HOW THE DRINK TRADE FIGHTS FOR GERMANY.

White Ribbon, Volume 23, Issue 272, 18 February 1918, Page 6

HOW THE DRINK TRADE FIGHTS FOR GERMANY.

From the “Echo,” London. (By \\. Douglas* Newton.) The man who “fired” the brass* at furnaO No. 006321 yawned on his* feet and swayed against the bar as he called for his seventh. The aproned man who was lord of the bottles and the porcelain beer levers, examined the brass-hrer with a slow, dispassionate, and scientific glance. In spite of his apron and his shirt sleeves and his polishing cloth, he held in his cool mind the destinies of drink and drunkards. Me alone among men tould define with unerring accuracy that subtle human condition that meant a man was no longer merely “affable,” but was “canned.” There was no appeal from his final word. If a man was “canned,” he was drunk; glasses must then cease to cross the shining counter to him. His unemotional analysis arranged the state of the brass-hrer to the depth of his being The swift judgment was formed. The bottle with the nickeled spigot was reached down. “You’ve »ost about ’ad all you can carry, Tom, ’ said the aproned Khadamanthus. “Better make this the last. You won’t do no work to-day if you go on.” The brass-hrer took the glass containing the elixir of inefficiency with a solemn hand. His eyes glared across its rim at the aproned man with the horrid sobriety of the drunk. “No work for yours truly to-day,” he said, and he proceeded to offer a libation to that final and holy thought. ENJOY INC. HIMSELF. The aproned man said nothing. He was there to serve and judge, not to preach. His silence played like acid on the mind of the sodden man. “I ain’t going to work. Why should I ? Why shouldn’t a feller have a good time? I’ve earnt big money, 1 tell you. I’ve slogged ard for a full week or so. Why shouldn’t I enjoy what I’ve earnt? I can 'ave a good time for a week, an’ I won’t feel it. It ain’t anyone’s business but my own. If I choose to have me fling, what as that got to do with Cabinet Ministers? I’ve a right to take me pleasures. Why shouldn’t I? Whv?” • • • The overseer stood by furnace No. 000321, and he scratched his head and

swore. The firing-boy stood with his hands in his pockets, wondering whether he should be glad because he could now go and see some football, or sorry because he va» going to lose “time.” “Well,” said the overseer, “it’s no good your standing about here eating money and doings nothing. If Tom’s gone on the drink again, you won’t have anything to do to-day—or tomorrow either, or for a week if it comes to that. You’d better ‘ringoff’ my boy. Tom’s stopped your work, too.” The overseer passed through the casting shops, until he came to the men who manage the moulds. Most of the men were working with the concentrated energy of great pressure Time was the enemy, and they were labouring to beat it. One group of men stood about discussing the latest communiques. These men stiffened as the overseer came along. They looked towards him hopefully. He shook his head. “Tom’s on the drink again.” he said. “Nothin’ doing for you to day, my men. If I wpre you I’d du< k Tom pretty thoroughly in the river He and his drink are simply clogging the whole department.” ALL WORK STOPPED. The men reached for their coats. They wondered how their wives would relish the small pay-envelope at the end of an idle week. The men on the turret lathes were just carrying the last of their stork of brass rods into the little rough tubes of the embryo cartridge. One of the hands had already thrown the belt off the working drum, and stood idlle. When the overseer came up, thu fellow spoke to him in a bitter tone. The rest of the hands stopped work to listen. They would be in the same cart as the fdle man in a very short time. “i.ook ’ere,” said the hand. “!’m right out of stuff, and I’ve been to the stockroom, and they can't give me anything. What am I going to do?” “You’ll have to take a holiday,” said the overseer, as bitterly. “Of course, they couldn’t give you anything in the stockroom. At the pressure we're working we eat up every bit of metal as ast it it comes out of the foundry. The furnace that feeds you has stopped. The hand th..t runs it has gone out on the drink. Lntil he comes back there’ll be nothing for you. His name is Tom Smith. When

you clock off, 1 advise you to go out and reason with him. You’ll do no work, nor get your money, until the fool has been brought to his senses.” The overseer |>assed through the machinery shops, leaving a trail of empty places where he had found idle men. The great ammunition-making firm was not a charitable institution It could not afford to pay men who had nothing to do. An idle man, even though he was idle through no fault of his own, was simply eating money he did not earn. That could not be allowed. These expensive hands had to be sent away until work began to come in for them again. THE IDLE FACTORY. The overseer stalked like an angel of the Lord, sweeping up men and turning them out of the factory. The boy who tested every cartridge for flaws in its skin by putting them, filled with water, under a jteel plunger that drove down into the brass cylinder and compressed the water with such power that if there was any weakness the fluid must burst its way through; the boy who placed the straight brass tubes under the many hunrdedweight trip-hammer that gave them their little round heads to fit them to the breech of the rifles; the boys who annealed the cartridge heads in fire and water; the boys who polished them ; the boys who fitted them with percussion caps; the women who loaded the cartridge with picric powder; the men who bulleted the shells; the women who pa< ked the finished articles —all these men and women and boys who were idle because Tom was drinking were swept out of the factory, were kept out of it by a timekeeper with a flaming eye for expense checking, until Thomas the unregenerate should have had his fill of pleasure. • • • And, many days later, in a muddy ditch of Flanders, a group of men also fell idle because of Thomas. They fell idle unto death. Swarming over the muddy fields, a pack of gre\ men came out of their slime warrens against a trench. The trench was exceedingly well held by British Tommies. The trench was a strong one. It was important enough for 4 the Germans to think of attacking it with power. If the Germans got into it, they would have nullified the tedious work of months that had advanced the British to this point.

Through rain and slush and snow, through death and wounds and hungger and misery, the British had worked up to this point. It was a thrust into the enemy’s front. From this point a grave attaik that would help the final victory would be delivered . . . if the British could only hold on. NO AMMUNITION LEFT The British knew very well that by all the law s of war they could hold on. Cheerfully they met the lunging ad vance of the grey men, with their hit ter outpouring of rides. The grey men died in swathes, but over the bodies of their brothers they came running. That did not matter. Presently the vicious fire of the rifles would pull up th.it rush by its sheer consistence of fire. It was because the Germans would lose over every inch of ground that they would be driven off. It was a matter of bullets. The Germans came on and died. The British Tommies fired at them steadily. They were gaining the upper hand. Then they began to call for cartridges. Their stocks had become exhausted. “Cartridges!” they yelled. “Cartridges! for the love of heaven!” There were no cartridges. Some where behind the line the ammunition had come to a blank space in its output. The idle rifles ceased to speak. The Germans ceased to die. They came on swiftly, pouring into the trench. The British had to fall back. As they retired the German-, slew them with savage volleys that they could not answer. Fifty more men joined the heroes on the roll of honour in that affair. • • • “You've ’ad enough, Tom,” said the aproned expert. “You go ome. Tom went ’ome. As he staggered across the streets of the world, he asked why he shouldn’t have his little pleasures. Why?