The End of the Tunnel
ARMOUR FOR CIVILIANS
By CHARLES MORGAN
IT has been said that since the collapse of France there has been a "hardening of opinion among our people "; the change would be better called a deepening of judgement, a composure of spirit, that mind and body may endure what they will be called upon to endure. The plainest example is in the Prime Minister himself and in the public's attitude towards him. Even those among us whose vision has for many years accorded with his, and who have constantly desired his leadership, did not foresee that he had in his keeping the armour he has now put on. That he was resolute and fearless we knew—his reappointment to the Admiralty at the outbreak of war struck fire into that great Department, and, during the dismal months of autumn and winter, it was upon him, more and more, that the country waited for evidence that the Government was fighting and alive. But it is not to be denied that, in those days, his tone was still that of the old Winston whom timid and complacent men had long made it their pro- fession to distrust. He was not then incapable of the "frantic boast" and was, therefore, vulnerable. This is gone. Pride and courage remain, but arrogance is gone. "Doomed to go in company with pain, and fear, and bloodshed," he has "turned his necessity to glorious gain," and being " . . called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a lover ; and attired With sudden brightness, like a man inspired ; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw."
One thing is lacking—a recognition, spreading down from the Prime Minister through the whole Government, that the nation also has undergone a profound spiritual change and is no longer tolerant of those who would still treat it as a fractious child and nurse it into a new complacency. The country is besieged and knows it. At the beginning of September the Government of that time, because it feared to be drastic or had not imagination enough to perceive the necessity of it, missed its opportunity to reconstruct itself, to mobilise the nation, to turn all Britain into a gigantic camp or arsenal. The opportunity has come again. Still, hundreds of thousands of men and women are hurrying from place, to place, feeling that they ought to offer themselves and continue to offer themselves for war work, and either being rejected or succeeding at last in fitting their square peg into a found hole. The truth is that many of these people have not the qualifications that make them employable ; war does not create an unlimited demand for unskilled labour ; and they ought to be told so and sent home with their minds at rest. Except that those who will work unpaid should be invited to do so, there should be no more volunteers, men or women, whole-time or part-time. It it to be assumed that all have volunteered. It rests with the Government to take what services it needs, not only that it may be the better served, but that all who are not summoned may have peace of mind in their ordinary lives. The nation wishes to be commanded, not to be pampered or feared by its rulers. It is ready to accept a change in its whole way of life. There is nothing—nothing, that is to say, in the people's will— to stand against a gigantic cut in private consumption or a plan, more drastic than Mr. Keynes's, to make a deduction at source from all salaries and wages for the purpose of an undated loan, bearing no interest until three years after the war and two and a half per cent. thereafter. Whoever supposes that the English want, or will now believe, assurances of ease and plenty is mistaken. They want to be called upon to make great cuts that will enable a besieged nation to live hence- forward on a margin.
It has long been our tendency to speak of extreme measures as measures of panic and to pride ourselves upon not taking our fences before we come to them. Everything, from the evacuation of children to the organisation of supply, has been done on this principle. The result is the opposite of what has been intended: the public, instead of being soothed by the Government's moderation, has been irritated by its in- decisiveness and disturlied by the knowledge that, though die burden was as yet light, there was always worse to come. Would not the whole mind of the nation be composed and lightened if we were to face the worst now? If more men are to be called up and new age-groups included, let the limit of the national requirement be stated now. If rations are to be reduced, let them be reduced now. If there is to be a compulsory loan, let it be raised now. It may be answered that it is not possible to tell at present what may be required. Why not? Assume that what is required is the maximum that can be obtained in extreme emergency. A garrison does not wait to go on to iron rations until its larders are almost empty, nor does it complain, if the siege is raised after a year, that it made provision for ten years and so is left with a surplus.
On the contrary, it gathers strength, while the siege lasts, from a knowledge of foresight in its commanders and from a belief that the worst has already been asked of it.
The value of drastic, even of extreme, action is not only military but psychological. Whoever has an officer's experience knows that the mark of a bad officer is that he confuses and harasses his men. They want, above all else, a clear line ; they want to know what is required of them. The way to make them discontented is to ask for a little more on Tuesday than on Monday, and, on Wednesday, for a little more again ; the way to make them angry is continually to cancel or amend orders. This is equally true of a civil population in times of stress. It is necessary to distinguish between the two aspects of every Englishman—his aspect as a citizen, and his aspect as a private man. Only if the private man is secure in spirit will the citizen be of good service, and it is as important that the State should make possible the peace of mind of private men as it was that soldiers in the fighting-line should be relieved from worry about their dependents at home.
This inward peace of mind is the core of civilian morale. The Government can best contribute to it, not by soft words and a continual series of disappointments, but by treating the nation as an adult nation and saying to each man "This and this and this we require of you. Apart from these require- ments, you are a free man. Within your freedom, be at peace. Make yourself invulnerable to suffering. Discover new happi- ness within you. Put on your armour. Compose your soul." Then each man, knowing that as a citizen he is doing his duty, will be free to put on what private armour he has and live unperturbed according to his nature.
To many, continuous action is necessary to peace of mind, and even to courage ; what they chiefly desire is communal and disciplined action ; their tendency is to form themselves, wherever they can, into semi-militarised groups. If their point of view is recognised, and their behaviour, though often amateurish, is respected, they, in their turn, should recognise the point of view, and respect the behaviour, of those who, performing without complaint what service the State requires of them, nevertheless turn inward for their consolation and strength. Even to raise the siege and scatter the enemy is not an end in itself, and a citizen who, having done his turn of duty, becomes a private man, is entitled to live more and more, not in vain regrets for a past that cannot be restored, or in agony for what the future will certainly take away, but in those strongholds of the spirit that war cannot affect—in poetry, for example, or the knowledge of birds, or in the great crafts that give steadiness to the human mind, or in the supreme art of contemplation, the source and eternal replenisher of the arts. The task of living calmly amid stress is not assisted, as some believe, by reiterated optimism or refusal to discuss the facts of war, but by that exercise of the imagination which enables a man to live within his own citadel of values while material values perish. When brigands are on the road, and death is among them, peace of mind consists in being rid of the super- fluous in travelling light, counting as precious only those things —and life of the body is not among them—which, not being ours to possess, are not ours to lose.
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