A chaplain I knew used to try to cheer up despondent boys by pretending to have special knowledge of inside politics.

“I have it on good authority,” he said, “that peace is near at hand. There have been negotiations in Paris⁠—”

Or:

“I don’t mind telling you lads that if you get through the next scrap you will have peace before you know where you are.”

They were not believing, now. He had played that game too often.

“Old stuff, padre!” they said.

That particular crowd did not get through the next scrap. But the padre’s authority was good. They had peace long before the armistice.