I HAVE come back from the Jaws of Death—back from the Mouth of Hell—to
my own land, my own people. I have never passed such an exciting year in
my life—and beside, I hope I have been able to accomplish something in
my work which shall show one phase of the Wonder of the World’s Work of
to-day. I was honoured a year ago by being permitted by the Rt. Hon.
David Lloyd George, then Minister of Munitions in England, to make
drawings in the various factories and works and shipyards which were
engaged in war work in that country—and the records of what I saw were
published as lithographs of War Work in England and in a previous volume
in this series. Now, though I do not believe in war, I do not see why
some pictorial record of what is being done to carry on the war should
not be made—made from an artist’s standpoint—for we are in it—being
in the world—but I am not of it.
When my work—or as much of it as I was allowed to do—was finished and
exhibited and published—I was invited by the French Minister of
Munitions, M. Albert Thomas, to visit the front and make studies of
similar subjects in France, but—owing to a combination of unfortunate
circumstances—though I went to France twice during the Summer of this
year, I was unable to get anything of importance. This was my fault, or
my misfortune—I failed—and the memory of my failure will haunt me, and
be a cause of regret to me, all my life—unless I am able to wipe out my
failure—in another visit to France. But though I failed to make any
drawings—any records of the subjects I was so freely shown—I was shown
on my two visits many subjects, which were supremely interesting, could
I have but drawn them—had I been able to do so they would have been
worth doing. Not only was I taken to the front, which was not the part I
saw, picturesque, but I was also taken to see some of those parts of
France which have been fought over, some of the towns which have been
destroyed, some of the land which is desolate, and I have also seen some
of the French munition factories. Then I came home, for I believe the
place for an American at the present time is at home. And on my arrival
I was authorized to make records by our Government similar to those I
had made in England, and had failed to make in France—what I have done
in the United States is shown in this book.
I have had more opportunities of seeing what is being done in war work
in England, France and the United States than any one else—and in a
fashion that no one else has been permitted to see. I have seen war in
the making. Yet I did not do these drawings with any idea of helping to
win the war, but because for years I have been at work—from my earliest
drawings—trying to record The Wonder of Work, and work never was so
wonderful as it is to-day. And never had any one such help—such aid,
such encouragement given him to record its wonder—and by the
Governments of the three great countries which are engaged in “this
incredibly horrible, absolutely unnecessary war, easily avoided war,” to
quote a British Statesman.
Not only have I seen the Wonder of Work in these three lands—but before
the war I saw it in Belgium, Germany and Italy. I have drawn it
everywhere, save in Luxembourg, and there, too, I have seen it—but made
no drawings—for it was so easy to get to that land—and so that country
was put off for a more convenient season—a season I fear which will
never come again. I am not going to make comparisons—but I am going to
say that the Wonder of Work is more wonderful in the United States than
anywhere else in the world to-day. True, we are not working with that
unbelievable energy which the French and English—yes, the English—have
put at last into their work—but we do so much more—with so much
less—appearance of work—we are working for the Allies—but they are
not working for us. And we are doing for them what they cannot do for
themselves. In Europe the war worker works all day and every day in the
year. Here most of the great industrial works have only added war work
to their peace work, in Europe scarce anything else but war work is
being done.
And also in America the women have not to any extent gone into the
factories, mills and shipyards of the country. And I hope they never
will. I have never seen a woman shell maker here, yet I know of
factories in France and England where there are scarce any work people,
save women, one where there are ten thousand women. Here they are only
making fuses and doing other light work, but I have not seen a woman at
a lathe as I have seen them in France and England. I have never seen a
woman ship builder here—yet I have seen women in shipyards abroad doing
work that men would have grumbled at when put to it—because it was
thought hard work—before the war.
And I am glad that our women are not forced to undertake such work, and
hope they never may be, for I have seen the black side of this work,
which already has led to strikes and labour troubles in Europe—and when
the war is over, will lead to greater trouble—for the Captains of
Industry in Europe tell me that women run machines better than men—they
devote themselves to the machine—never try to improve it—to make
changes in it—only to keep it going and in good order, while the man is
always trying to improve it, to make it do more, so that he can do less.
“Stick matches in it,” one manager said—while the women just run the
machines as they are shown how.
But making shells is more interesting than washing dishes, or waving
flags and marching in parades—and more exciting—but there will be an
end to that some day; and the lathes—which have been turned to war
work—will be turned back to peace work—and the question is, will the
women go back to their dishes?—and if they do not there will be more
trouble. I have seen a women’s strike—or a little of it—for with the
manager who was showing me around, I left at once. It was not an
orderly, peaceful, or womanly strike. That shop was no place for me.
Those women were not lady-like.
But just as the greatest human energy has been given to war work, given
to make things to explode, to kill, to destroy; so the greatest machines
have been turned to do this work with the greatest skill and accuracy
and the greatest speed—the workers are but a necessary detail—and it
is the working of the great machinery in the great mills which I find so
inspiring—so impressive—for the mills are shrines of war. The mills
are the modern temples and in them do the people worship. And if only
the engines turned out were engines of peace—how much better would the
world be—but everything made in a war factory is made to destroy and to
be destroyed. But one must not think of that, for if one did the war
would stop, and not every one wants it to stop—or it would stop
to-day—a universal demand for peace would make peace,—really would
have prevented war. But war work in America is the most wonderful work
in the world and that is the reason why I have drawn some of the work I
have seen—seen in these endless looms of time—where history is being
woven. The attitude of the workman toward the artist is curious; in
France he understands, in England he looks down on you as a poor thing
who has to work—in America you are regarded as a fellow workman, as an
artist is!
I want to thank the Secretaries of the Navy and of War, Messrs. Daniels
and Baker, Mr. Creel and the other members of the Board and staff of the
Committee on Public Information, and the various heads of the various
sub-departments of the Army and Navy, who stood my pestering and
querying and obtained for me permission to visit every industrial
establishment I wanted. In every plant, camp, yard, works, field, which
I wanted to work in—I was taken to, and treated with courtesy. I should
like to thank and mention by name the various officials, government and
civilian, who gave me every facility to see and to draw everything I
wished in the War Works they directed—but we are at war—and I am not
permitted to say where these drawings were made, and if I mentioned the
names of some of the directors of these works the places in which I made
the drawings would be known. As it is, I imagine many of them are pretty
well known already.
Finally I wish to thank my life-long friend, Dr. F. P. Keppel—who
suggested, directed, arranged, calmed down and cheered up all those with
whom I was brought in most interesting contact. He knows what he did and
I know—and I shall not forget.
Philadelphia, Thanksgiving Day, 1917 Joseph Pennell
will bring up a larger version of the illustration.)
