(3 of 3)
These superficial contrasts between the year's early depression and its late gay calm were rooted in a really important turnover in psychology. In the early days Britain was fighting for Poland, freedom, prestige, and other academic matters. Last week, Britons were fighting for hedgerows, chimney pots, foggy fens, swift foxes and horses with heart, the Derby, cabbage & boiled potatoes, squabbles in the House of Commons and in every man's kitchen —things that grow and flourish and are loved in Britain. They were fighting for His Majesty George VI, King and Em peror By the Grace of God. They were fighting for their past, and for the right to make a new Britain. Upon that there was national resolve. Chamberlainism was dead. The Old School Tie was going fast. Bitterly it was observed that if Britain loses she will have lost upon the Playing Fields of Eton.
They were glad to be fighting alone at last; no one now could say, "Britain fights to the last Frenchman," or "What can Britain do for Poland, Finland, Norway, Belgium?" Their feeling was not bravado. Nor was it always realistic — but great courage is seldom born of the prac tice of meticulously weighing facts. The thing they feared worse than bloodshed —boredom — was no longer fearful. British reserve had melted. Cabby was speaking to toff — and being answered. In the House of Commons Sir Kingsley Wood said last week that it would soon be both patriotic and distinguished to wear shabby clothes. Britons made up their minds now on the moral issue. Britain was wholly right, Germany wholly wrong.
Britain's determination — which even the German press noted last week with "the admiration that the strong may grant his foe" — was not necessarily an accurate reflection of the military situation. Cen sorship and traditional military reticence combine to blur the picture, good or bad. In France, only a week before Paris fell, a wave of desperate optimism swept the country, electrifying even the indifferent French workers. But Britain is not France. The rest of the world might wonder whether Adolf Hitler would parade one day soon from Trafalgar Square to Pic cadilly, up Regent Street and across to Hyde Park — and down to the gates of Buckingham Palace. But there was no question in the minds of British men and women. They boast the world's greatest poet and the world's greatest confidence. With both they said last week.
This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror.