August, 1918. "WAR PICTURES" THE MOTHER: "Of course, I don't understand them, dear; but they give me a dreadful feeling. I can't bear to look at them. Is it really like that at the Front?" THE WARRIOR (who has seen terrible things in battle): "Thank heaven, no, mother." England deplores the death of Lord Rhondda, who achieved success in the most irksome and invidious of offices. He undertook the duties of Food Controller in broken health, never spared himself, and died in harness. It is to be hoped that he realised what was the truth--that he had won not only the confidence but the gratitude of the public. Spain has rendered herself unpleasantly conspicuous by developing and exporting a new form of influenza, and a Spanish astrologer predicts the end of the world in a few months' time. But we are not going to allow those petty distractions to take our minds off the War. Here we may note that Baron Burian's recent message indicates that but for the War everything would be all right in Austria. Our artists are certainly determined not to let us forget it. But the most valuable pictures do not find their way into galleries, though they do not lack appreciative spectators. CAMOUFLAGE OFFICER: "That's very clever. Who did it?" SERGEANT. "Oh, that's by Perkins, sir--quite an expert. Used to paint sparrows before the war and sell 'em for canaries." No record of the month would be complete without notice of the unique way in which the Fourth of July has been celebrated by John Bull and Uncle Sam in France. Truly such a meeting as this does make amends. August, 1918 . July was a glorious month for the Allies, and August is even better. It began with the recovery of Soissons; a week later it was the turn of the British, and Sir Douglas Haig struck hard on the Amiens front; since then the enemy have been steadily driven back by the unrelenting pressure of the Allies, Bapaume and Noyon have been recaptured, and with their faces set for home the Germans have learnt to recognise in a new and unpleasant sense the truth of the Kaiser's saying, "The worst is behind us." The 8th of August was a bad day for Germany, for it showed that the counter-offensive was not to be confined to one section; that henceforth no respite would be allowed from hammer-blows. The German High Command endeavours to tranquillise the German people by communiqués , the gist of which may thus be rendered in verse: In those very identical regions That sunder the Marne from the Aisne We advanced to the rear with our legions Long ago and have done it again; Fools murmur of errors committed, But every intelligent man Has accepted the view that we flitted According to plan. The French rivers have found their voice again: 'Twas the voice of the Marne That began it with "Garn! Full speed, Fritz, astarn!" Then the Ourcq and the Crise Sang "Move on, if you please." The Ardre and the Vesle Took up the glad tale, And cried to the Aisne "Wash out the Hun stain." So all the way back from the Marne the French rivers Have given the Boches in turn the cold shivers. "ACCORDING TO PLAN" LITTLE WILLIE: "Well, Father wanted a war of movement, and now he's got it!" VON POT AND VON KETTLE GERMAN GENERAL: "Why the devil don't you stop these Americans coming across? That's your job." GERMAN ADMIRAL: "And why the devil don't you stop 'em when they are across? That's yours." Hindenburg has confided to a newspaper correspondent that the German people need to develop the virtue of patience. According to the Berliner Tageblatt he has declared that he was not in favour of the July offensive. Ludendorff, on the other hand, may fairly point out that it isn't his offensive any longer. Anyhow, Hindenburg is fairly entitled to give Ludendorff the credit of it since Ludendorff's friends have always said that he supplied the old Mud-Marshal with brains. The amenities of the High Command are growing lively, since the Navy is also concerned, and the failure of the U-boats to check the influx of American troops needs a lot of explaining away. The good news from the Front has been received at home with remarkable composure, when one considers the acute anxiety of the last four months. But it is the way of England to endure felicity with calmness and adversity with fortitude. In the House of Lords Lord Inchcape and Lord Emmott have been propitiating Nemesis by their warnings of the gloomy financial future that is in store for us, while in the Commons the Bolshevist group below the gangway are apparently much perturbed by the prospect that Russia may be helped on to her legs again by the Allies. Mr. Dillon's indictment of the Government for their treatment of Ireland has had, however, a welcome if unexpected result. Mr. Shortt, the new Chief Secretary, an avowed and unrepentant Home Ruler, has been telling Mr. Dillon's followers a few plain truths about themselves: that they have made no effort to turn the Home Rule Act into a practical measure; that instead of denouncing Sinn Fein they had followed its lead; that they had attacked the Irish executive when they ought to have supported it, and by their refusal to help recruiting had forfeited the sympathy of the British working classes. Mr. Lloyd George, in his review of the War, warned the peacemongers not to expect their efforts to succeed until the enemy knew he was beaten, but vouchsafed no information as to his alleged intention to go to the country in the political sense. In spite of the Premier's warning the Pacificists made another futile attempt on the very next day to convince the House that the Germans were ready to make an honest peace if only our Government would listen to it. They were well answered by Mr. Robertson, who was a Pacificist himself until this War converted him, and by Mr. Balfour, who declared that we were quite ready to talk to Germany as soon as she showed any sign of a change of heart. Up to the present there has been no sign of it. CHILD (who has been made much of by father home on leave for the first time for two years): "Mummy dear, I like that man you call your husband." Food is still the universal topic. Small green apples, says a contemporary, are proving popular. A boy correspondent, however, desires Mr. Punch to say that he has a little inside information to the contrary. Nottingham children, it is stated, are to be paid 3d. a pound for gathering blackberries, but they are not to use their own receptacles. Captain Amundsen is on his way to the Pole, but we fear that he will not find any cheese there. The vocabulary of food control has even made its way to the nursery. A small girl on being informed by her nurse that a new little baby brother had come to live with her promptly replied: "Well, he can't stay unless he's brought his coupons," LATEST ADDITION TO MINISTRY STAFF: "What's the tea-time here?" CICERONE: "Usual--three to five-thirty." Yet one of Mr. Punch's poets, in prophetic and optimistic strain, has actually dared to speculate on the delights of life without "Dora"; Dickens, with the foresight of genius, wrote in "David Copperfield" how his hero "felt it would have been an act of perfidy to Dora to have a natural relish for my dinner." The enterprise of The Times in securing the reminiscences of the Kaiser's American dentist (or gum-architect, as he is called in his native land) has aroused mingled feelings. But the Kaiser is reported to have stated in no ambiguous terms that if, after the War, any Americans are to be given access to him, from Ambassadors downwards, they must be able neither to read nor write. The Times is also responsible for the headline: "The Archangel Landing." There was a rumour of something of this kind after Mons, but this is apparently official. One prominent effect of the War has been to make two Propagandist Departments flourish where none grew before, and it is to be feared that the reflection on the industry of our new officials implied in the picture on the previous page is not without foundation. War has not only stimulated the composition, but the perusal of poetry, especially among women: When the Armageddon diet Makes Priscilla feel unquiet, She prescribes herself (from Pope) An acidulated trope. When the lard-hunt ruffles Rose Wordsworth lulls her to repose, While a snippet from the "Swan" Stops the jam-yearn of Yvonne. When the man-slump makes her fretty Susie takes to D. Rossetti, Though her sister Arabella Rather fancies Wilcox (Ella). When Evangelina swoons At the sound of the maroons, Mrs. Hemans comes in handy As a substitute for brandy. And when Auntie heard by chance That the Curate was in France, Browning's enigmatic lyrics Helped to save her from hysterics. September, 1918 . Since July 15th, when the Kaiser mounted a high observation post to watch the launching of the offensive which was to achieve his crowning victory, but proved the prelude of the German collapse, the conflict has raged continuously and with uninterrupted success for the Allied Armies. The Kaiser Battle has become the Battle of Liberation. The French bore the initial burden of the attack, but since August 8 "hundreds of thousands of unbeaten Tommies," to quote the phrase of a French military expert, have entered into action in a succession of attacks started one after the other all the way up to Flanders. Rawlinson, Horne, and Byng have carried on the hammer work begun by Mangin, Gouraud, and Debeney. Péronne has been recovered, the famous Drocourt-Quéant switch-line has been breached, the Americans have flattened out the St. Mihiel salient. The perfect liaison of British and French and Americans has been a wonderful example of combined effort rendered possible by unity of command. "Marshal Foch strikes to-day at a new front," is becoming a standing headline. And this highly desirable "epidemic of strikes" is not confined to the Western Front. As Generalissimo of all the Allied Forces the great French Marshal has planned and carried out an ensemble of operations designed to shatter and demoralise the enemy at every point. The long inaction on the Salonika Front has been ended by the rapid and triumphant advance of the British, French, Serbians, and Greeks under General Franchet d'Esperey. Eight days sufficed to smash the Bulgarians, and the armistice then granted was followed four days later by the surrender of Bulgaria. In less than a fortnight General Allenby pushed north from Jerusalem, annihilated the Turkish armies in Palestine, and captured Damascus. And by the end of the month the Hindenburg line had been breached and gone the way of the "Wotan" line. Wotan was not a happy choice: But even super-Germans are wont at times to nod, And to borrow Wotan's aegis was indubitably odd; For dark decline o'erwhelmed his line: he saw his god-head wane, And his stately palace vanish in a red and ruinous vain. STORM DRIVEN THE KAISER: "I don't like this wind, my son. Which way is it?" THE CROWN PRINCE: "Up!" IN RESERVE GERMAN EAGLE (to German Dove): "Here, carry on for a bit, will you I'm feeling rather run down." Well may the Berlin Tageblatt say that "the war stares us in the face and stares very hard." When a daily paper announces "Half Crown Prince's army turned over to another General," we are curious to know how much the Half Crown Prince thinks the German Sovereign worth. But the end is not yet. Our pride in the achievements of our Armies and Generals, in the heroism of our Allies and the strategy of Marshal Foch does not blind us to the skill and tenacity with which the Germans are conducting their retreat. Fritz is a tough fighter; if only he had fought a clean fight we could look forward to a thorough reconciliation. But that is a far cry for those who have been in the war, farthest of all for our sailormen, who can never forget certain acts of frightfulness. Hans Dans an' me was shipmates once, an' if 'e'd fought us clean, Why shipmates still when war was done might Hans an' me 'ave been; The truest pals a man can have are them 'e's fought before, But--never no more, Hans Dans, my lad, so 'elp me, never no more! Austria has issued a Peace Note, and the German Chancellor has declared that Germany is opposed to annexation in any form. The German Eagle, making a virtue of necessity, is ready to give the bird of Peace an innings. ALARMING SPREAD OF BOBBING The two Emmas, Ack and Pip, are naturally furious at the adoption of the twenty-four hours' system of reckoning time, which means that their occupation will be gone, and that like other old soldiers they will fade away. Amongst other innovations we have to note the spread of "bobbing," the further possibilities of which are alarming to contemplate. Ferdinand, Tsar of Bulgaria, great grandson of Philippe Egalité, finding Sofia unhealthy, has been recuperating at Vienna. His future plans are vague, but it is thought he may join the ex-Kings' Club in Switzerland. Lenin, the Bolshevist Dictator, has recently experienced an attempt on his life, and retaliated in a fashion which would have done credit to a mediaeval despot. England still refuses to indulge in joy bells or bunting, but the London police have seized the occasion to strike on the home front. Their operations have been promptly if inconsistently rewarded by the removal of their chief and his elevation to the baronetcy. Parliament is not sitting, and the voice of the Pro-Boche and the Pro-Bolsh is temporarily hushed. We have to note, however, a most welcome rapprochement between Downing and Carmelite Streets--the Daily Mail has praised the Foreign Office for an "excellent piece of work," and the scapegoat, unexpectedly caressed, is sitting up and taking nourishment. The harvest has been a success, thanks to the energy of the new land-workers, the armies behind the army: All the talent is here--all the great and the lesser, The proud and the humble, the stout and the slim, The second form boy and the aged professor, Grade three and the hero in want of a limb. Four years of war have brought curious changes to "our village": Our baker's in the Flying Corps, Our butcher's in the Buffs, Our one policeman cares no more For running in the roughs, But carves a pathway to the stars As trooper in the Tenth Hussars. The Mayor's a Dublin Fusilier, The clerk's a Royal Scot, The bellman is a brigadier And something of a pot; The barber, though at large, is spurned; The Blue Boar's waiter is interned. The postman, now in Egypt, wears A medal on his coat; The vet. is breeding Belgian hares, The vicar keeps a goat; The schoolma'am knits upon her stool; The village idiot gathers wool. FARMER AND THE FARM LABOURER The husbandman and his new help have undergone mutual transformation. And our cadet battalions are making themselves very much at home at Oxford and Cambridge. CADET: "Really, from the way these College Authorities make themselves at home you'd think the place belonged to them." The Navy still remains the silent Service, but, as the need for reticence is being relaxed by the triumph of our arms, we are beginning to learn something, though unofficially as yet, of that "plaything of the Navy and nightmare of the Huns"-- the Q-boat: She can weave a web of magic for the unsuspecting foe, She can scent the breath of Kultur leagues away, She can hear a U-boat thinking in Atlantic depths below And disintegrate it with a Martian ray; She can feel her way by night Through the minefield of the Bight; She has all the tricks of science, grave and gay. In the twinkle of a searchlight she can suffer a sea-change From a collier to a Shamrock under sail, From a Hyper-super-Dreadnought, old Leviathan at range, To a lightship or a whaler or a whale; With some canvas and a spar She can mock the morning star As a haystack or the flotsam of a gale. She's the derelict you chartered north of Flores outward-bound, She's the iceberg that you sighted coming back, She's the salt-rimed Biscay trawler heeling home to Plymouth Sound, She's the phantom-ship that crossed the moon-beams' track; She's the rock where none should be In the Adriatic Sea, She's the wisp of fog that haunts the Skagerrack. Recognition of services faithfully done is an endless task; but Mr. Punch is glad to print the valedictory tribute of one of the boys in blue to a V.A.D.--a class that has come in for much undeserved criticism. While willy-nilly I must go A-hunting of the Hun, You'll carry on--which now I know (Although I've helped to rag you so) Means great work greatly done. Among the minor events of the month has been the christening of a baby by the names of Grierson Plumer Haig French Smith-Dorrien, as its father served under these generals. The idea is, no doubt, to prevent the child when older from asking: "What did you do in the Great War, Daddy?" England, as we have already said, endures its triumphs with composure. But our printers are not altogether immune from excitement. An evening paper informs us that "the dwifficuplties of passing from rigid trench warfare to field warfare are gigantic and perhaps unsurmountable." And only our innate sense of comradeship deters us from naming the distinguished contemporary which recently published an article entitled: "The Importance of Bray." October, 1918 . THE growing crescendo of success has reached its climax in this, the most wonderful month of our annus mirabilis. Every day brings tidings of a new victory. St. Quentin, Cambrai, and Laon had all been recaptured in the first fortnight. On the 17th Ostend, Lille, and Douai were regained, Bruges was reoccupied on the 19th, and by the 20th the Belgian Army under King Albert, reinforced by the French and Americans, and with the Second British Army under General Plumer on the right, had compelled the Germans to evacuate the whole coast of Flanders. The Battle of Liberation, which began on the Marne in July, is now waged uninterruptedly from the Meuse to the sea. Only in Lorraine has the advance of the American Army been held up by the difficulties of the terrain and the exceptionally stubborn resistance of the Germans. Elsewhere the "war of movement " has gone on with unrelenting energy according to Foch's plan, which suggests a revision of Pope: Great Foch's law is by this rule exprest, Prevent the coming, speed the parting pest. The German, true to his character of the world's worst loser and winner, leaves behind him all manner of booby-traps, some puerile, many diabolical, which give our sappers plenty of work, cause a good many casualties, and only confirm the resolve of the victors. According to a German paper--the Rhenish Westphalian Gazette --ex-criminals are being drafted into the German Army. But the Allies propose to treat them without invidious distinction. The Crown Prince recently observed that he had "many friends in the Entente countries"; as a matter of fact, we seem to be getting them at the rate of about twenty-five thousand a week. The criminals in the German Navy have again been busy, adding to their previous exploits the sinking of the passenger steamer Leinster , in the Irish Channel, with heavy loss of life, the worst disaster of the kind since the torpedoing of the Lusitania . Yet it is Germany that is the sinking ship. Ferdinand of Bulgaria has joined the League of Abdication, and according to a Sofia telegram, will devote himself to scientific pursuits. His only regret is that the Allies thought of it first. Prince Friedrich Karl of Hesse says that his accession to the throne of Finland will not take place for two years, and for the first time since his emergence into publicity we find ourselves in agreement with this monarch-elect. Ludendorff has resigned. Austria is suing for peace; Count Tisza asks: "Why not admit frankly that we have lost the War?" The Italians have crossed the Piave, and the Serbians have reached the Danube. Turkey has been granted an armistice, and with the daily victories of the Allies comes the daily report that the Kaiser has abdicated. SOLDIER AND CIVILIAN MARSHAL FOCH (to Messrs. Clemenceau, Wilson and Lloyd George): "If you're going up that road, gentlemen, look out for booby-traps." Prince Max of Baden, the successor of Hertling in the Chancellorship, whose appointment hardly bears out the promise of popular government, has issued a pacific Manifesto which inspires an "Epitaph in anticipation": In memory of poor Prince Max, Who, posing as the friend of Pax, Yet was not noticeably lax In the true Teuton faith which hacks Its way along; forbidden tracks, Marks bloody dates on almanacs And holds all promises as wax; Breeding, where once we knew Hans Sachs, A race of monomaniacs.... But now illusion's mirror cracks, The radiant vision fades, the axe Lies at the root. So farewell, Max! Certain people have proclaimed their opinion that the German nation ought not to be humiliated. When all is said, Mr. Punch saves his pity for our murdered dead. Parliament has met again, not that there is any very urgent need for their labours just now. With a caution that seemed excessive Mr. Bonar Law has thought it premature to discuss a military situation changing every hour--though happily always for the better--or even to propose a formal Vote of Thanks to men who are daily adding to their harvest of laurels. On better grounds discussion of Mr. Wilson's famous "fourteen points" and of demobilisation has been deprecated. The suggestion--made opportunely on Trafalgar Day--for securing marks of distinction for our merchant seamen gained a sympathetic hearing, and the proposal to make women eligible for Parliament has been carried after a serious debate by an overwhelming majority in which the ci-devant anti-suffragists were as prominent as the others. Five years ago such a motion would have furnished an orgy of alleged humour, and been laughed out of the House. Mr. Dillon and his colleagues have put a great many questions about the torpedoing of the Leinster and the lack of an escort. But it is unfortunate that their tone suggested more indignation with the alleged laches of the Admiralty than horror at the German crime. Irish indignation over the outrage, according to a Nationalist M.P., is intense; but not to the point of expressing itself in khaki. Die Nacht am Rhein PROSPEROUS IRISH FARMER: "And what about the War, your Riverence? Do ye think it will hould?" The woes of the Irish harvest labourers in England have not yet been fully appreciated, and seem to demand a revised version of "Moira O'Neill's" beautiful poem: THE IRISH EXILE Over here in England I'm slavin' in the rain; Six-an'-six a day we get, an' beds that wanst were clane; Weary on the English work, 'tis killin' me that same-- Och, Muckish Mountain, where I used to lie an' dhrame! At night the windows here are black as Father Murphy's hat; 'Tis fivepence for a pint av beer, an' thin ye can't get that; Their beef has shtrings like anny harp, for dacent ham I hunt-- Och, Muckish Mountain, an' my pig's sweet grunt! Sure there's not a taste av butthermilk that wan can buy or beg, Thin their sweet milk has no crame, an' is as blue as a duck-egg; Their whisky is as wake as wather-gruel in a bowl--Och, Muckish Mountain, where the poteen warms yer sowl! 'Tis mesilf that longs for Irish air an' gran' ould Donegal, Where there's lashins and there's lavins and no scarcity at all; Where no wan cares about the War, but just to ate an' play-- Och, Muckish Mountain, wid yer feet beside the say! Sure these Englishmin don't spare thimselves in this thremenjus fight; They say 'tis life or death for thim, an', faith, they may be right; But Father Murphy tells me that it's no consarn av mine-- Och, Muckish Mountain, where the white clouds shine! Over there in Ireland we're very fond av peace, Though we break the heads av Orangemin an' batther the police; For we're all agin the Governmint wheriver we may be-- Och, Muckish Mountain, an' the wild wind blowin' free! If they tuk me out to Flandhers, bedad I'd have to fight, An' I'm tould thim Jarman vagabones won't let ye sleep at night; So I'm going home to Ireland wid English notes galore-- Och, Muckish Mountain, I will niver lave ye more! By way of contrast there is the mood of the Old Contemptibles, but it is only fair to add that there are Irishmen among them: THE OLD-TIMER 'E aint't bin 'ung with medals, like a lot o' chaps abaht; 'E's wore a little dingy but 'e isn't wearin' aht; 'Is ole tin 'at is battered, but it isn't battered in, An' if 'e ain't fergot to grouse, 'e ain't fergot to grin. I fancy that 'e's aged a bit since fust the War begun; 'E's 'ad 'is fill o' fightin' an' 'e's 'ad 'is share o' fun; 'Is eyes is kind o' quiet an' 'is mouth is sort o' set,. But if I didn't know 'im well I wouldn't know 'im yet. I recollec' the look of 'im the time o' the retreat, The blood was through 'is toonic an' the skin was orf 'is feet; But "Come aboard the bus," say 'e, "or you'll be lef be'ind!" An' takes me weight upon 'is back--it 'asn't slip me mind. It might 'ave 'appened yesterday, it comes to me so plain; 'E's dahn an' up a dozen times, a-reeling through the rain; It might 'ave bin lars' Saturday I seem to 'ear 'im say: "There's plenty room a-top, me lad, an' nothin' more to pay." 'E ain't bin 'ung with medals like a blackamore with beads; 'E doesn't figure on the screen a-doin' darin' deeds; But reckon I'll be lucky if I gets to Kingdom Come Along o' that Contemptible wot wouldn't leave a chum. FIRST CONTEMPTIBLE: "D'you remember halting here on the retreat, George?" SECOND DITTO: "Can't call it to mind, somehow. Was it that little village in the wood there down by the river, or was it that place with the cathedral and all them factories? Amongst other items of news we have to chronicle the appointment of Mr. Arnold Bennett as a Director of Propaganda, the steady growth of goat-keeping, and the exactions of taxi-drivers. It is now suggested that if one of these pirates should charge you largely in excess of his legal fare, you should tell him that you have nothing less than a five-pound note. If you have an honest face and speak kindly he will probably accept the amount. THE SANDS RUN OUT Mr. Bonar Law has been making trips to and from France by aeroplane. The report that a number of members of the Opposition have been invited by the Admiralty to make a descent in a depth-charge turns out to be unfounded. The prospects of peace are being discussed on public platforms, but, as yet, with commendable discretion. Mr. Roberts, our excellent Minister of Labour, has made bold to say that "the happenings of the last six weeks justify us in the belief that peace is much nearer than it was during the earlier part of the year." And a weekly paper has offered a prize of £500 to the reader who predicts the date when the War will end. Meanwhile, Hanover is said to have made Hindenburg a birthday present of a house in the neighbourhood of the Zoological Gardens in that city, and we suggest that before this gift is incorporated in the peace-terms the words "the neighbourhood of" should be deleted. November, 1918 . The end has come with a swiftness that has outdone the hopes of the most sanguine optimists. In the first eleven days of November we have seen history in the making on a larger scale and with larger possibilities than at any time since the age of Napoleon, perhaps since the world began. VICTORY! To take the chief events in order, the Versailles Conference opened on the 1st; on the 3rd Austria gave in and the resolve of the German Naval High Command to challenge the Grand Fleet in the North Sea was paralysed by the mutiny at Kiel; on the 5th the Versailles Conference gave full powers to Marshal Foch to arrange the terms of an armistice, and President Wilson addressed the last of his Notes to Germany; on the 6th the American Army reached Sedan; on the 9th Marshal Foch received Erzberger and the other German Envoys, the Berlin Revolution broke out, and the Kaiser abdicated; on the 10th the Kaiser fled to Holland, and the British reached Mons. The wheel had come full circle. The Belgian, British, French, and American Armies now formed a semi-circle from Ghent to Sedan, and threatened to surround the German Armies already in retreat and crowded into the narrow valley of the Meuse. Everything was ready for Foch's final attack; indeed, he was on the point of attacking when the Germans, recognising that they were faced with the prospect of a Sedan ten times greater than that of 1870, signed on November 11 an armistice which was equivalent to a military capitulation, and gave Marshal Foch all that he wanted without the heavy losses which further fighting would have undoubtedly involved. He had shown himself the greatest military genius of the War. Here, in the words of one of his former colleagues at the Ecole de Guerre, he proved himself free from the stains which have so often tarnished great leaders in war, the lust of conquest and personal ambition. Not only the Allies, but the whole world owes an incalculable debt to this soldier of justice, compact of reason and faith, imperturbable in adversity, self-effacing in the hour of victory. Glorious also is the record of the other French Generals: the strong-souled Pétain, hero of Verdun; the heroic Maunoury; Castlenau and Mangin, Gouraud, Debeney, and Franchet d'Esperey, Captains Courageous, worthy of France, her cause, and her indomitable poilus . In the record of acknowledgment France stands first since her sacrifices and losses have been heaviest, and she gave us in Foch the chief organiser of victory, in Clemenceau the most inspiring example of intrepid statesmanship. But the War could not have been won without England and the Empire; without the ceaseless vigil in the North Sea; without the heroes of Jutland and Coronel, of the Falkland Isles and Zeebrugge, of the Fleets behind the Fleet; without the services of Smith-Dorrien at Mons, French at Ypres; without the dogged endurance, the inflexible will and the self-sacrificing loyalty of Haig; the dash of Maude and Allenby; the steadfast leadership in defence and offence of Plumer and Byng, Horne and Rawlinson and Birdwood. OUR MAN With Mr. Punch's Grateful Compliments to Field-Marshal Sir Douglas Haig. THE FINAL TOMMY;(ex-footballer): "We was just wipin' them off the face of the earth when Foch blows his whistle and shouts 'Temps!'" These are only some of the heroes who have added to the glories of our blood and State, but the roll is endless--wonderful gunners and sappers and airmen and dispatch riders, devoted surgeons and heroic nurses, stretcher-bearers and ambulance drivers. But Mr. Punch's special heroes are the Second Lieutenants and the Tommy who went on winning the War all the time and never said that he was winning it until it was won. As for the young officers, dead and living, their record is the best answer to the critics, mostly of the arm-chair type, who have chosen this time to assail our public school system. In the papers of one of them killed on August 28 there was found an article written in reply to "The Loom of Youth," ending with these words: "Perhaps the greatest consolation of these attacks on our greatest heritage in England (for we are the unique possessors of the Public Schools) is the conviction that they will have but little effect. Every public school boy is serving, and one in every six gives up his life. They cannot be such bad places after all." Of the great mistakes made by Germany perhaps the greatest was in reckoning on the detachment of the Dominions. The Canadians have made answer on a hundred stricken fields before and after Vimy Ridge. Australia gave her goodliest at Gallipoli, crowning the imperishable glory of those who died there by her refusal to make a grievance of the apparent failure of the expedition, and by the amazing achievement of her troops in the last six months of the War. The immortal dead, British, Australians, New Zealanders, who fell in the great adventure of the narrow straits are not forgotten in the hour of triumph. GALLIPOLI Qui procul hinc ante diem perierunt . Ye unforgotten, that for a great dream died, Whose failing sense darkened on peaks unwon, Whose souls went forth upon the wine-dark tide To seas beyond the sun, Far off, far off, but ours and England's yet, Know she has conquered! Live again, and let The clamouring trumpets break oblivion! Not as we dreamed, nor as you strove to do, The strait is cloven, the crag is made our own; The salt grey herbs have withered over you, The stars of Spring gone down, And your long loneliness has lain unstirred By touch of home, unless some migrant bird Flashed eastward from the white cliffs to the brown. Hard by the nameless dust of Argive men, Remembered and remote, like theirs of Troy, Your sleep has been, nor can ye wake again To any cry of joy; Summers and snows have melted on the waves. And past the noble silence of your graves The merging waters narrow and deploy. But not in vain, not all in vain, thank God; All that you were and all you might have been Was given to the cold effacing sod, Unstrewn with garlands green; The valour and the vision that were yours Lie not with broken spears and fallen towers, With glories perishable of all things seen. Children of one dear land and every sea, At last fulfilment comes--the night is o'er; Now, as at Samothrace, swift Victory Walks winged on the shore; And England, deathless Mother of the dead, Gathers, with lifted eyes and unbowed head, Her silent sons into her arms once more. Crowns and thrones have rocked and toppled of late, but our King and Queen, by their unsparing and unfaltering devotion to duty, by their simplicity of life and unerring instinct for saying and doing the right thing, have not only set a fine example, but strengthened their hold on the loyalty of all classes. And King Albert, who defied Germany at the outset, shared the dangers of his soldiers in retreat and disaster, and throughout the war proved an inspiration to his people, has been spared to lead them to victory and has gloriously come into his own again. His decision to resist Germany was perhaps the most heroic act of the War, and he has emerged from his tremendous ordeal with world-wide prestige and unabated distaste for the limelight. The liberation and resurrection of Belgium and Serbia have been two of the most splendid outcomes of the World War, as the débâcle in Russia and the martyrdom of Armenia have been its greatest tragedies. Parliament has been seen at its best and worst. When the Prime Minister rose in the House on the afternoon of the 11th to announce the terms of the Armistice signed at 5 A.M. that morning, members from nearly all parts of the House rose to acclaim him. Even "the ranks of Tuscany" on the front Opposition bench joined in the general cheering. Only Mr. Dillon and his half-dozen supporters remained moody and silent, and when Mr. Speaker, in his gold-embroidered joy-robes, headed a great procession to St. Margaret's Church, and the ex-Premier and his successor--the man who drew the sword of Britain in the war for freedom and the man whose good fortune it has been to replace it in the sheath--fell in side by side, behind them walked the representatives of every party save one. Mr. Dillon and his associates had more urgent business in one of the side lobbies--to consider, perhaps, why Lord Grey of Falloden, in his eve-of-war speech, had referred to Ireland as "the one bright spot." This Irish aloofness is wondrously illustrated by the Sunday Independent of Dublin, which, in its issue of November 10, spoke of a racing event as the only redeeming feature of "an unutterably dull week." We have to thank Mr. Dillon, however, for unintentionally enlivening the dulness of the discussion on the relations of Lord Northcliffe to the Ministry of Information and his forecast of the peace terms. Mr. Baldwin, for the Government, while endeavouring to allay the curiosity of members, said that "Napoleons will be Napoleons." Mr. Dillon seemed to desire the appointment of a "Northcliffe Controller," but that is impracticable. All our bravest men are too busy to take on the job. Better still was the pointed query of Lord Henry Bentinck, "Is it not possible to take Lord Northcliffe a little too seriously?" But there are other problems to which the House has been addressing itself with a justifiable seriousness--and demobilisation, the shortage of food and coal, and the question how at the same time we are to provide for the outlay of coals of fire and feed the Huns and not the guns. And how has England taken the news? In the main soberly and in a spirit of infinite thankfulness, though in too many thousands of homes the loss of our splendid, noble and gallant sons--alas! so often only sons--who made victory possible by the gift of their lives, has made rejoicing impossible for those who are left to mourn them. Yet there is consolation in the knowledge that if they had lived to extreme old age they could never have made a nobler thing of their lives. Shakespeare, who "has always been there before," wrote the epitaph of those who fell in France when he spoke of one who gave His body to that pleasant country's earth, And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ, Under whose colours he had fought so long.