a laugh。 〃I had been working at a printing business sixteen hours a day for seven years。 It was just beginning to pay me； and now my wife writes me that she has had to shut the place up and sell the machinery to keep them all from starving。〃
〃But couldn't you have done anything to stop it？〃 demanded a Frenchman； lying next to him。 〃All your millions of Socialists； what were they up to？ What went wrong with the Internationale； the Universal Brotherhood of Labour； and all that Tra…la…la？〃
The German laughed again。 〃Oh； they know their business；〃 he answered。 〃You have your glass of beer and go to bed； and when you wake up in the morning you find that war has been declared； and you keep your mouth shutunless you want to be shot for a traitor。 Not that it would have made much difference；〃 he added。 〃I admit that。 The ground had been too well prepared。 England was envious of our trade。 King Edward had been plotting our destruction。 Our papers were full of translations from yours； talking about 'La Revanche！' We were told that you had been lending money to Russia to enable her to build railways； and that when they were complete France and Russia would fall upon us suddenly。 'The Fatherland in danger！' It may be lies or it may not； what is one to do？ What would you have doneeven if you could have done anything？〃
〃He's right；〃 said a dreamy…eyed looking man； laying down the book he had been reading。 〃We should have done just the same。 'My country； right or wrong。' After all； it is an ideal。〃
A dark； black…bearded man raised himself painfully upon his elbow。 He was a tailor in the Rue Parnesse； and prided himself on a decided resemblance to Victor Hugo。
〃It's a noble ideal；〃 he said。 〃La Patrie！ The great Mother。 Right or wrong； who shall dare to harm her？ Yes； if it was she who rose up in her majesty and called to us。〃 He laughed。 〃What does it mean in reality： Germania； Italia； La France； Britannia？ Half a score of pompous old muddlers with their fat wives egging them on： sons of the fools before them； talkers who have wormed themselves into power by making frothy speeches and fine promises。 My Country！〃 he laughed again。 〃Look at them。 Can't you see their swelling paunches and their flabby faces？ Half a score of ambitious politicians； gouty old financiers； bald…headed old toffs； with their waxed moustaches and false teeth。 That's what we mean when we talk about 'My Country'： a pack of selfish； soulless； muddle…headed old men。 And whether they're right or whether they're wrong； our duty is to fight at their biddingto bleed for them； to die for them； that they may grow more sleek and prosperous。〃 He sank back on his pillow with another laugh。
Sometimes they agreed it was the newspapers that made warthat fanned every trivial difference into a vital question of national honourthat； whenever there was any fear of peace； re…stoked the fires of hatred with their never…failing stories of atrocities。 At other times they decided it was the capitalists； the traders； scenting profit for themselves。 Some held it was the politicians； dreaming of going down to history as Richelieus or as Bismarcks。 A popular theory was that cause for war was always discovered by the ruling classes whenever there seemed danger that the workers were getting out of hand。 In war； you put the common people back in their place； revived in them the habits of submission and obedience。 Napoleon the Little； it was argued； had started the war of 1870 with that idea。 Russia had welcomed the present war as an answer to the Revolution that was threatening Czardom。 Others contended it was the great munition industries； aided by the military party； the officers impatient for opportunities of advancement； the strategists eager to put their theories to the test。 A few of the more philosophical shrugged their shoulders。 It was the thing itself that sooner or later was bound to go off of its own accord。 Half every country's energy； half every country's time and money was spent in piling up explosives。 In every country envy and hatred of every other country was preached as a religion。 They called it patriotism。 Sooner or later the spark fell。
A wizened little man had been listening to it all one day。 He had a curiously rat…like face； with round； red； twinkling eyes； and a long； pointed nose that twitched as he talked。
〃I'll tell you who makes all the wars；〃 he said。 〃It's you and me； my dears： we make the wars。 We love them。 That's why we open our mouths and swallow all the twaddle that the papers give us； and cheer the fine； black…coated gentlemen when they tell us it's our sacred duty to kill Germans； or Italians； or Russians； or anybody else。 We are just crazy to kill something： it doesn't matter what。 If it's to be Germans； we shout 'A Berlin！'； and if it's to be Russians we cheer for Liberty。 I was in Paris at the time of the Fashoda trouble。 How we hissed the English in the cafes！ And how they glared back at us！ They were just as eager to kill us。 Who makes a dog fight？ Why； the dog。 Anybody can do it。 Who could make us fight each other； if we didn't want to？ Not all the king's horses and all the King's men。 No； my dears； it's we
