With us war is a sport.  With the French it is a martyrdom.  But with the Americans it is a job.  “We’ve got four years to do this job.  We’ve got four years to do this job,” as the American soldiers chant.  I think in these three attitudes towards war as a martyrdom, as sport and as a job, you get reflected the three gradations of distance by which each nation is divided from the trenches.  France had her tribulation thrust upon her.  She was attacked; she had no option.  England, separated by the Channel, could have restrained the weight of her strength, biding her time.  She had her moment of choice, but rushed to the rescue the moment the first Hun bayonet gleamed across the Belgian threshold.  America, fortified by the Atlantic, could not believe that her peace was in any way assailed.  The idea seemed too madly far-fetched.  At first she refused to realise that this apportioning of a continent three thousand miles distant from Germany was anything but a pipe-dream of diplomats in their dotage.  It was inconceivable that it could be the practical and achievable cunning of military bullies and strategists.  The truth dawned too slowly for her to display any vivid burst of anger.  “It isn’t true,” she said.  And then, “It seems incredible.”  And lastly, “What infernal impertinence!”

It was the infernal impertinence of Germany’s schemes for transatlantic plunder that roused the average American.  It awoke in him a terrible, calm anger—­a feeling that some one must be punished.  It was as though he broke off suddenly in what he was doing and commenced rolling up his shirt-sleeves.  There was a grim, surprised determination about his quietness, which had not been seen in any other belligerent nation.  France became consciously and tragically heroic when war commenced.  England became unwontedly cheerful because life was moving on grander levels.  In America there was no outward change.  The old habit of feverish industry still persisted, but was intensified and applied in unselfish directions.

What has impressed me most in my tour of the American activities in France is the businesslike relentlessness of the preparations.  Everything is being done on a titanic scale and everything is being done to last.  The ports, the railroads, the plants that are being constructed will still be standing a hundred years from now.  There’s no “Home for Christmas” optimism about America’s method of making war.  One would think she was expecting to be still fighting when all the present generation is dead.  She is investing billions of dollars in what can only be regarded as permanent improvements.  The handsomeness of her spirit is illustrated by the fact that she has no understanding with the French for reimbursement.