HATE AS A WEAPON OF WARFARE A FAILURE

Evening Star, Issue 16994, 17 March 1919, Page 3

HATE AS A WEAPON OF WARFARE A FAILURE

Hate is no foundation to build an ondaring structure upon This tuns been proved time and again in the history of men and nations. In pagan days an orator brought a crowded theatre to its feet when he cried “ What concerns a man concerns me!” The great nations of the earth today are those belonging to the race of Tertrllian, while the decadent and crumbling spring from the Goths and Vandals, followers of Attila and Genghis Khan. Never has it been seen more unmistakably true than to-day, when we see the composers of the ‘llvmn of Hate’ retreating before the annecl Brotherhood of Man. • The spirit that defeated the Huns is told in the pages of the ‘Outlook’ in this wise: “By the side of a wood was a wounded German, both legs broken. He was lying on a stretcher, and lying beside him on the ground were two stretcher-bearers. “ We’re all tired out. and can’t carry him a step farther. We've already toted him two miles, and he’s nothin’ but a Boche anyhow. We’re going to leave him right here.” But the two secretaries protested, and offered to spell the stretcherbearers if they would take the wounded German on in. Til’s a creed to, they started across the open field through the communication trench. Halfway across they found that the shelling of that morning' had caved in the trench completely. What were they to' do? Thev must either go back to the woods or climb out and cany their wounded man along the parapet. They talked it over and agreed that if they carried the prisoner on then- shoulders, being in plain sight of the German gunners, they would not bo shelled, especially when the Germans could see that it was a German wounded man that they were carrying back. So on this supposition they started out along the rani pet. But they were new to the game of German warfare, and they soon found that they had started out on the wrong supposition, for in half a minute a terrific barrage of German shells was falling around them, some bursting within 20ft of them. If it had not been for the fact that it had been raining for several days, and the shells sank into the mud 2ft before they exploded, the whole crowd would have been blown to bits. As it was, they dropped their wounded prisoner on the parapet and “ beat it,” as the 60-year-old preacher secretary described it to mo the next day. One fellow afterward remarked that he never knew he could run so fast. Now comes the nub of the yarn—something to make every American proud of the men “over there.” VVe reported to the major. Ho snid to us, ‘ Boys, where is your wounded German?’ “ ‘ We left him back there on the parapet, sir.’ ” The major, a typical American officer, looked at them a while and then said something that makes mo thrill with the pride of being an American every time I think of it: I “ Well, he may be nothing but a Boche but wo’re Americans, and you’ll have to go back and get your wounded prisoner. If you men don’t want to go, I must go myself." And back these two secretaries and a young lieutenant orderly went. The stretcher-bearers had disappeared. There was another barrage of shell-fire, and the men lay in a shell-hole for two hours; but at last they got their wounded German back. “ Ho may be nothing but a Boche, bul we’re Americans," is a sentence that ought to go down in history to the glory of the American officer. Thousands of such cases have gone far— God alone knows how far—to win a. glorious victory over hate-breeding Kultur. Hie hater hates even the dead, the real man loves and reverences even his enemy in death. As this incident proves : Then there is another silhouette memory of France. It is that of a little graveyard in a French field where two stone fences meet. It is springtime. There were five lads to be laid away that fair morning in God’s Aero. There were three privates, a captain, and a German boy. A few of us stood around this little quiet place with uncovered heads while the chaplain read the service. Then the first body was lowered into the grave, the salute fired and “Taps" sounded. Then came the second boy. Then the third, with the the salute fired and "Taps” sounded. Then came the American captain, with the salute and "Taps.” Then came the Boche. The firing squad didn’t kr>r>->v what to do about the Boche. I 4 sergeant turned to the captain-chap], and said, “ .Sir, shall we fire a salute for the German?” We waited anxiously to hear the American officer’s answer. It was a tense moment. But we were not to be disappointed. "Boys, we are not fighting this dead German boy; this poor lad is out of it all for good. And, after all, he is just some German mother’s son. We are not, fighting him. We are fighting the German military caste, the German Government, the German nation, but not this dead boy. He had died on the field of battle. Yes; play ‘Taps’ for the Bocho!’’