Life — October 2, 1913 — page 26: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

‘*LIFE> The Winner of Life’s War Contest In its issue of July 17th, Lire offered a prize of $300 for the best original arraignment of war in five hundreds words or less. The contest closed at noon on Saturday dugust 30th. Before this hour 2,492 contributions had been received. Quite a large number of contributions came in after the spect- fied closing time, and were, therefore, barr¢ From the total num from the contest. . ‘ of contributions received five were accepted, and these five are published on this and the succeeding page. From these five the judges selected the one written by James Logan Mosby, of Francis, Oklahoma, as being entitled to the first prize. War! By James Logan Mosby I WAS conceived in passion, hatred, envy and greed, born in the morning of antiquity, and have a genealogy whose every page drips with the red blood of murdered in- nocence. I respect neither the feebleness of gray hairs, the helplessness of infancy nor the sacredness of virtue, and walk, iron-shod, ruthlessly and impartially over the form of the weakling or the form of the giant. I paint the midnight skies a lurid glow from the burning homes I have ravaged, and I turn peaceful scenes of rural beauty, where God's own creatures dwell together in amity, into a raging hell. I set neighbor against neighbor in deadly ¢dombat, and I incite the brother to slay his brother. I make puppets of kings, princes of paupers, courtiers of courtesans and thieves of respected subjects, and em- pires melt before my breath as does mist before the morn- ing sunlight. I make of religion fanaticism; the heathen I make a fiend incarnate; and of all men I make playthings devoid of reason and justice. Through intrigue I make the in- telligent powerful, the unscrupulous wax fat on the spoils of blood-won victories gained by others, and the less learned suffer for their own ignorance. Famine, want ané misery follow in my path; I lay waste green fields and still the hand of industry. I pillage the land of its resources but contribute nothing of benefit to mankind, leaving pestilence to stalk ghost-like in’ my wake and complete the work of destruction. I lay a heavy tribute upon my most loyal subjects for the maintenance of my establishment; I squander the vitality and lives of those who serve me faithfully, yet return to the world nothing but ruin and ashes. The baubles of fame I confer on some are the empty shells of false standards wherein the license to commit murder and rapine is held to be the insignia of glory by a mistaken civilization. I can offer no excuse for my having come into ex- istence, nor can I give one plausible reason why I should not cease to be, other than that so long as men who wield influence are permitted to gratify their selfish desires and ambitions at the expense of the many who must carry the burdens and endure the suffering, that long will I continue to exact my toll of sorrow, devastation and death. For I am pitiless — devoid of all feeling; I fear neither man nor God; I am amenable to no law, and I am in myself the Law and the Last Resort. 1AM WAR! Enigma M first is in wrong, but not in right. My second in darkness, but not in light. My third is in horrors, which some can tell. My whole was called by a wise man “ Hell.” Elizabeth Coit Downing. “War” (This contribution is longer than the five hundred word limit specified in the conditions. It was, therefore, finally barred out by the judges, but was accepted for publication and is printed herewith on account of its merit.) AR, once called an art—the art of human conflict— has suffered the degeneration of progress and now belongs within the domain of the exact sciences. Heroi have yielded to mechanics—Alexander the Great has been superseded by the Maxim silencer, The army has be- come a system of aeroplanes, sanitary camps and accurate- ly adjusted ordnance, that to be effective, does not even require the view of the enemy. The Navy has developed into a ficet of rangefinders, gyroscopes, thermostated mag- azines, indexed smokeless powder, telescopic sights and oil-burning turbines. The enemy is mechanically located, geometrically plotted and scientifically killed. The art of war has passed and with it the only reason that gave it the right of existence—the development of individual through national character. At one time victory supposedly went to the brave, the strong and the just. To-day our military results are more exact. The question is merely one of preparedness and resources, The chemi- cal laboratories that produce the highest explosives, the foundries that yield the toughest armor-plate, calories in the commissary and system in transportation—these are the factors that determine the tide of success. Battles are no longer fought and won on sea and battlefield; they are decided with scale and compass on the plotting board. But surely, one holds, the inherent traits of greatness have not all been eliminated—the tenacity of a Washing- ton, the sagacity of a Napoleon, the strategy of a Nelson, must yet be slumbering somewhere in some heart waiting only for the call of opportunity. Error. They have been resolved away by psycho-analysis. Where once we were content to be thrilled by the force of Caesar or the no- bility of Lee, we now pour over an essay on “ Mind and Fitness to Win” and Munsterberg on the psychology of combat. Admirals and generals are being tested for their comicbooks.com