British expeditionary force, bound on an international mission,
finds itself stranded in an unknown country. The force is composed of
men very various in rank and profession. Two of them, whom we may call
a non-commissioned officer and a private, go exploring by themselves,
and take one of the natives of the place prisoner. This native is an
ugly low-born creature, of great physical strength and violent criminal
tendencies, a liar, and ready at any time for theft, rape, and murder.
He is a child of Nature, a lover of music, slavish in his devotion to
power and rank, and very easily imposed upon by authority. His captors
do not fear him, and, which is more, they do not dislike him. They found
him lying out in a kind of no-man's land, drenched to the skin, so they
determine to keep him as a souvenir, and to take him home with them.
They nickname him, in friendly fashion, the monster, and the mooncalf,
as who should say Fritz, or the Boche. But their first care is to give
him a drink, and to make him swear allegiance upon the bottle. 'Where
the devil should he learn our language?' says the non-commissioned
officer, when the monster speaks. 'I will give him some relief, if it be
but for that.' The prisoner then offers to kiss the foot of his captor.
'I shall laugh myself to death', says the private, 'at this puppy-headed
monster. A most scurvy monster! I could find in my heart to beat him,
but that the poor monster's in drink.' When the private continues to
rail at the monster, his officer calls him to order. 'Trinculo, keep a
good tongue in your head: if you prove a mutineer, the next tree------
The poor monster's my subject, and he shall not suffer indignity.'

In this scene from _The Tempest_, everything is English except the
names. The incident has been repeated many times in the last four years.
'This is Bill,' one private said, introducing a German soldier to his
company. 'He's my prisoner. I wounded him, and I took him, and where I
go he goes. Come on, Bill, old man.' The Germans have known many
failures since they began the War, but one failure is more tragic than
all the rest. They love to be impressive, to produce a panic of
apprehension and a thrill of reverence in their enemy; and they have
completely failed to impress the ordinary British private. He remains
incurably humorous, and so little moved to passion that his daily
offices of kindness are hardly interrupted.

Shakespeare's tolerance, which is no greater