War must always have been a miserable business; but our fathers and grandfathers had the sense to give it an outward semblance of gaiety.  They went forth to battle dressed in the brightest colours they could find.  They put feathers in their hats.  They sewed gold braid on their coats.  They hung sparkling metal about their persons.  They had brass bands to march in front of them.  While engaged in the business of killing their enemies they no doubt wallowed in mud, just as we do; went hungry, sweated, shivered, were parched or soaked, grumbled and cursed.  But they made a gallant effort at pretending to enjoy themselves.  They valued the properties of romantic drama, though they must have recognised soon enough that the piece in which they played was the sordidest of tragedies.

We are realists.  Not for us the scarlet coats, the tossing plumes, the shining helmets or tall busbies.  War is muddy, monotonous, dull, infinitely toilsome.  We have staged it with a just appreciation of its nature.  We have banished colour.  As far as possible we have banished music.

I suppose we are right.  If it is really true that a soldier is more likely to be killed when wearing a scarlet coat, it is plain common sense to dress him in mud colour.  If music attracts the enemy’s fire, then bands should be left at home to play for nursemaids in parks and on piers.  Yet there is something to be said for the practice of our ancestors.  The soldier’s business is to kill the enemy as well as to avoid being killed himself.  Indeed killing is his first duty, and he only tries to avoid being killed for the sake of being efficient.

A cheerful soldier is a much more effective fighter than a depressed soldier.  Our ancestors knew this and designed uniforms with a view to keeping up men’s spirits.  We have ignored their wisdom and decked ourselves in khaki.  I can imagine nothing better calculated to depress the spirits, to induce despondency, and to lower vitality than khaki.  The British soldier remains cheerful ­indeed it is largely his unfailing cheerfulness which makes him the splendid fighting man he is ­but he has had to keep up his spirits without help from the authorities who have coloured his whole life khaki and deprived him of music.

I was placed in a camp which was one of a series of camps stretching along a winding valley.  To right and left of us were steep hills, and off the side of one of them, that on which M. lived, the grass had been scraped and hacked.  There remained mud which harmonised tonelessly with our uniforms.  Under our feet as we walked along the roads and paths which led from end to end of the valley there was mud.  The parade grounds ­each camp had one ­were mud.  The tents were mud-coloured or dirty grey.  The orderly-rooms, mess-rooms, recreation huts and all the rest were mud coloured and had soiled grey roofs.  Men mud-coloured from head to foot paraded in lines, marched, or strolled about or sat on mud banks smoking.

Even the women who served in the canteens and recreation huts refused to wear bright frocks, succumbing to the prevailing oppression of mud.  The authorities have put even these women into khaki now, but that has made little difference.  Before that order came out the ladies had failed to realise that it was their duty to deck themselves in scarlet, green, and gold, to save the rest of us from depression.

Mr. Wells went out to see the war at one time, and returned to make merry, rather ponderously, over the fact that some officers still wear spurs.  Perhaps if Mr. Wells had lived for two months in a large camp wholly given over to the devil of khaki he would have taken a different view of spurs.  They are almost the only things left in war which glitter.  They are of incalculable value.  So far from stripping them from the boots of officers supposed to be mounted, additional spurs should be worn on other parts of the uniform, on shoulder straps for instance, with a view to improving the spirits, and therefore the moral, of the army.

It does not in the least matter that spurs are seldom driven into the sides of horses.  No one now uses spurs as goads.  They are worn for the sake of the shine and glitter of them.  In the fortunate owner they are an inspiriting evidence of “swank.”  To every one else they are, as Ireland used to be, “the one bright spot” in a desperately drab world.  M., a wiser man than I, always wore spurs, though I do not think he ever used them on his horses.  He was naturally a man of buoyant cheerfulness, and I daresay would not have succumbed to khaki depression even if he had worn no spurs.  But I think the spurs helped him.  I know the sight of them helped me when they glittered on the heels of his boots as he tramped along, or glanced in the firelight when he crossed his legs in front of the mess-room stove.

For a long time after settling down in that camp I was vaguely uneasy without being able to discover what was the matter with me.  I was thoroughly healthy.  I was well fed.  I was associating with kindly and agreeable men.  I had plenty of interesting work to do.  Yet I was conscious of something wrong.  It was not homesickness, a feeling I know well and can recognise.  It was not fear.  I was as safe as if I had been in England.

I discovered, by accident, that I was suffering from an unsatisfied yearning for colour.  Drafts of a Scottish regiment came out from home wearing bright-red hackles in their caps; unmistakable spots of colour amid our drab surroundings.  I found my eyes following these men about the camp with a curious pleasure, and I realised that what I wanted was to see red, or blue, or green, or anything else except khaki.

Later on an order came out that camp commandants should wear coloured cap-bands and coloured tabs on their coat.  It suddenly became a joy to meet a colonel.  Certain camps flew flags in front of their orderly-rooms.  Very often the weather had faded the colours, but it was a satisfaction to feel that once, at all events, the things had not been drab.  The Y.M.C.A., adding without meaning to another to its long list of good deeds, kept its bright-red triangle before our eyes.  It seems absurd to mention such things; but I suppose that a starving man will count a few crumbs a feast.

I am not a painter.  If any one had talked to me before I went to France of the value of colour, I should have laughed at him.  Now, having lived for months without colour, I know better.  Men want colour just as they want liquid and warmth.  They are not at their best without it.

Nothing seemed stranger to me at first, nothing seems more pathetic now than the pains which men took to introduce a little colour into the drab world in which we were condemned to live.  Outside orderly-rooms and other important places men made arrangements of coloured stones.  Sometimes a regimental crest was worked out, with elaborate attention to detail, in pebbles, painted yellow, blue, and green.  Sometimes the stones were arranged in meaningless geometrical patterns.  They were always brightly coloured.

There was a widespread enthusiasm for gardening.  Every square yard of unused mud in that great series of camps was seized and turned into flower-beds.  Men laboured at them, putting in voluntarily an amount of work which they would have grudged bitterly for any other purpose.  They wanted flowers, not vegetables, though any eatable green thing would have been a treat to them.

When spring and early summer came to us we rejoiced in the result of our labours, frequently fantastic, sometimes as nearly ridiculous as flowers can be.  There were beds of daffodils and hyacinths in which it was possible, when the designer acted as showman, to recognise regimental crests.  The French flag came out well, if the flowers of the tricolour consented to bloom at the same time.  A sergeant, who professed to be an expert, arranged a bed for me which he said would look like a Union Jack in June.  Unfortunately I left the place early in May, and I have heard nothing since about that Union Jack.  I suppose it failed in some way.  If it had succeeded, some one would have told me about it.  A fellow-countryman of mine designed a shamrock in blue lobelia.  The medical Red Cross looked well in geraniums imported from England at great expense.

Generally our efforts were along more conventional lines.  I remember a rose-garden with a sundial in the middle of it.  The roses, to preserve them from frost, were carefully wrapped in sacking during severe weather, and an irreverent soldier, fresh from the trenches, commented on the fact that “These blighters at the base are growing sandbags.”

We were short of implements, but we dug.  I have seen table forks and broken dinner knives used effectively.  I have seen grass, when there was grass, clipped with a pair of scissors.  Kindly people in England sent us out packets of seeds, but we were very often beaten by the names on them.  We sowed in faith and hope, not knowing what manner of thing an antirrhinum might be.

I do not believe that it was any form of nostalgia, any longing for home surroundings, which made gardeners of the most unlikely of us.  Heaven knows the results we achieved were unlike anything we had ever seen at home.  It was not love of gardening which set us digging and planting.  Men gardened in those camps who never gardened before, and perhaps never will again.  At the bottom of it all was an instinctive, unrealised longing for colour.  We knew that flowers, if we could only grow them, would not have khaki petals, that, war or no war, we should feast our eyes on red and blue.

Newspapers and politicians used to talk about this as “the war to end war,” the last war.  Perhaps they were right.  We may at least fairly hope that this is the world’s last khaki war.  It is not indeed likely that when men next fight they will revert to scarlet coats and shining breastplates.  We have grown out of these crude attempts at romanticism.

But it is very interesting to note the increase of attention given to camouflage.  It occurred to some one ­the wonder is that it did not occur to him sooner ­that a mud-coloured tiger, a tiger with a khaki skin, would be more visible, not less visible, than a tiger with its natural bright stripes.  It was our seamen who first grasped the importance of this truth and began to paint ships blue, yellow, and red, with a view to making it difficult for submarine commanders to see them.  There are, I believe, a number of artists now engaged in drawing out colour schemes for steamers.  I have seen a mother ship of hydroplanes which looked like a cubist picture.

Landsmen are more conservative and slower to grasp new ideas.  But even in my time in France tents were sometimes covered with broad curves of bright colours.  They looked very funny near at hand; but they are ­this seems to be established ­much less easily seen by airmen than white or brown tents.  It seems a short step to take from colouring tents to colouring uniforms.  In the next war, if there be a next war, regiments will perhaps move against the enemy gay as kingfishers and quite as difficult to see.  Fighting men will look to each other like ladies in the beauty chorus of a revue.  By the enemy they will not be seen at all.  War will not, in its essentials, be any pleasanter, however we dress ourselves.  Nothing can ever make a joy of it.  But at least those who take part in it will escape the curse of khaki which lies heavily on us.

We suffered a good deal from want of music when I went out to France, though things were better then than they had been earlier.  They certainly improved still further later on.  Music in old days was looked upon as an important thing in war.  The primitive savage beat drums of a rude kind before setting out to spear the warriors of the neighbouring tribes.  Joshua’s soldiers stormed Jericho with the sound of trumpets in their ears.  Cromwell’s men sang psalms as they went forward.  Montrose’s highlanders charged to the skirl of their bagpipes.  Even a pacifist would, I imagine, charge if a good piper played in front of him.

Our regiments had their bands, and many of them their special marching tunes.  But we somehow came to regard music as part of the peace-time, ornamental side of soldiering.  The mistake was natural enough.  Our military leaders recognised, far sooner than the rest of us, that this war was going to be a grim and desperate business.  Bands struck them as out of place in it.  Music was associated in their minds with promenades at seaside resorts, with dinners at fashionable restaurants, with ornamental cavalry evolutions at military tournaments.  We were not going to France to do musical rides or to stroll about the sands of Boulogne with pretty ladies.  We were going to fight.  Therefore, bands were better left at home.  It was a very natural mistake to make; but it was a mistake, and it is all to the credit of the War Office, a body which gets very little credit for anything, that it gradually altered its policy.

At first we had no outdoor music except what the men produced themselves, unofficially, by singing, by whistling, or with mouth-organs.  Indoors there were pianos in most recreation huts, and the piano never had a moment’s rest while the huts were open ­a proof, if any one wanted a proof, of the craving of the men for music.  Then bands were started privately by the officers in different camps.  This was a difficult and doubtful business.  Funds had to be collected to buy instruments.  Musicians who could play the instruments had to be picked out from among the men, and nobody knew how to find them.  Hardly anybody stayed long in these base camps, and a good musician might at any moment be reft away and sent up the line.

Yet bands came into existence.  An Irish division started the first I came across, and it used to play its men to church on Sundays in a way that cheered the rest of us.  My friend M.’s camps on top of the hill started a band.  Other camps, which could not manage bands, discovered Scottish pipers and set them playing on ceremonial occasions.  Later on in another place I found an excellent band in a large Canadian hospital, and a convalescent camp started a band which went for route marches along with the men.

But these were all voluntary efforts.  The best that could be said for the higher authorities is that they did not actually discourage them.  The regimental bands, which we ought to have had in France, still remained at home, and I do not know that they did much playing even there.  I think it was the Brigade of Guards which first brought a band out to France.  It used to play in the market-place of the town which was then G.H.Q.  Later on another Guards’ band went on tour round the different bases.  There was no mistake about the warmth of its reception.  The officers and men gathered in large numbers to listen to it on the fine Sunday afternoon when it played in the camp where I was stationed.

Since then I have heard of, and heard, other regimental bands in France.  Their visits have been keenly appreciated.  But we ought to have more than occasional visits from these bands.  It is probably impossible to have them playing close to the firing-line.  But it would be an enormous advantage if we had a couple of good regimental bands at every base, and especially in places where hospitals are numerous.

It is a mistake to regard music simply as a recreation or as an “extra,” outside the regular war programme.  It is really an important factor in producing and maintaining that elusive but most important thing called moral.  Men are actually braver, more enduring, more confident, more enthusiastic, if they hear music.

These qualities cannot be destroyed in our men by any privation.  They are indestructible in the race.  But their growth can be stimulated, and they can be greatly strengthened.  A hundred years ago no one would have doubted the value of music in producing and maintaining moral.  Two hundred years ago or thereabouts Dryden wrote a poem which illustrated the power of music.  Forty years ago Tolstoi wrote a short novel to show how a particular sonata affected not moral, but morality.  We seem to have forgotten the truths familiar then.

There ought not to be any doubt about the value of music in restoring health.  Nobody is fool enough to suppose that a broken bone would set itself, or fragments of shrapnel emerge of their own accord from a man’s leg even if it were possible to secure the services of the Pied Piper of Hamelin.  But most doctors admit that in certain obscure and baffling maladies, classed generally as cases of shell-shock, mental and spiritual aid are at least as useful as massage or drugs.  Next to religion ­which is an extremely difficult thing to get or apply ­music is probably the most powerful means we have of spiritual treatment.  There is an abundant supply of it ready to hand.  It seems a pity not to use it more freely than we do.