"Then we made a "night-flitting," the orderlies and myself, and slept a few miles to the S.W. But with every step away from the hut I became more and more uncomfortable. By daybreak I had decided to return and see how things were going. The orderlies decided to accompany me.
"On the way back we had to take cover once for a while, but finally reached the hut and carried on for the remainder of the day.
"We were called several kinds of lunatics for returning by the Medical Staff, who were then preparing to leave, and be it confessed we felt the truth of their remarks. It was quite out of the question to hold on any longer without cover save a "tin-hat" a-piece, so again we evacuated, this time finally."
It was only when the grey-clad Germans were actually in sight that the workers at St. Leger left their loved Y.M.C.A. I only visited St. Leger once, but that little shanty strangely fascinated me. It was not much to look at, just a group of ruined farm buildings, and in it "the swallows had found a house" and regardless of our presence, yes, regardless of the sh.e.l.ls, for St. Leger was bombarded every day even then, they flew backwards and forwards, feeding their young and twittering merrily and unconcernedly as if it had been a farm building in one of our English counties. It must have been with a heavy heart that those Y.M.C.A. men turned their backs on St. Leger and trudged to Boisleaux-au-Mont, where the five splendid huts that formed our equipment shortly afterwards shared the fate of St. Leger, and were all destroyed before the advance of the Huns.
At Boyelles the tent was amid the ruins by the roadside, and the enamelled Triangle sign was attached to the bottom of the trunk of a tree that had been cut down by the enemy and was lying in the hedge just as it fell. Achiet-le-Pet.i.t Y.M.C.A. was in an orchard, the equipment consisting of a big marquee and several little shanties ingeniously constructed by the workers from empty petrol cans and biscuit boxes. High up in an elm tree was a sort of crow"s nest, used by the Germans as an observation post during the time of their occupation.
At Haplincourt the Y.M.C.A. was anything but imposing--an insignificant house fitted up as a club room, but in the paddock behind it the secretaries had erected a platform, and arranged an open-air auditorium on a grand scale. A hundred yards or so away was a large plunge bath, deep enough for a good high dive. It had been constructed by the Germans when they were in occupation, but when we saw it a score of our own Tommies were disporting themselves in the water and having a high old time. Albert was a scene of desolation, with its ruined church as the most conspicuous feature. High up on the top of the spire, dislodged by German sh.e.l.ls, and jutting out at right angles to the spire, was the famous figure of the Virgin holding in her hands the infant Christ. For many months the figure had remained in this position, and was only finally brought down during the enemy"s advance in 1918. The Y.M.C.A. in Albert was established in one big hut and two badly ruined houses. It was on the Sat.u.r.day that St. Leger fell, and the Sunday at Albert was a memorable day. The town was crowded with an endless stream of men, horses, guns, and service wagons pa.s.sing through. Little was sold in our canteens, but free refreshments were handed out by tired but willing workers all day long. Nearly all those workers had thrilling stories to tell of narrow escapes from death. Albert was evacuated on the Sunday night, and the place must have presented somewhat the appearance of a shambles. The Boche aeroplanes were dropping bombs or firing their machine-guns all the time, but still our men kept on serving the hot tea and cocoa, biscuits, and cigarettes that were so much appreciated by officers and men alike, only leaving their posts and abandoning their hut when ordered to do so by the Military. The retreat from Albert must have been like an awful nightmare. Some of our men in the darkness became entangled in the fallen wires, and whilst trying to extricate themselves heard the hum of an aeroplane just overhead, and a bomb was dropped only a few yards in front of them.
[Ill.u.s.tration: THE Y.M.C.A. IN A RUINED WAREHOUSE. Sh.e.l.l-HOLE IN FLOOR OF CANTEEN]
At Bapaume we had several centres in and closely adjacent to the town.
Bapaume, like Peronne, was not destroyed by enemy sh.e.l.l-fire, but deliberately wrecked by the Hun before he was forced to evacuate, and the foe we face to-day is a past master in the art of destruction.
Hardly a building of any description remained intact in either of these towns when the British entered into occupation. That very fact made us marvel when, standing for the first time in front of the big building occupied by the Y.M.C.A. in Peronne we noticed that it was practically intact. On entering the building we marvelled still more, for the first object we saw was a fine German piano. Surely it was an act of kindness on the part of the wily Hun to leave it for our men. Was it? When the British occupied Peronne a company of troops from the west of England were the first to enter that house. A Tommy who was musical made a bee-line for the piano, but his officer restrained him, bidding him first look inside. It was well he did so, for three powerful bombs were attached to the strings of the piano, and had he touched one of the keys concerned, he himself, the piano, and the building would have been utterly destroyed. In the hut attached to the house a boxing match was taking place on the evening of our arrival, and men had come from outposts miles away to take part. Underneath the house was a German dug-out of almost incredible depth. The original staircase was missing--the Germans having commandeered the wood for the construction of the dug-out--but it had been replaced by an ingenious Y.M.C.A.
secretary, who had searched amid the ruins of Peronne until at last he had found another staircase, which, with infinite pains and labour and not a little ingenuity, he had built in to replace the original one. The day before our visit the old lady who had lived in the house before the war paid a visit to her old home. She was a refugee, and had trudged miles to get back to Peronne. She requested permission to dig in the garden and soon unearthed the uniform of her husband who fought against the Germans in 1870. She had buried it there before the fall of the town. Digging again she came across his sword and accoutrements, and deeper still, her silver spoons and other trinkets that she valued.
Could anything bring home more clearly the horrors of war? If, instead of Peronne in Northern France, it had been that sweet little town in England or Scotland, or that village in Wales or Ireland in which you live! If you had heard the cry one evening, "The Huns are coming," and had just half an hour in which to rush round your home and gather together any things you specially treasured, and take them out into your garden and bury them, knowing that anything you left behind would be either looted and sent to Germany, or deliberately destroyed for sheer hate! How easily this might have been, but for the mercy of G.o.d, the mistakes and miscalculations of the enemy, and the bravery and self-sacrifice of our heroes in blue and khaki, yes, and our workers in fustian and print--for England must never forget the debt she owes to her munition workers as well as to her sailors, soldiers, and airmen.
They see nothing of the romance of war; they know nothing of its excitement, and yet apart from their patriotic service the best efforts of our fighting men would have been in vain.
[Ill.u.s.tration: A Y.M.C.A. CELLAR AT YPRES]
Never was the Y.M.C.A. more appreciated than during the months that preceded the great retreat in the spring of 1918. New Red Triangle huts were springing up like mushrooms, especially in the Fifth Army area, that part of the line that had recently been taken over from the French.
Supported by the generous gifts of friends at home, ably directed by our divisional secretaries and those a.s.sociated with them in the work, and supported and encouraged in every way by the Military Authorities, the progress made was remarkable. Then came the unexpected advance of the German hordes and the laborious work of months was destroyed in a few hours. At Noyon the secretary had to quit in a hurry, but returned to the hut later to bring away the money belonging to the Y.M.C.A.
Thrice he returned, and the third time found it impossible to get away.
After remaining in hiding for twenty-four hours he at length managed to escape with ten thousand francs in his pocket, saved for the a.s.sociation which lost so heavily during those terrible days. At Amiens the Y.M.C.A.
workers hung on for ten days after the official canteens had been removed because the town had become too hot for them. Day and night the "Joy" hut close to the railway station was kept open, and thronged with officers and men, and the service rendered to the troops may be gauged from the amount of the takings, which ranged between fifteen and twenty-thousand francs a day.
Our total loss in the retreat was exceedingly heavy--more than one hundred and thirty huts and other centres in Picardy and Flanders, and in cash, upwards of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Serious as was that loss it might have been very much worse. Eight trucks of stores and equipment were stopped in the nick of time. The axle of one of our big lorries broke within a hundred yards of the most heavily sh.e.l.led area in one of the towns bombarded by the enemy, but it was got away and, excepting in two cases, all the money and notes from tills and cash-boxes were removed safely before the huts were abandoned--striking testimony to the devotion of those in charge. "What I think impressed me most," wrote the organising secretary for France, "has been the undaunted spirit of our workers, who, when sh.e.l.led out of huts, persisted in the attempt to return to them under very great personal danger." "Although we have lost everything that we had," wrote one, "we still have hope within us, and are trusting to get back right into the thick of things in the very near future." Yet another, writing in the spirit of Eastertide, said, "We believe that our work will rise in new freshness and power out of its apparent extinction!" "There was a singular unanimity of effort on the part of the workers who were isolated one from the other, and had no opportunity of arranging a common policy. The sale of such articles as the soldiers needed continued in the huts up to the last moment possible, and then, when the danger of the hut and stores falling into the hands of the enemy became imminent, biscuits and cigarettes were handed out as largely as possible to men in the neighbourhood taking part in the fighting. One would have thought that having done this the workers would have considered their own personal safety and retired, but in several cases I found them running stunts for walking wounded in the open, outside the hut or in its immediate neighbourhood, in close touch with the medical authorities.
"The confusion of the retreat opened up to our workers opportunities of service which they gladly utilised. Last night was a night of uncertainty. We could not go to bed owing to the uncertainty of the military position where our headquarters were, and so stood on a high hill beside an old Trappist monastery, watching the village at the foot in flames, and trying to ascertain the progress of the fighting through the darkness. Our workers even under these circ.u.mstances seized an opportunity of doing a very fine bit of service. A stream of poor refugees were pa.s.sing, people of all conditions and ages, fleeing for safety and shelter, and so at 11.30 at night at the cross-roads, a table was set up with a hot urn of cocoa and supplies of biscuits, which were handed out to French and Flemish people as they pa.s.sed....
"I have never seen anything that has touched me more than these streams of all sorts and conditions of people straggling along with their little belongings, infants in arms, to old people who had not walked a mile for years. It was a great opportunity for rendering a truly Christian service. The other day we lent one of our large lorries for a whole day for the purpose of carrying these people in some degree of comfort to a place of safety."
Thus by every device that resourcefulness and experience could suggest the workers of the Y.M.C.A. in France ministered to the comfort of the men who were so bravely sustaining that terrible onslaught. The organisation of the Red Triangle is the embodied goodwill of the British people towards its beloved army. An emergency like the one in the spring of 1918 was just the time when the services of the Red Triangle were most sorely needed by our soldiers.
Fortunately, all the Y.M.C.A. workers got away safely. Sixty from the Fifth Army took refuge at Amiens, whilst more than eighty from the area of the Third Army found sanctuary at Doullens.
A few months later, thanks to the arrival of the Americans in France, and the brilliant strategy of Foch and Haig; thanks above all to the mercy of G.o.d, the tide turned, and the Huns were once more in full retreat. A distinguished war correspondent wrote his impressions of Bapaume a day or two after it had again been captured by the British.
Said he, "I prowled about the streets of Bapaume through gaping walls of houses, over piled wreckage, and found it the same old Bapaume as when I had left it, except that some of our huts and an officers" club, and some Y.M.C.A. tents and shelters have been blown to bits like everything else." A ruined town without a Y.M.C.A.! Could anything be more desolate?
CHAPTER VIII
THE BARRAGE AND AFTER
The problem of dealing with conditions, at such a time, and under existing circ.u.mstances, at the rest camps has always been a most difficult one; but the erection of huts by the Young Men"s Christian a.s.sociation has made this far easier.
The extra comfort thereby afforded to the men, and the opportunities for reading and writing, have been of incalculable service, and I wish to tender to your a.s.sociation, and all those who have a.s.sisted, my most grateful thanks.--FIELD-MARSHAL VISCOUNT FRENCH.
IT was on the afternoon of July 30, 1917, that we reached Bailleul in Flanders. Proceeding directly to the Headquarters of the Y.M.C.A. we had tea, and then set out to visit the huts in the vicinity. It was a novel experience, for every hut was empty. The reason was not far to find. The troops were in their camps formed up in marching order, and later in the evening we watched them march out to take part in the great offensive.
We were told that the barrage was timed for 3.50 in the morning, and were asked to have our work for the walking wounded ready at 5 A.M., so we determined to spend the night on the top of Kemmel Hill, the highest hill in Flanders. It was just after midnight when we reached the summit of the hill; and we wondered if the barrage had not already commenced, so heavy was the firing. From our point of vantage we could see the whole of the sector, from Armentieres in the south, across the battlefields of Messines and Wytschaete and away beyond Ypres in the north. Silently, close to us, an observation balloon stole up in the darkness, and a few minutes later as silently descended. Involuntarily we ducked as a monster sh.e.l.l shrieked overhead, and some one cried, "There goes the Bailleul Express!" About 3 A.M. things began to quiet down. Our guns might have been knocked out; they were hardly replying at all to the enemy"s fire. Later on we saw a series of signal flashes high up across the battlefield, and then at 3.50 promptly to the moment, the barrage began, and there was no possibility of mistaking it--two thousand guns, as we learned afterwards, all firing at the same time. As one looked at that h.e.l.l of flame and bursting sh.e.l.l, one felt it was impossible for any life to continue to exist beneath it, and one thought of the boys, as steady as if they had been on parade, creeping up behind that barrage of fire. We had seen them as they left their camp the night before, and we saw them when they returned--some of them--during the two days following the barrage; not in regiments a thousand strong, with colours flying and bands playing, but dribbling back one or two at a time--the walking wounded--and each one came in to our little Y.M.C.A.
tents attached to the clearing stations--one was at an island in a sea of mud, near d.i.c.kebusch huts in Flanders. There was a queue inside of two or three hundred men. Every man in that queue was wounded, and waiting to have his wounds attended to; every man was hungry until he entered that tent; every man plastered from head to foot with the most appalling mud, and unless one has seen the mud of Flanders or of the Somme, it is impossible to imagine what it is really like. As I mingled with the men in that queue and a.s.sisted our workers to hand out hot tea, coffee, and cocoa, biscuits, bread and b.u.t.ter, chocolate, cigarettes or oranges, I thanked G.o.d for the opportunity He had given to the Y.M.C.A., and the thing that impressed me more than anything else was the fact that one did not hear a single complaint, not one word of grousing. And why not? Was it because they liked that kind of thing? Don"t make any mistake about it--no one could possibly like it, but out there the men know they are fighting not for truth and freedom in the abstract, but for their own liberty, and, what is infinitely more important to them, for their homes and loved ones. They know that what the Hun has done for Northern France and Flanders is as nothing compared with what he would do for the places and the people we love if he once got the opportunity of wreaking his vengeance on us. There is no finer bit of work that the Y.M.C.A. is doing to-day than this work for the walking wounded, which before any great push takes place, is carefully organised down to the last detail. Before one of the great battles, our men took up their positions at thirty-four different centres where they were able to minister to the needs of the wounded, and thus to co-operate with the magnificent work that is being done under the sign of the Red Cross. As in France, so in Italy and in the East, at Beersheba and other centres on the lines of communication in Palestine, records show how efficiently the same type of service is being rendered to our brave troops.
[Ill.u.s.tration: HUT IN WILDERNESS OF DESTRUCTION. CUTTING THE ICE IN Sh.e.l.l-HOLES FOR WATER FOR TEA--WINTER, 1916-17]
[Ill.u.s.tration: RUINED HOUSE USED BY Y.M.C.A., PROPPED UP BY TIMBER]
To return to the barrage. It is always interesting to note the effect a scene of that kind has on people of different temperaments. We had been sitting round a huge sh.e.l.l-hole near the top of Kemmel Hill feeling, it must be confessed, a trifle "fed-up" with things. We were all tired, and had had a very heavy day"s work. It was an uncomfortable night, to say the least of it, with drizzling rain, and very cold for the time of year. At the first sound of the drum-fire of the barrage set up by the British guns, we sprang to our feet, wild with excitement. A distinguished padre from the Midlands was lost in admiration for the work of the munitioners whose labours made possible this great strafing of the Hun. The leader of the party, a colonial from far-off Australia, simply danced with excitement which he made no attempt to suppress, contenting himself with e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. from time to time expressions to the effect that that was the most dramatic moment of his life. An unemotional Professor from one of our great universities stood with clenched fists, and was overheard to say, "Give "em h.e.l.l, boys!" Another padre in the company began to quote Browning, the quotation referring to the signal flashes to which reference has already been made:
"From sky to sky. Sudden there went, Like horror and astonishment, A fierce vindictive scribble of red, Which came across, as if one said, . . . "There-- "Burn it!""
How often it happens that in the greatest moments of one"s life, it is the trivial thing that appeals most strongly to one"s imagination. So in this case. The thing never to be forgotten was connected with the early dawn. I can see even now that long grey streak on the horizon across the battlefield, as the daylight came. A thrush from a bush close to where we were standing began to pour out its song of praise and thanksgiving, heedless of falling sh.e.l.ls and the roar of guns. There was something unspeakably pathetic in that song on the battlefield, yes, and prophetic of the great day that is coming in spite of all reverses; the day of victory and peace, peace purchased at the price of struggle, and of blood.
As one watched the barrage from Kemmel the onslaught seemed to be irresistible. It seemed impossible for the German hordes to hold our men back. Neither could they have held them, but what the Hun could not do, the rain did for him. It just teemed down, and in a few hours Flanders was churned up into a swamp of mud. It was impossible to bring the big guns up and the whole advance was stayed. One thought how often the same thing had happened before, and wondered, only wondered, if we at home were supporting the boys at the Front as they had a right to expect us to support them? It is so easy at a time like this to put one"s trust merely in "reeking tube and iron shard," and to leave G.o.d out of our calculations. After all in this great struggle we are not fighting merely against "flesh and blood," but against "princ.i.p.alities and powers, against spiritual wickedness in high places," and even to-day "More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of." It was that great soldier, Sir William Robertson, who said, "Let us never forget in all that we do that the measure of our ultimate success will be governed largely, if not mainly, by the extent to which we put our religious convictions into our actions, and hold fast, firmly and fearlessly, to the faith of our forefathers." Had the Germans beaten us two years ago every one would have known the reason why--they had more men, bigger guns, and more of them, more aeroplanes, and an infinitely better supply of munitions of war, but by the summer of 1917 we were superior to them in every particular, and yet victory tarried. Why? Can it be that G.o.d was waiting for His people to seek His aid?
With Russia out of the war, we were once again to stand with our backs to the wall--the position in which the British are always seen at their best--and the National crisis came as one more challenge to the Nation to turn to the G.o.d of our fathers.
CHAPTER IX
"LES PARENTS BLESSeES"
The Y.M.C.A.? Why, they could no more do without the Y.M.C.A. than they could do without munitions at the Front? I have seen it in operation.--THE RIGHT HON. WILL CROOKS, M.P.
"A GREAT Mother Hen," so wrote one who for the first time saw the work of the Y.M.C.A. for the relatives of dangerously wounded men. This work is carried on in London and a number of provincial centres, but it is seen at its best in France, for there it is on a much larger scale. If a man is dangerously wounded and lying in one of the hospitals on the other side of the Channel, a message is sent to his people at home containing the requisite permission to visit him, and telling them, moreover, that from the moment they reach France the Y.M.C.A. will take care of them. Red Triangle motors meet every boat as it reaches a French port; automatically the relatives of wounded, or "Les Parents Blessees"
as the French call them, are handed over to our care, and we motor them to their destination--a.s.sisted sometimes by the Red Cross. As this may mean a run of eighty or a hundred miles, and in war time may mean a whole day, or possibly two days on the French railways, the motor run is in itself a great boon. During the whole of the time they are in France, the relatives are entertained as the guests of the Red Triangle in the special hostels that have been established for the purpose in the princ.i.p.al bases. Many of them have never been away from their own homes before; they know no language but their own, and a journey of the kind would have its terrors at any time, but to all the ordinary difficulties has now to be added the fact that they are consumed with anxiety on account of those who are dearer than life itself. It means everything to them that the Y.M.C.A. as a "Great Mother Hen" takes them under its protection, soothes and protects them, so that in the darkest moments of their lives they are not dealt with by any officials who have to get through so many cases in a given time, but by sympathetic friends, actuated only by the love of G.o.d, and of country. One of the most beautiful of these hostels is "Les Iris." It is hidden away in the depths of a wood near the sea, and in the springtime the nights are full of the melody of the nightingales. This hostel is reserved largely for the use of the relatives of dangerously wounded officers. The lady who presides over another of the hostels has been called the Florence Nightingale of the Red Triangle, and indeed that would be a suitable name for any of these ladies who take the relatives to their hearts, and do everything possible to comfort and cheer them and make them feel at home. As we write, a letter from one of our guests lies before us. We quote from it because it is typical of thousands of letters received from grateful friends:--
"Many thanks for the photo of my son"s grave received this morning. How very kind you Y.M.C.A.
people are. I little thought last November when I was begging (Hut Week in Brighton) that I should reap personal benefit from the Y.M.C.A. The kindness and hospitality extended to my husband and I when we came to France nearly three months ago, we shall never forget. It is not in our power to help with money except in a small way, but we tell all we can, and help in every way in our power."
During a recent visit to France we had the privilege of being shown over one of the British hospitals, which, like all our hospitals, was wonderfully efficient. Everything that could be done to alleviate suffering was done. In one ward every man was seriously wounded, and side by side were two beds, one occupied by a young Canadian and the other by a young Britisher. The latter had his mother with him, who was one of our guests. The Canadian watched them together for some time in silence, but followed them with his eyes as a cat might a mouse.
Suddenly, without any warning, he flung himself over on to his side and burst out crying. Questioned as to what was the matter, he replied, "Nothing." "Then what makes you cry? Is the pain worse?" "No, thanks, the pain is better." "Then what makes you cry like that?" Drying his eyes, the boy replied, "It"s all very well for him, he"s got his mother with him. My mother is more than six thousand miles away!" Is it not worth any effort and any cost to help the loved ones of these men who have made such great sacrifices for us? The whole of this work for "Les Parents Blessees" is full of pathos. On one occasion we reached a big hospital centre just as another a.s.sociation car arrived from a big base port, bringing three English women to see their husbands. The Y.M.C.A.
leader took them to the wards they were seeking. At the first, the sister in charge came to speak to one of our guests and said, "I am very sorry, but am afraid your husband won"t know you. He has been terribly ill, and all sorts of complications have set in, but you had better come in and see him." Twenty minutes later we saw her again, and she told us that for ten minutes she sat by her husband"s bedside, but he did not know her. Then stooping over him, she whispered, "You remember little Lizzie and little Willie at home, don"t you?" For one second he gave her that look of love and recognition that made the long journey from home worth while.
Pa.s.sing on to another ward we sent in a message, and the sister came to greet our guest, and said, "I am glad to say your husband is much better. I"ll tell him you are here." When she came back she said she had asked the invalid, "What would you like best in all the world?" Without a moment"s hesitation, he replied, "To go back to Blighty, Sister."
"Blighty"--how many of those who use it realise the meaning of the word?
It comes from the Indian "Vilayhti" and means "The home across the sea."
"Blighty!" said the Sister; "you know that"s impossible. What would you like next best?" "To see my wife," was the prompt reply. "And what would you say if I told you your wife was waiting outside to see you?"
queried the Sister, as she moved from his bedside and opened the door.
Yes, to these people many thousands of them, the Red Triangle has indeed been as a Great Mother Hen at a time when they most needed its care. We are all very much like big children, and to all of us there are times when we need some one to take us by the hand and speak words of consolation and good cheer.