HUMOURS OF WAR RELIEF IN THE EAST END.
WHEN visiting the wives and mothers of our fighting men at the front, I am often reminded Of the words of one now gone ; one who understood human nature as thoroughly as he did those whom we call "the poor." When asked by anxious would-be visitors : "But'what shall I say to these people P " his advice was: "Don't say Much, listen." One often realizes, when among the dwellers in East London, that they are somewhat in the position of the man who, in despair, advertised for a listener. They seem to lack this luxury more than most. If, however, when going to see them, one simply inquires after the health of one's hostess, it is quite enough to start chapter one ; and to ask for news of the soldier husband or son is generally more than sufficient for chapter two, usually profusely illustrated. This leaves but. littletime for the giving of good advice, a duty which as a rule haunts inexperienced visitors, unless they happen to be of the type that enjoys trying to impart it, when Heaven help those they visit! The patient listeners may, on the other band, find their advice now and then sought, and therefore possibly accepted. Meanwhile, they are probably vastly entertained, and introduced to some entirely original war phraseology. One old lady, when things had been recently,
and adjacently, aerially lively, said seriously : "Them Seraphims in the sky is something shocking."
In many cases that which is distant and strange in name is reduced to terms familiar to the individual conversationalist. A comfortable retired cook told us that her nephew was fighting "in the Quenelles," which certainly sounds a softer job than the stern reality. Over the way the greengrocer's wife explained that one of her customers, she understood, bad joined an Indian regiment called "the Gherkins." At other times there is a curious aptness in the misnomer, as when, at the time when the demand for and supply of ammunition were not as complementary as could be wished, one woman told us that her son was "making the mutinies of war "—a name which one hopes will never again have even a semblance of suitability. One valiant mother of sons at the front said that she was looking forward to signing the "Censure paper," and hoped some war work would be allotted to her.
One is now and then struck dumb by the lack of imagination of these people, especially if one comes across one of those rare exceptions who ask what would it matter under which nation's rule they were so long as they got their money ! If one responds that, in the circumstances contemplated, they certainly would not have their money, and most likely not their heads, it still seems to leave them cold. At other times one feels that their imaginations must have some elasticity, when they talk happily of their man being "in the Army Miracle Corp," or say that their son's wound is "a bomb in his eye."
When in a little grey alley in the far East of London a woman tells of her boy in Mesopotamia, and another of her husband lying wounded at "Ruin in France," and yet another of her son, a Territorial, moving from Lucknow to Burma, one realizes that even from these obscure corners, in the heart of the Empire, we have indeed "a far-flung battle-line." One is often surprised at the extraordinary good-humour and philosophic acceptance of things as they are among the poor in this quarter. A pleasant woman told me bow elle went a few years ago with a friend to see what she could in the street of a great national ceremonial. In answer to my, inquiries, she said: "Well, we didn't see nuffin', but we 'ad a good laugh." Possibly it is such mothers who, among other good deeds for the nation, pass on this most valuable gift of cheerfulness and light-hearteduess in trying circumstances. I heard of a 'bus-driver near the front, transplanted from his ordinary London circuit to carry ammunition as close as possible to the firing line. As he went shells were bursting close round him, and aerial bombs falling overhead. He, however, doggedly carried on in the true British way, merely remarking, as he happened to pass a pal, "Give me Piccadilly!"
The wounded warrior has a wholesome dislike of indiscriminate gush over his misfortunes, and delights in mystifying the too curious. A sailor with one leg was the object of much interest and suppressed inquiry in a 'bus. As he laboriously got out on his crutches, to one more importunate lady than the rest he said briefly and distinctly: "It was bit off," leaving a haze of supposition behind him.
The cheerfulness of the wounded and maimed in all ranks is beyond belief and praise. If one is in search of real hilarity and overflowing good spirits, strangely enough, those seemingly sad places—the hospitals—sometimes rank high. Here many jokes are found in the making. In one of the great East End hospitals I heard of a lady who asked why a certain Irishman had shaved off his moustache since she last saw him. She was promptly told : "Sure, he was ordered whisky, and he would not be missin' a drop." Amid so much that idterrible and tragic in these days, there yet shines forth in unexpected places the unquenchable cheerfulness of our fighting men. I was told of a group of wounded soldiers listening to the reading out of a long list of honours in connexion with the war. One of them said light-heartedly: "But where do we come in ? " "Oh, we come in over the page," was the quick response; and how many, alas ! are recorded in that long list of daily casualties. A good number of these will mercifully be restored to health, thanks in some measure to the same indomitable spirits which never fail them. And the others—beyond the reach of earthly honours—in George Eliot's words, "let us raise a monument to the soldiers whose brave hearts only kept the ranks unbroken and met death—a monument to the faithfk who
wore not famous and who are precious as the continuity of the sunbeams is precious, though some of them fall unseen."
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