I toss aside my clippings and sit looking out into the New York street which shows such little sign of war as yet. Defeat! That is the end of this silent warfare, this secret underground attack that has in it nothing of humanity or honour. I think of Germany, a country of quiet, peaceful folk as I once knew it, bearing no malice, going cheerfully about their work, seeking their destiny with a will that has nothing in it of conquest. And I think of Germany embattled, ruled by a group of iron men who seek only their own ambitions as a goal who have brought upon the country and the world this three-years' tyranny of hate.
What will be the end? Will the war go on, eating up the lives and honour of men with its monstrous appetite? Or will there be peace a peace that will bring nothing of revenge or oppression; that will carry with it only a desire for justice to all the peoples of the earth that will kill for ever this desire for conquest which now and in the past has borne only sorrow and bloodshed as its fruit? Will the peace bring forgetfulness of the past, in so far as men can forget?
That would be worth fighting for.
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