The land is groaning now. More than a million of her sons—the half of her youth—lie prostrate, rotting in alien soil. Hark to the mothers’ tears, the… - Emil Ludwig

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The land is groaning now. More than a million of her sons—the half of her youth—lie prostrate, rotting in alien soil. Hark to the mothers’ tears, the fathers’ execrations; see this brave famished people cower to the victor’s lash!
Are these the glorious days you vowed to bring your people? Which of your promises have you kept? Though Nature and upbringing wronged you, what have you done with your many gifts in that festival you made of life? In the service of your phrases, your pretensions, this great people has been led astray; and when for once it warned you, you derided it.
After four inactive years—four years of sacrifice for all but you—you have refused your people the last service which, in history’s eyes, might still have saved you; and for scurvy life are breaking now the soldier’s oath you swore before you grandsire—the oath inviolate; you dinned that in their ears a thousand times. Now, in their direst need, you wash your hands of them—wife, children, subjects; in your craven fear you cast away the honor of your fathers. Chaos is upon your land; and while millions stare privation and slavery in the face, one man, the man who stands for all, steps into his luxurious car and rolls away to ease and comfort in a neutral country.