s; it has a value like the power of a
minority or of a mobile reserve. It adds to one side or the other the
last ounce of force which is to its opponent the last straw that breaks
its back.

Perhaps the simplest way of explaining the meaning of morale is to say
that what "condition" is to the athlete's body, morale is to the mind.
Morale is condition; good morale is good condition of the inner man: it
is the state of will in which you can get most from the machinery,
deliver blows with the greatest effect, take blows with the least
depression, and hold out for the longest time. It is both fighting-power
and staying-power and strength to resist the mental infections which
fear, discouragement, and fatigue bring with them, such as eagerness for
any kind of peace if only it gives momentary relief, or the irritability
that sees large the defects in one's own side until they seem more
important than the need of defeating the enemy. And it is the perpetual
ability to come back.

From this it follows that good morale is not the same as good spirits or
enthusiasm. It is anything but the cheerful optimism of early morning,
or the tendency to be jubilant at every victory. It has nothing in
common with the emotionalism dwelt on by psychologists of the "crowd."
It is hardly to be discovered in the early stages of war. Its most
searching test is found in the question, How does war-weariness affect
you?

No one going from America to Europe in the last year could fail to
notice the wide difference between the mind of nations long at war and
that of a nation just entering. Over there, "crowd psychology" had spent
itself. There was little flag-waving; the common purveyors of music were
not everywhere playing (or allowed to play) the national airs. If in
some Parisian cinema the Marseillaise was given, nobody stood or sang.
The reports of atrocities roused little visible anger or even talk--they
were taken for granted. In short, the simpler emotions had been worn
out, or rather had resolved themselves into clear connections between
knowledge and action. The people had found the mental gait that can be
held indefinitely. Even a great advance finds them on their guard
against too much joy. As the news from the second victory of the Marne
begins to come in, we find this despatch: "Paris refrains from
exultation."

And in the trenches the same is true in even greater degree. All the
bravado and illusion of war are gone, also all the ner