Since July 15th, when the Kaiser mounted a high observation post to watch the launching of the offensive which was to achieve his crowning victory, but proved the prelude of the German collapse, the conflict has raged continuously and with uninterrupted success for the Allied Armies. The Kaiser Battle has become the Battle of Liberation. The French bore the initial burden of the attack, but since August 8 “hundreds of thousands of unbeaten Tommies,” to quote the phrase of a French military expert, have entered into action in a succession of attacks started one after the other all the way up to Flanders. Rawlinson, Home, and Byng have carried on the hammer work begun by Mangin, Gouraud, and Debeney. Peronne has been recovered, the famous Drocourt-Queant switch-line has been breached, the Americans have flattened out the St. Mihiel salient. The perfect liaison of British and French and Americans has been a wonderful example of combined effort rendered possible by unity of command. “Marshal Foch strikes to-day at a new front,” is becoming a standing headline. And this highly desirable “epidemic of strikes” is not confined to the Western Front. As Generalissimo of all the Allied Forces the great French Marshal has planned and carried out an ensemble of operations designed to shatter and demoralise the enemy at every point. The long inaction on the Salonika Front has been ended by the rapid and triumphant advance of the British, French, Serbians, and Greeks under General Franchet d’Esperey. Eight days sufficed to smash the Bulgarians, and the armistice then granted was followed four days later by the surrender of Bulgaria. In less than a fortnight General Allenby pushed north from Jerusalem, annihilated the Turkish armies in Palestine, and captured Damascus. And by the end of the month the Hindenburg line had been breached and gone the way of the “Wotan” line. Wotan was not a happy choice:

But even super-Germans are wont at times to nod,
And to borrow Wotan’s aegis was indubitably odd;
For dark decline o’erwhelmed his line: he saw his god-head wane,
And his stately palace vanish in a red and ruinous vain.

Well may the Berlin Tageblatt say that “the war stares us in the face and stares very hard.” When a daily paper announces “Half Crown Prince’s army turned over to another General,” we are curious to know how much the Half Crown Prince thinks the German Sovereign worth. But the end is not yet. Our pride in the achievements of our Armies and Generals, in the heroism of our Allies and the strategy of Marshal Foch does not blind us to the skill and tenacity with which the Germans are conducting their retreat. Fritz is a tough fighter; if only he had fought a clean fight we could look forward to a thorough reconciliation. But that is a far cry for those who have been in the war, farthest of all for our sailormen, who can never forget certain acts of frightfulness.

Hans Dans an’ me was shipmates once, an’ if ’e’d fought us clean,
Why shipmates still when war was done might Hans an’ me ’ave been;
The truest pals a man can have are them ’e’s fought before,
But never no more, Hans Dans, my lad, so ’elp me, never no more!

Austria has issued a Peace Note, and the German Chancellor has declared that Germany is opposed to annexation in any form. The German Eagle, making a virtue of necessity, is ready to give the bird of Peace an innings.

The two Emmas, Ack and Pip, are naturally furious at the adoption of the twenty-four hours’ system of reckoning time, which means that their occupation will be gone, and that like other old soldiers they will fade away. Amongst other innovations we have to note the spread of “bobbing,” the further possibilities of which are alarming to contemplate.

Ferdinand, Tsar of Bulgaria, great grandson of Philippe Égalité, finding Sofia unhealthy, has been recuperating at Vienna. His future plans are vague, but it is thought he may join the ex-Kings’ Club in Switzerland. Lenin, the Bolshevist Dictator, has recently experienced an attempt on his life, and retaliated in a fashion which would have done credit to a mediaeval despot. England still refuses to indulge in joy bells or bunting, but the London police have seized the occasion to strike on the home front. Their operations have been promptly if inconsistently rewarded by the removal of their chief and his elevation to the baronetcy.

Parliament is not sitting, and the voice of the Pro-Boche and the Pro-Bolsh is temporarily hushed. We have to note, however, a most welcome rapprochement between Downing and Carmelite Streets the Daily Mail has praised the Foreign Office for an “excellent piece of work,” and the scapegoat, unexpectedly caressed, is sitting up and taking nourishment.

The harvest has been a success, thanks to the energy of the new land-workers, the armies behind the army:

All the talent is here all the great and the lesser,
The proud and the humble, the stout and the slim,
The second form boy and the aged professor,
Grade three and the hero in want of a limb.

Four years of war have brought curious changes to “our village”:

Our baker’s in the Flying Corps,
Our butcher’s in the Buffs,
Our one policeman cares no more
For running in the roughs,
But carves a pathway to the stars
As trooper in the Tenth Hussars.

The Mayor’s a Dublin Fusilier,
The clerk’s a Royal Scot,
The bellman is a brigadier
And something of a pot;
The barber, though at large, is spurned;
The Blue Boar’s waiter is interned.

The postman, now in Egypt, wears
A medal on his coat;
The vet. is breeding Belgian hares,
The vicar keeps a goat;
The schoolma’am knits upon her stool;
The village idiot gathers wool.

The husbandman and his new help have undergone mutual transformation. And our cadet battalions are making themselves very much at home at Oxford and Cambridge.

The Navy still remains the silent Service, but, as the need for reticence is being relaxed by the triumph of our arms, we are beginning to learn something, though unofficially as yet, of that “plaything of the Navy and nightmare of the Huns” the Q-boat:

She can weave a web of magic for the unsuspecting foe,
She can scent the breath of Kultur leagues away,
She can hear a U-boat thinking in Atlantic depths below
And disintegrate it with a Martian ray;
She can feel her way by night
Through the minefield of the Bight;
She has all the tricks of science, grave and gay.

In the twinkle of a searchlight she can suffer a sea-change
From a collier to a Shamrock under sail,
From a Hyper-super-Dreadnought, old Leviathan at range,
To a lightship or a whaler or a whale;
With some canvas and a spar
She can mock the morning star
As a haystack or the flotsam of a gale.

She’s the derelict you chartered north of Flores outward-bound,
She’s the iceberg that you sighted coming back,
She’s the salt-rimed Biscay trawler heeling home to Plymouth Sound,
She’s the phantom-ship that crossed the moon-beams’ track;
She’s the rock where none should be
In the Adriatic Sea,
She’s the wisp of fog that haunts the Skagerrack.

Recognition of services faithfully done is an endless task; but Mr. Punch is glad to print the valedictory tribute of one of the boys in blue to a V.A.D. a class that has come in for much undeserved criticism.

While willy-nilly I must go
A-hunting of the Hun,
You’ll carry on which now I know
(Although I’ve helped to rag you so)
Means great work greatly done.

Among the minor events of the month has been the christening of a baby by the names of Grierson Plumer Haig French Smith-Dorrien, as its father served under these generals. The idea is, no doubt, to prevent the child when older from asking: “What did you do in the Great War, Daddy?”

England, as we have already said, endures its triumphs with composure. But our printers are not altogether immune from excitement. An evening paper informs us that “the dwifficuplties of passing from rigid trench warfare to field warfare are gigantic and perhaps unsurmountable.” And only our innate sense of comradeship deters us from naming the distinguished contemporary which recently published an article entitled: “The Importance of Bray.”