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Posts Tagged ‘anti-militarism’

“Choulette y voulait exprimer la misère humaine, non point simple et touchante, telle que l’avaient pu sentir les hommes d’autrefois, dans un monde mêlé de rudesse et de bonté, mais hideuse et fardée, à cet état de laideur parfaite où l’ont portée les bourgeois libres penseurs et les militaires patriotes, issus de la Révolution française. Selon lui, le régime actuel n’était qu’hypocrisie et brutalité. Le militarisme lui faisait horreur.

— La caserne est une invention hideuse des temps modernes. Elle ne remonte qu’au xviie siècle. Avant, on n’avait que le bon corps de garde où les soudards jouaient aux cartes et faisaient des contes de Merlusine. Louis XIV est un précurseur de la Convention et de Bonaparte. Mais le mal a atteint sa plénitude depuis l’institution monstrueuse du service pour tous. Avoir fait une obligation aux hommes de tuer, c’est la honte des empereurs et des républiques, le crime des crimes. Aux âges qu’on dit barbares, les villes et les princes confiaient leur défense à des mercenaires qui faisaient la guerre en gens avisés et prudents ; il n’y avait parfois que cinq ou six morts dans une grande bataille. Et quand les chevaliers allaient en guerre, du moins n’y étaient-ils point forcés ; ils se faisaient tuer pour leur plaisir. Sans doute n’étaient-ils bons qu’à cela. Personne, au temps de saint Louis, n’aurait eu l’idée d’envoyer à la bataille un homme de savoir et d’entendement. Et l’on n’arrachait pas non plus le laboureur à la glèbe pour le mener à l’ost. Maintenant, on fait un devoir à un pauvre paysan d’être soldat. On l’exile de la maison dont le toit fume dans le silence doré du soir, des grasses prairies où paissent les bœufs, des champs, des bois paternels ; on lui enseigne, dans la cour d’une vilaine caserne, à tuer régulièrement des hommes ; on le menace, on l’injurie, on le met en prison ; on lui dit que c’est un honneur, et, s’il ne veut point s’honorer de cette manière, on le fusille. Il obéit parce qu’il est sujet à la peur et de tous les animaux domestiques le plus doux, le plus riant et le plus docile. Nous sommes militaires, en France, et nous sommes citoyens. Autre motif d’orgueil, que d’être citoyen ! Cela consiste pour les pauvres à soutenir et à conserver les riches dans leur puissance et leur oisiveté. Ils y doivent travailler devant la majestueuse égalité des lois, qui interdit au riche comme au pauvre de coucher sous les ponts, de mendier dans les rues et de voler du pain. C’est un des bienfaits de la Révolution. Comme cette révolution a été faite par des fous et des imbéciles au profit des acquéreurs de biens nationaux et qu’elle n’aboutit en somme qu’à l’enrichissement des paysans madrés et des bourgeois usuriers, elle éleva, sous le nom d’égalité, l’empire de la richesse. Elle a livré la France aux hommes d’argent, qui depuis cent ans la dévorent. Ils y sont maîtres et seigneurs. Le gouvernement apparent, composé de pauvres diables piteux, miteux, marmiteux et calamiteux, est aux gages des financiers. Depuis cent ans, dans ce pays empoisonné, quiconque aime les pauvres est tenu pour traître à la société. Et l’on est un homme dangereux quand on dit qu’il est des misérables. On a fait même des lois contre l’indignation et la pitié. Et ce que je dis ici ne pourrait pas s’imprimer.

Choulette s’animait, agitait son couteau, tandis que, sous le soleil frileux, passaient les champs de terre brune, les bouquets violets des arbres dépouillés par l’hiver et les rideaux de peupliers au bord des rivières argentées.

Il regarda avec attendrissement la figure sculptée sur son bâton.

— Te voilà, lui dit-il, pauvre Humanité, maigre et pleurante, stupide de honte et de misère, telle que t’ont faite tes maîtres, le soldat et le riche.”

– 

Anatole FranceLe Lys rouge, quatorzième édition. Calmann-Lévy, 1894 (pp. 111-123).Chapitre VIII.

Picture is Jacques Bellange, Beggar Looking through His Hat. Tempera on canvas, 1615.

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A rumbling.
The earth trembling.
The man cannot stop himself-he withdraws his head from the hole; he looks upward, and sees the tank.

He sees it above him, over his head. The tank makes a clumsy cradling movement against the arc of the sky, hovers a moment, its prow in the air.

Gunner Müller feebly raises a hand as if to ward it off. The great belly rocking downwards upon him – the livid, striped steel armour, the double rows of rivets, the caterpillars dripping earth-all these
are etched on the retina of his eyes as on photographic plates. The tank weighs three to four tons,
sixty to eighty hundredweight. The human body may withstand a pressure of six hundredweight;
with seven the breath goes out of it; eight and the bones crack; eighty…..

The lips draw back. The teeth are bared. Max Müller’s face has the same expression as the dead
Number Two; the same anguished mouth as a woman’s in childbirth.

The tank slides smoothly down into the crater.

Two dead Numbers and one living, it irons them out flat. Then it lifts itself up again to the level
ground and rolls on in line with the rest of the squadron, clanking and firing, against the retreating
German Front.

A dug-out, rafters, and above them a few feet of earth. Below a lieutenant seated before a field-
telephone. A man comes down the steps, he clicks his heels and reports: “Machine-gun posts have
retired, out of touch with Müller’s group.”

The message arrives before the tanks but hardly before the bombing planes. Telephonic
communications are still intact. The lieutenant takes up the receiver and reports to Battalion
Headquarters: “Front line evacuated.” Battalion H.Q. where the messages from all parts of the
sector are assembled, telephones yet farther back to Brigade: “Broken through on the whole sector –
Yes, four kilometres! Tank attack on a front of four kilometres!”

The face of the lieutenant in the dug-out is ashen grey. He is dirty, lousy and, like his men half-starved. He has been for weeks in the front line without relief.

The officer at Battalion H.Q. looks spruce and well shaven. He still gets enough to eat, he sleeps
regularly and at times may even have a bath in his private quarters. The Brigade Major, who passes
the messages yet farther back to Army, inhabits a villa with every comfort – conservatory, garage,
stables.

The Hindenburg Line, to which the people pinned its faith as if it were a new evangel in
concrete, has been broken. The Hindenburg Line, the Wotan Line, the Siegfried Line, the Hermann
and Hunding-Brunhild Line, built up with such unremitting, titanic toil, have been overrun and now
lie behind the advancing Allied troops. From the flooded regions of Flanders to the Vosges the
German Front is in full retreat.

The Germans leave behind them each day a few more miles of country, each day a few more
thousand dead.

But behind the lines of defence the Generals and staff officers forever reassemble the fragments
of broken divisions, reorganize them in new formations, fill them out with scratch drafts from home
and throw them again into the battle.

The military machine is still intact.

Only at the Base, indeed, not at the Front.

In the platoons and sections the collapsing system is relinquishing its hold. But behind the line sergeant majors still require to be saluted, they still bully, they still drill. Quartermaster-sergeants
still issue rations, still arrange fatigues, still supervise the digging of burial pits, still serve out
schnapps – half a litre a head – to the men going up the line.

And 100 miles behind the Front, behind Battalion, Brigade, Division, and Army, at GHQ, where
all the threads meet, in a room of the Hotel Britannia at Spa, a man is stooping over maps and sheets
of figures-he is of the same Prussian sergeant-major type, with the same sergeant-major’s features
but better tended, a closely- shaved heavy jowl, and a little turned-up moustache, a uniform with the
red stripes of a general staff officer, the star of an order on his breast. He scans once more the lines,
the hatchings and points which represent armies, strong points, reserves; then he bundles together a
number of hastily-made sketches and memoranda and hands them to a colonel.

A soldier helps him into his cloak; he takes down his cap and in company with the colonel leaves
the room.

Outside the hotel stands a motor-car. At the station a special train is waiting. The two general
staff officers climb in.

The heavy engine begins to move. After a short distance it is tearing along with its two carriages,
one telegraph and one saloon car, at top speed across the country. Trains come from the opposite
direction – coughing engines, seemingly endless columns of trucks – trains laden with cement, with
trench-supports, munitions, and a stream of troops dragging forever westward.

The line is cleared at congested stations; troop trains and goods trains are shunted on to side tracks; hospital trains destined for home stand waiting. On the platforms soldiers stand round the
fountains and at the flying kitchens of the railway service. Every station presents the same picture.
Soldiers stamping about to keep warm or seated on their packs and bundles. And all of them talking
of the self-same things – of food, of their officers, of peace. They gaze curiously after the special as
it races by with curtained windows.

“A big bug!” they all agree.

Only when passing through the larger cities does the locomotive slacken its pace, then rushes on
again always at top speed. After four hours the train rolls thundering over the long bridge which
crosses the Rhine at Cologne.

The man from Spa is sitting in the saloon, the forgotten stump of a cigar between his lips. An
orderly comes in and lays the newly-received telegraphic tapes on the table: Americans attacking
heavily between Argonne and the Maas – army group crown prince Rupprecht driven back behind
the Lys – Ostend, Tourcoing, Roubaix, Douai evacuated – between Le Cateau and the Oise the
battle in full swing.

The orderly goes back to the colonel at work in the telegraph car. The man in the saloon car, who
through two years of unceasing activity has directed the movements of the German troops-he, who
eight weeks ago dismissed sixty generals on the Western Front, is in no hurry to read the incoming
reports. Without looking at them he knows that every passing hour is a fresh hammer-blow against
the German Front. He leans back and stares into space. He is feeling the burden of his flesh, heavy
and strange. He has grown weary.

One day later, 17th October, 1918.

The man from Spa is approaching the Imperial Chancellery. The guard presents arms. The
flunkeys behind the tall glass doors stand motionless as statues. After the man with the general’s
cord has gone by, one of them whispers: “That’s him – that’s Ludendorff!”

The Chief Quartermaster-General, Ludendorff stands before the members of the War Cabinet,
the members of the newly-appointed National Government. The meeting is presided over by the
Chancellor, Prince Max of Baden. Beside the Chancellor sits the Vice-Chancellor, von Payer, on
either side of the table are the ministers and Secretaries of State. The patriotic Left is represented by
the Social Democrat, Scheidemann.

The members of the Cabinet are putting questions. The defeated General answers:

“War is not a matter of simple arithmetic – no one can really tell what will happen. … Germany’s
luck may easily turn again. … Gaps four miles wide have been made in the front, it is true,
nevertheless the enemy has not broken through ….We have been pushed back, but it came off all
right… . One should not overestimate the Americans …. The 41st Division? That was a matter of
morale. The Division had had influenza. They were short of rations ….I have every hope that the
present fear of the tanks will in time be overcome. Once the morale is restored; the troops will make
short work of them – as it is, the Jäger battalions and the Guards have rare sport shooting them up… If
the army can get through the next four weeks successfully, and winter comes, then we are well
away… It all depends on what the homeland can still give us. It is a question of man-power.”

The Western Front is collapsing; the allies are defaulting; the reserves of men are exhausted; yet
the General still begs for a last 600,000 men.

There he sits – a uniform, decorations, the “pour le mérite” on his breast. His heavy, fleshy face
is expressionless. When he looks at the members of the War Council his glance is sidelong under
half-closed eyelids. The Minister for War, the Secretary of State for the Navy, Admiral von Scheer,
General Hoffmann who has been summoned from the Eastern Front, all these are fighters. The
Imperial Chancellor, Prince Max of Baden also ranks as a general, but he is not wearing his
uniform. The rest – the Vice-Chancellor, the Secretaries of State and the various ministers are
civilians. One is a barrister, another a judge, a third a journalist; the Social-Democratic Secretary of
State was once a printer.

What is the matter with the fellow? What is biting him now? Gröber, the leader of the Centre
Party, an octogenarian with a long white beard, turns his great gleaming spectacles upon the Chief
Quartermaster-General.

He begins to talk of the depressed mood of the troops. “It is primarily a matter of feeding.
Take the officers’ canteens, for instance – understand that the officers can get additional supplies and even
luxuries; but if a private soldier comes in, he is told it is not intended for him. Cannot such glaring
contrasts be avoided?”

Ludendorff surveys the ministers – neither have these gentlemen the appearance of drawing their
midday ration from the soup-kitchens – but he replies patiently to the question. “In the trenches
both officers and men eat from the same field-cooker. But the Staff is situated differently and it is
only natural if they arrange things better. It is hardly to be expected we should eat from the field-
kitchens. Whatever is fair and just we enforce. The mischief is that rumours are circulated which are
injurious to our reputation ….”

The Chancellor calls the gentlemen to order: “I must ask you not to go into details; we have not
time for that.”

They discuss the position on the Western Front, the occupied regions in the East, the possibility
of withdrawing troops from the Eastern Front to strengthen the West.

“What is the precise value of the Ukraine as a source of food?”
“Well, we bought up a million and a half tons of grain there which are already beginning to rot!”

“It is no longer possible to get any considerable quantity of grain, fodder or cattle from there, so I suggest we abandon the occupation of the Ukraine, and in case of necessity supplement our
supplies by smuggling.”

But then there are political considerations: “We must hold the Ukraine as a concentration-point
against the Russian menace, against Bolshevism.”

Dr. Solf, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, has a report from the Consul on conditions in the
Ukraine and informs the meeting that the economic value of the country to Germany is very
considerable. “I also asked Herr von Mumm what would happen in the Ukraine if we withdrew the
German troops. He was sure, so he told me, that the Bolshevists would then gain control and behave
in the most savage and terrible manner. All the well-to-do would be executed.”

“We should have to chance that; even though it were against our pledged word,” retorted
Ludendorff. “Is the evacuation necessary or not necessary for Germany? If it is, then it must be
done, no matter what the consequences.”

But General Hoffmann requires three months to withdraw his divisions from the East. And it is
generally agreed that the troops, infected as they are with Bolshevism, are no longer suitable to fight
in the West.

Therefore the Western Front must be reinforced from home.

The Chancellor breaks off the debate on the Ukraine: “I pass now to the second question: Is the
country prepared to place the necessary man-power at the disposal of the Higher Command?”

The Minister for War and the Chief of Staff, Colonel Heye, who has accompanied Ludendorff
from Spa, speak in reply to this question. The Chancellor, the Vice-Chancellor and the various
Secretaries of State ask questions.

Ludendorff follows the arguments brought forward with ever growing concern. In his hand he
has the agenda drawn up by the Cabinet as a basis for the discussion; he sets it down on the table
and restlessly shoves it hither and thither– Yes, His Excellency the Quartermaster-General who has
overthrown Cabinets and meditated Dictatorship; who has already prepared a political programme
for the repopulation of the country after the conclusion of the “victorious war”, according to which
the Government and the General Staff shall supervise domestic life, regulate propagation,
education, sanitation and housing-reform; organize the struggle against decreasing birth-rate,
gonorrhoea and syphilis, against celibacy and promiscuity, against the use of contraceptives, against
excessive attendance at cinemas and against the use of tobacco and alcohol by the young; who has a
politico-military programme which beginning with bonuses for nursing mothers, and by means of
patriotic instruction, a law requiring military training in schools, an extension of the period of
military service, a tax on bachelors, and by the granting of privileges to patriotic organizations, is to
transform German citizens into soldiers and the begetters of future soldiers– Yes, His Excellency General Ludendorff who would turn Germany into one vast barracks, German industry into a body
of army contractors, and make the entire population of the country the compulsory inmates of this
great barracks, his Excellency, who has sent 1,600,000 men to their death for this “Greater
Fatherland”, his Excellency has become nervous and is now fidgeting with a piece of paper. He
looks around in search of help, his glance stops at the face of the Secretary of State, Scheidemann,
and he hangs on those watery blue eyes.

Scheidemann, thin, a great shining skull, tufts of grey hair on the temples, straightens up in his
chair: “I believe it may still be possible to round up a few hundred thousand more men for the
Army, but he would be deceiving himself who imagined that those hundreds of thousands would in
any way improve the morale of the army….”

Scheidemann, representing the Social Democracy, the last political capital of Imperial Germany,
is General Ludendorff’s last hope.

“Could not your Excellency contrive to raise the spirits of the masses?”

His Excellency Herr Scheidemann replies: “It is really a question of food. We have no meat, we
cannot bring up potatoes because we are short four thousand trucks daily, we have practically no
more fats. The shortage is so great that it is a puzzle how Berlin North and Berlin East are to get
their food. So long as this puzzle remains unsolved, it is impossible to raise the spirits of the
people.”

When Scheidemann talks of the masses, he speaks as a professional, as a technical expert, to
advise the Government what pressure the body politic can support without danger of an explosion.
The explosion now appears to be inevitable. The duration of the war, the defection of the other
allies, the ever increasing misery at home, the transport crisis, the food shortage…

The army has only sufficient oil for another six weeks.

Admiral von Scheer expresses his readiness to hand over to the army the navy’s oil stocks, of
which it has sufficient for another eight months. At this point Drews, Minister for the Interior,
reminds the meeting of the paraffin lamps of the civil population: “Ten thousand tons of oil monthly
are the minimum requirement, if the people are to be kept even moderately quiet through the
winter.”

The Secretaries of State see no way out. The seventy one year-old Vice-Chancellor von Payer
sits there with knitted brows. Secretary of State Gröber has sunk down into his chair. The eyes
behind the great spectacles stare wearily, ever at the self-same spot. Dr. Solf looks again and again
across at Ludendorff who, through his insistent demand fourteen days ago for an armistice, has
brought the Cabinet to this desperate pass, and yet who today suddenly advances the opinion that
the Front may yet be able to hold out until the early spring. But the situation report which he has
just given refutes this opinion, and above all it admits of no strong reply to President Wilson’s
humiliating note. The discussion continually returns to the general depression in the army and to the
desperate condition of the people.

“One must not overemphasize the question of the morale of the army – it is, after all, a very
uncertain factor,” interposes Under-Secretary Haussmann.

The Vice-Chancellor supports him: “I do not see things quite so gloomily as His Excellency Herr
Scheidemann. If our note is framed in such a way that the people can gather that, though we are in a
difficult position, still we are not throwing up the sponge, then all is not yet lost.”

The Quartermaster-General makes a sudden movement: “The Vice-Chancellor has expressed my
own feelings. The whole question is, can we do it? 1can only repeat my request: Stir up the people!
Rouse them! Could not Herr Ebert do it?”

New factors are introduced.

The Chief of Staff, Colonel Heye, is reading out figures from which the sorely diminished
strength of the divisions on the Western Front and the steadily increasing superiority of the enemy
becomes only too evident.

General Ludendorff points out on the other hand, that the war weariness is growing in France
and the Allied countries also.

“Can the army still hold the enemy, or must we accept Wilson’s conditions? That is the question we have to answer.””

– Theodor Plivier, The Kaiser Goes, The Generals Remain. Translated by A. W. Wheen.  London: Faber & Faber, 1933. pp. 3-7

Painting is George Grosz, Zuhälter des Todes/The Pimps of Death (From “Gott mit uns”). 1919. Color photolithograph. 39,5 x 30 cm (15,6 x 11,8 in).

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“Charles T. Schenck is remembered today less for what he did than for the image he helped inspire:  that of a man falsely shouting fire in a theater and causing a panic.  That image was first offered by Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes as an illustration of what Schenck did during the First World War, and it has since become a fixture of our discussions about the delicate balance between freedom and security, liberty and order, particularly though not exclusively in times of war.

It’s a pity that we remember the metaphor rather than the man, however, for the gap between what Schenck did and what Holmes said he did is considerable—and instructive.

Schenck was the general secretary of the Socialist Party in Philadelphia during the First World War.  Unlike their sister parties in Western Europe, America’s Socialists firmly opposed the war, even after the United States entered it in April 1917.  That summer, Schenck and his Philadelphia comrades launched a campaign against the draft.  They composed a two-sided leaflet that attacked the draft as unconstitutional and called for people to join the Socialist Party and persuade their representatives in Congress to repeal it.  If the leaflet’s language was strong—“a conscript is little better than a convict…deprived of his liberty and of his right to think and act as a free man”—it was also conventional, couched in a vernacular many would have found familiar.  One side proclaimed “Long Live the Constitution of the United States.” The other urged people to “Assert Your Rights!”

Schenck and his comrades made 15,000 leaflets and mailed most of them to men in Philadelphia who had passed their draft board physicals.  It’s unclear how many actually received the leaflet—hundreds were intercepted by the government—and no one produced evidence of anyone falling under its influence.  Even so, Schenck and four others were arrested and charged with “causing and attempting to cause insubordination…in the military and naval forces of the United States, and to obstruct the recruiting and enlistment services of the United States.”  Two of the defendants—Schenck and another party leader—were found guilty.  Schenck’s case was argued before the Supreme Court in January 1919, and the Court’s unanimous decision to uphold the conviction, written by Holmes, was delivered in March.

Holmes’s opinion was a mere six paragraphs.  But in one sentence he managed to formulate a test for freedom of speech that would endure on the Court in some form until 1968—“[The] question in every case is whether the words used are used in such circumstances and are of such a nature as to create a clear and present danger that they will bring about the substantive evils that Congress has a right to prevent”—and in another to draw an illustration of the test that remains burned in the public consciousness to this day: “The most stringent protection of free speech would not protect a man in falsely shouting fire in a theatre and causing a panic.”

With his disdain for socialists and rabble-rousers, Holmes would not have been pleased to see his name posthumously linked to Schenck’s.  But with his equally powerful sense of realism, he undoubtedly would have conceded the truth of Harry Kalven’s observation, in 1988, that “Schenck—and perhaps even Holmes himself—are best remembered for the example of the man ‘falsely shouting fire’ in a crowded theater.”  It was that kind of metaphor: vivid, pungent, and profoundly misleading.

Drawing on nearly forty years of his own scholarship and jurisprudence, Holmes viewed Schenck’s leaflet not as an instance of political speech but as a criminal attempt to inflict harm. In the same way that a person’s shout of fire in a theater would cause a stampede and threaten the audience with death so would Schenck’s leaflet cause insubordination in the military, hamper the war effort, and threaten the United States and its people with destruction.

Holmes knew that words were not always words:  sometimes they ignited fires—and not just the metaphorical kind.  In 1901, as chief justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Court, Holmes had upheld the conviction of a man who tried to persuade his servant to set fire to his own home in order to collect on the insurance. Just as that man’s words threatened the safety and well being of his neighbors so did Schenck’s threaten the safety and well being of his, or so Holmes believed.

Whenever the government suppresses opinions or beliefs like Schenck’s, it claims to be acting on behalf of values—national security, law and order, public safety—that are neutral and universal:  neutral because they don’t favor one person or group over another, universal because they are shared by everyone and defined by everyone in the same way.  Whatever a person may believe, whatever her party or profession, race or religion, may be, she will need to be safe and secure in order to live the life she wishes to live.  If she is to be safe and secure, society must be safe and secure:  free of crime and violent threats at home or abroad.  The government must be safe and secure as well, if for no other reason than to provide her and society with the safety and security they need. She and society are like that audience in Holmes’s theater:  whether some are black and others white, some rich and others poor, everyone needs to be and to feel safe and secure in order to enjoy the show.  And anyone who jeopardizes that security, or the ability of the government to provide it, is like the man who falsely shouts fire in the theater. He is a criminal, the enemy of everyone.  Not because he has a controversial view or takes unorthodox actions, but because he makes society—and each person’s pursuits in society—impossible.

But Americans always have been divided—and always have argued—about war and peace, what is or is not in the national interest.  What is security, people have asked?  How do we provide it?  Pay for it?  Who gets how much of it?  The personal differences that are irrelevant in Holmes’s theater—race, class, gender, ethnicity, residence, and so on—have had a great influence in the theater of war and peace. During the First World War, Wall Street thought security lay with supporting the British, German-Americans with supporting the Kaiser, Socialists with supporting the international working class.  And while the presence or absence of fire in Holmes’s theater is a question of objective and settled fact, in politics it is a question of judgment and interpretation.  During the war, Americans could never decide whether or not there was a fire, and if there was, where it was—on the Somme, the Atlantic, in the factories, the family, the draft—and who had set it:  the Kaiser, Wilson, J.P. Morgan, Teddy Roosevelt, the Socialists, the unions, the anarchists.  Without agreement on these questions, it wasn’t clear if Schenck was the shouter, the fire, or the fireman.”

– Ellen Schrecker & Corey Robin, “Falsely Shouting Fire in a Theater: How a Forgotten Labor Struggle Became a National Obsession and Emblem of Our Constitutional Faith,Corey Robin blog. February 16, 2013.

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“The Path of Arms Profit Leads But To The Grave,” Toronto Star, May 10, 1935. Page 23.

“Preparation. Then fear.  And after that – catastrophe.  Such is the inevitable path trod by nations which heed the salesmen of armament manufacturers.  These agents warn one nation that other countries are arming.  Rearmament begins immediately on a broad scale.  A world-wide arms race is soon underway. Small nations begin to fear that their most aggressive armament programs will not avail against the potential strength of their mightier neighbours.  They are advised to plunge into battle while yet there is time.  War is declared.  Millions of innocent victims – men, women, and children, peaceful as well as militant – are sent to untimely graves.  Only crosses, row on row, are in prospect again in this war-mad world if the armorers have their way – and their profits.”

Remarkable anti-arms dealer, anti-profiteer, anti-militarist photospread from the Toronto Star.

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