Y.M.C.A. work was over for the time being in the fighting areas.
Hundreds of huts and mountains of stores had been abandoned or
destroyed. What was to be done with the six or seven dozen of us, now
thoroughly superfluous men (and as many more in other centres), was the
immediate problem. It was solved by the High Command putting at our
disposal an Army rest-camp on the coast.
Thither we all started by rail on the evening of Tuesday, March 26th.
Ten minutes after our train left, the station was heavily bombed;
half-an-hour later we were lying low in a cutting, under a mercilessly
full moon, but perhaps in deeper shadow than we supposed, while a German
aeroplane scoured the sky for mischief. There was an Anti-Aircraft
Battery also concealed about the district; thanks to its activities, we
were at length able to proceed with less fear of molestation. But only
fitfully; the full moon saw to that. It was as light as noonday through
smoked glasses, and very soon our train was hiding in the next wood that
happened to intersect the line.
Did we waste time talking about it, discussing our chances, or mildly
anathematising our last-straw luck? Not for many minutes; at least, not
in the bare truck round which some fifty of us squatted on our baggage.
We had begun the last stage of our exodus in a certain fashion; and in
that fashion we went on--and on. Before we were five minutes out, one of
them had struck up a hymn, and we had sung it with all our lungs and
hearts. Another and another followed; and in the stoppages, after a
human peep at the sky, and a silence broken by the beat of the
destroyer's engine, there was always some exalted voice to lead us yet
again, and a stentorian following every time. Though the tunes were
often strange to me, and to my mind no improvement on the ones I wanted,
the hymns themselves were the old hymns that take a man back to his old
home and his old school. Each was like a bottle charged with the essence
of some ancient scene. One savoured the scents of vanished rooms, heard
the sound of voices long past singing or long ago stilled; forgotten
influences, childish promptings, looks and thoughts and sayings, came
leaping out of the dead past into that dark truck hiding for dear life
in a wood. And of all the unreal situations I was ever in--or invented,
for that matter--this at last struck me as about the most unconvincing
and far-fetched. Yet at the same time, like all else that really
matters, it seemed the most natural thing in the world: as though the
whole history of mankind had not led up to the horrors and splendours of
this stupendous war more inevitably than our fifty life-lines converged
in that truck-load of brave, faithful, hymn-singing men.
Then a hymn would end, and there would be sometimes as much as a minute
of natural talk and normal thinking. But it was like the lorries full of
fighting-men in the moonlit dust; always a new leader filled the breach;
and the officers of the Rest Hut had long been stolid listeners when we
stopped once more, not to hide, but at some station, and that weary pair
sneaked out into another truck. Here there were but other two before
them: a sardonic Anglican, and a young man enviably asleep under less
covering than would have soothed our thinner blood. Side by side we
cowered upon a packing-case, a Rest Hut blanket about our legs, and
discussed the secular situation over a pipe. Almost the last thing we
two had heard in the town was a whisper about the German cavalry; a
rumour so sensational that we were keeping it to ourselves; but it only
confirmed the mate in his prophetic conviction that the fools were just
cutting their own throats deeper with every mile they advanced. That was
_his_ hymn; not a stage of our flight had he failed to beguile with the
grim refrain; but in the truck I seem to recall a wilder dream of
getting into some dead man's uniform, if the other folly went much
further, and risking a firing-party for one blow at a Boche by fair or
foul. It was perhaps as well that we were going beyond the reach of any
such desperate temptations.
The Rest Camp was on a chilly plateau at the mouth of the Somme: it
might have been the Murrambidgee for all the warfare within reach. A few
faint flashes claimed our wistful attention on a clear night, but I have
heard the guns better here in Sussex. On the other hand, it was a
military camp, laid out on scientific principles that appealed to the
camp-following spirit, and military discipline kept us on our acquired
mettle. I had not slept under canvas for thirty years, and rather
dreaded it, especially as the weather had turned cold and unsettled. A
tent in the rain had perhaps more terrors for many of us than a snug hut
under occasional shell-fire; but few if any were the worse for the
experience. Indeed, the chief drawback was an appetite out of all
proportion to available rations; but, though tempers were at times on
edge, and fists clenched in the bacon queue, on one of our few bacon
mornings, no grumbling disgraced the board. We reminded ourselves and
each other of the lads we had left to bear the brunt, and we started
our humdrum days with vociferous jocosity in the wash-house.
Easter was upon us before we were fairly settled, or a tent pitched
large enough to hold us all; and it was 'in sundry places,' indeed, that
we mobilised as a congregation. One was the open shed in which we
shivered over meals, and one the camp shower-baths. But on Easter Day,
which was fine and bright, all adjourned to a neighbouring wood, then
breaking into bud and song; and sitting or leaning in a circle against
the trees, at the intersection of two green rides, we held our service
in Nature's sanctuary. In that ring of unmilitary men in khaki there
were few who had not been nearer violent death than ever in their lives
before, very few but were prepared to face it afresh at the first
chance, one at least who was soon to be killed behind his counter; and
presently a young man standing in our midst, an Anglican with a
Nonconformist gift of speech, brought the spring morning home to our
hearts, filled them with thankfulness for our lot and trust in the
issue, and pride of sacrifice, and love of Him Who showed the way, in a
sermon one would not have missed for the best they were getting in
London at that hour. It was not the only fine sermon we had in the Rest
Camp; and wonderful it was to hear the same simple note struck so often,
albeit from different angles of the Christian faith, and so seldom
forced. We must have had representatives of all the English-spoken
Churches, save and except the parent of them all; constantly an Anglican
and a Dissenter would officiate together, with many a piquant compromise
between their respective usages; but when it came to preaching, they
were like searchlights trained from divers quarters upon the same
central fact of Christianity. The separate beams might taper off into
the night, but high overhead they met and mingled in a single splendour.
But there was one minister who took no part; he lay too sick in our
tent; and yet his mere record is the sermon I remember best. He was that
other Baptist already mentioned, a shy bachelor of fifty, the most
diffident and (one might have thought) least resolute of men. A lad he
loved had come out and been killed; the impulse took him to follow and
throw himself into the war in the only capacity open to his years. The
Y.M.C.A. is the refuge of those consciously or unconsciously in quest of
this anodyne. We had met at my first hut, where he had slaved many days
as an extra hand. Never was one of us so deferential towards the men;
never were they served with a more intense solicitude, or addressed
across the counter with so many marks of respect. 'Sir,' he never
failed to call them to their faces, or 'this gentleman' when invoking
expert intervention. That gentleman, being one, never smiled; but we
did, sometimes, in our room. Then one Sunday I persuaded him to preach.
It was a revelation. The hut had heard nothing simpler, manlier,
straighter from the shoulder; and the war, not just then the safest
subject, was finely and bravely treated, both in the sermon and the
final prayer. A fighting sermon and a fighting prayer, for all the
gentle piety that formed the greater part, and all the sensitive
mannerism which would never make us smile again.
At that time our outpost in the support line, scene of my Christmas
outing, had been running a good many weeks; and its popularity as a
holiday resort was not imperceptibly upon the wane. Most of us had
tasted its fearful joys, and there were no offers for a second helping;
it was emphatically a thing to have done rather than the thing to do
again. It came to the Baptist's turn, and when his week was up there was
a genuine difficulty in relieving him, one or two on the rota having
fallen sick. Our young commandant went up to ask if he would mind doing
an extra day or two. Mind! It was his one desire; he was as happy as a
king--and he had quite transformed the place. The tiny hut was no longer
the pig-sty described in an earlier note; it was as neat and spotless
as an old maid's sanctum. The urns were like burnished silver. The fire
never smoked. The bed had been brought in from the unspeakable tunnel
under the sand-bags; it was as dry as a bone, and curtained off at its
own end of the cabin. All these improvements the Baptist had wrought
single-handed, besides fending and cooking for himself: no Battalion
Headquarters for him! An extra week was just what he had been longing
for; in point of fact, he stayed four weeks on end, as against my four
paltry days!
Shells arrived in due course; death happened at the door; men grievously
wounded staggered in for first aid; the lengthening days kept him
fireless till evening; but the cocoa had never been so well made, or so
continuous the supply. Once a big shell burst within a yard of the
grassy roof, on the very edge of the high ground of which the roof was a
colourable extension. It brought down all the mugs and urns and
condensed-milk tins with a run; and that day we did see the Baptist at
our mid-day board. 'It shook me up a bitty,' he confessed with his shy
laugh; but back he went in the afternoon; and illness alone restored him
to us when the month was up.
But the gem of his performance was an act of moral gallantry: and here
is needed the Rough Rhyme of a Padre or of a Red Cross Man. One cold
night a Sergeant-Major--Regimental, I do believe--honoured the cabin
with his presence, only to fire a burst of improper language at the
weather and the war. The Baptist, whom we may figure on the verge of
genuflexion before the august guest, lost not a moment in standing up to
him.
'You can't talk like that here, sir!' he cried with stern simplicity.
'It's not allowed!'
'Can't,' if you please, and 'not allowed'! You picture the audience
settling down to the dreadful drama, hear the cold shudders of the
callow, see the turkey-cock turning an appropriate purple. He very soon
showed what he could do; but it was no longer a spontaneous or such a
glib display. The rum that happened somehow to be in him seems to have
had something to do with this; but not, it may be, as much as the
Sergeant-Major pretended; and the torpor that rather suddenly supervened
I diagnose as the ready resource of an expert in camouflage. Better
gloriously drunk than ignominiously admonished by an unprintable hiatus
of a Y.M. Padre!
So a party of muscular volunteers escorted the S.M. to his dug-out. But
the next day he returned alone, crisp-footed and square-jawed,
apparently to put the Baptist in his place for ever. Exactly what
followed, that gentle hero was not the man to relate. Again one
pictures Peeping Tommies exposing themselves on the sunken road to see
the fun, perhaps the murder; but what I really believe they might have
seen, before many minutes were up, was the spectacle of the two
protagonists upon their knees.
* * * * *
Stranger things have been happening, even on that sunken road of ours.
It was lost to us in those very days of the Army Rest Camp; it had not
been recovered when I was busy expatiating on its Christmas charms; its
recovery was one of the first loose stones in the avalanche of vast
events which has caught me up.... And now they say the war is over! To
have seen something of it all in the last dark hour--and nothing
since--is to find even more than the old war-time difficulty in
believing half one hears. One has too many fixed ideas and violent
impressions, not only of those four months, but of these four years: a
man has to clear his own entanglements before he can begin to advance
with such times. In the meantime the patter about Indemnities and
Demobilisation leaves him cold. Demobilisation will have to begin nearer
home than charity, in the armies of our thoughts; and some are not as
highly disciplined as others, some hearts too sore to enter as they
would into this Peace.
For them there is still the Y.M.C.A. That little force of camp-followers
still holds the field, has nothing to say to any Armistice, may well
have started its most strenuous campaign. With the Armies of Occupation
its work will hardly be the romantic enterprise it was; with all the
danger, most of the glamour will have departed; but the deeper
attractions are the less adventitious, while the Rhine at any rate
should provide some piquant novelties in place of old excitements. The
grand fleet of huts will soon be anchored there--including, as I hope,
the new Rest Hut that was to have been tucked up close behind the Line.
Once more before each counter there will be the old press of matchless
manhood and humanity; neater and sprucer, I make no doubt, but otherwise
neither more nor less like conquering heroes than their old
unconquerable selves; and just once more, behind the counter, the chance
of a lifetime, but the last chance, for 'sinful laymen' of the milder
sort!
Will it be taken? Are our courageous ministers to have the last field
practically to themselves, or will a few mere men of the world even now
step in, if only for the honour of the laity? They would if they knew
what the work is like and what it may be made, how free a hand is given
one, how generously one is met by all concerned, and the modicum of
spiritual equipment essential if only that modicum be sincere. Pre-war
notions about the Young Men's Christian Association still militate a
little against the Y.M.C.A. for all the halo of success attaching to
those capitals; but hear a soldier from the front upon the 'Y.M.' _tout
court_, and his affectionate abbreviation of an abbreviation will in
itself tell you something of the institution as it is to-day. It has
meant rather more to him than 'tea and prayer in equal parts'; yet that
conception still prevails in superior circles. Quite lately I heard a
dignitary of the Established Church speak with pain of a brilliant young
Oxford man of his acquaintance, who, rejected of the Army, must needs be
'giving out tea in some tent in France!' It seemed to him a truly
shocking waste of fine material; but if that young man was not giving
out a great deal more than creature comforts, and getting at least as
good as he gave, then it was a still more wanton waste of an opportunity
which the finest young man alive might have been proud to seize.
The truth is, of course, that no man is too good for this job. He may be
a specialist, and more valuable to the community where he is than he
would be (to the community) in a Y.M.C.A. or a Church Army hut. He may
be a Cabinet Minister, a Bishop, or a Judge: that does not make him too
good to minister to the men who have borne the brunt of this war: it
only makes him too busy and perhaps too old. One must not even now be
extra liable to 'die of winter,' as the Tynesider said, nor yet too
dainty about bed and board. But the better the man, the better he will
do this work, the more he will bring to it, the more he will find in it;
the greater will be his tact, the greater his loving-kindness and
humility; the readier will he be to recognise many a better man than
himself in our noble rank-and-file--to learn all they have to teach him
in patience and naturalness, unselfishness and simplicity--and to
perceive the higher service involved in serving them, even across a
counter.
To Him Who made the Heavens move and cease not in their motion--
To Him Who leads the haltered tides twice a day round ocean--
Let His name be magnified in all poor folks' devotion!
Not for Prophecies or Powers, Visions, Gifts or Graces,
But the unrelenting hours that grind us in our places,
With the burden on our backs, the smile upon our faces.
Not for any miracle of easy loaves and fishes,
But for work against our will and waiting 'gainst our wishes--
Such as gathering up the crumbs and cleaning dirty dishes.
It may or may not be that Mr. Kipling is thinking of the Y.M.C.A. I do
not know the title of his poem, or whether it has yet appeared
elsewhere, or another line of it. These lines I owe to his kindness, and
as usual they crystallise all that one was trying to say. But to some of
us the crumbs that fell were a feast of fine humanity, and great indeed
was his reward who gathered them.
_Printed in Great Britain by _Butler and Tanner_, Frome and London._
Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors present in the
original edtion have been corrected.
In "Under Way", =equal fimrness and good-humour= was changed to =equal
firmness and good-humour=.
In "Christmas Day", =abroad on the battlefield= was changed to =abroad on
the battle-field=.
In "The Babes in the Trenches", =The fire was out; it seemed= was changed
to =The fire was out, it seemed=.
In "Orderly Men", a period was changed to a comma after =copies for
myself=.
In "The Hut in Being", ='I don't want the political'!= was changed to ='I
don't want the political!'=
In "War and the Man", =argumentum at hominem= was changed to =argumentum ad
hominem=.