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Over the Canteen in France
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Press and pulpit, organizations and individuals were beseeching and
demanding in 1918 that the Red Cross add some of our well-trained and
experienced nurses to their “overseas” contingent, but no favorable
response could be obtained. Meantime, the Paris Headquarters of the
Young Men’s Christian Association cabled as follows: “Send six fine
colored women at once!” This call came so suddenly that for a while
attention was diverted from the Red Cross issue that had been so
uppermost in all minds.
Six women! A small number to be sure, but the requirements for
eligibility were not so easy to meet and one must not have a close
relative in the army. Many questions were asked. “Was there a real
need for women over there?” “Could they stand the test?” “Would they
not be subjected to real danger?” “Were not gruesome stories being
told relative to terrible outrages perpetrated on women who had gone?”
To these questions and others there seemed to be but just one reply.
It was that if hundreds of other women had answered the call to serve
the armies of the Allies, surely among the thousands of colored troops
already in France and other thousands who would soon follow there would
be some place of service for six colored women. A few leaders were
far-visioned enough to see the wisdom of colored women going overseas.
Mr. Fred. R. Moore, Editor of the _New York Age_, worked untiringly to
help secure the required number, while Dr. W. E. B. Du Bois, Maj. R.
R. Moton, and Mr. Emmett Scott strongly endorsed the sending over of
colored women.
Almost immediately Mrs. James L. Curtis and Mrs. William A. Hunton,
were invited to go to France. Those were the days when sailing dates
were kept secret and orders for departures given at the last moment.
When the first call to sail came, Mrs. Hunton could not easily be
released from the war work she had undertaken for the Young Women’s
Christian Association. But the following week, Mrs. Curtis, keenly
anxious for the adventure, was permitted to go alone. Meanwhile, Miss
Kathryn Johnson had been called from Chicago, and three weeks later
sailed with Mrs. Hunton.
For all the period of the war and the dreary winter that followed
it, there were just these three colored women with the American
Expeditionary Forces in France. Time and time again they were lifted
up by rumors that other canteen workers were on the way. Whenever they
saw women arriving fresh from America, they would at once inquire if
there were any colored women in their party. Always the rumors would
prove false and the answer negative. Two hundred thousand colored
soldiers and three colored women in France! So it was for many months.
But finally the dream of help was realized when in the spring of 1919
sixteen canteen workers reached France. Only sixteen, to be sure, but
to the three who had waited and served so long alone, they seemed a
mighty host.
What a wonderful spirit these sixteen women brought with them! They
had been impatiently waiting, some of them for many months, to answer
the call. They knew how their soldiers needed their presence in France
so they arrived eagerly ready for that last lap of Y service, the
importance and significance of which can hardly be over-estimated. The
Armies of the Allies had won the war, but there was a moral conflict
for the war-weary men hardly less subtle and deadly in its effects
than the conflict just ended. It required a program of compelling
interest to hold the soldiers against the reaction of war’s excitement
and ghastly experiences, and the new thirst for home and friends.
Therefore, the coming at that time of sixteen canteen workers for our
soldiers was wonderfully opportune.
But just what of the canteen service for all the months that had
preceded their coming? How had just three of us managed to be mothers,
sisters and friends to thousands of men?
The first colored woman who reached France had been sent to Saint
Sulpice in the great Bordeaux area, and though she was quickly returned
to Paris, the few days she had spent in the camp made a bright spot
for the men there in that veritable wilderness of hardships. That she
made ice cream and other “goodies” for them, and best of all, let
them open their hearts to her, was never forgotten by the men of that
camp. Reaching Paris, we found her with a group of men secretaries
ordered home. It was then that for the first time we questioned the
wisdom of our adventure. Surely we had not given up home, friends and
work for such an experience! Would blind prejudice follow us even to
France where men were dying by the thousands for the principles of
truth and justice? There had been no slackening of the impulse to
serve, when as a part of a mighty procession, we crossed the periled
deep; no lessening of our enthusiasm for war work as we looked for the
first time upon war’s dark picture. But somehow this incident, with
its revelation of the fact that prejudice could follow us for three
thousand miles across the Atlantic to the very heart of the world’s
sorrow, tremendously shocked us in those first days. But it was a
challenge to a heroic sacrifice, and we realized the significance of
the challenge more deeply as the months receded.
Miss Kathryn Johnson was appointed to Brest, but that area, too, seems
not to have been keen to the advantage of a colored canteen worker, so
that she was returned to Paris. Both Miss Johnson and Mrs. Curtis were
then assigned to the advanced sector, but found it impossible, because
of the terrible drive, to reach their posts.
Meantime, Mrs. Hunton had been sent to the St. Nazaire area, and it is
there that our story of canteen service really begins, because whatever
of success came to the colored women in France, was due primarily to
the record made by them in this area.
The St. Nazaire area, in the region of the Loire, was more than any
other the pioneer section for colored work. There went Franklin O.
Nichols, the very first colored welfare worker to reach France, and
there he constructed the first Y hut for colored men in France. Soon,
he was joined by the Rev. Leroy Ferguson, Mr. John C. Wright and Mr.
William Stevenson, each of whom had direction of a Y hut in the area.
In due time several secretaries arrived to help these first men.
When Mrs. Hunton reached Saint Nazaire, she was immediately assigned
to Y hut 5, Camp One, for canteen service under the direction of Mr.
John C. Wright, and to visit other camps of the area. Miss Kathryn
Johnson came next and was placed at Camp Lusitania with the Rev. Leroy
Ferguson. Then came Mrs. Curtis, who joined Mr. Stevenson at Camp
Montoir. It was thus that the first three canteen workers were placed
for all the period of the war and many weeks thereafter.
The St. Nazaire area, more than any other in all France at that time,
warmly welcomed and gave opportunity to the colored Y secretaries to
demonstrate their spirit and ability to serve their own soldiers.
Indeed, it seemed rather providentially planned to give colored _women_
a first real chance. There were two reasons for this opportunity
given them. First of all the broad, practical Christian spirit of the
Divisional Secretary, Mr. W. S. Wallace, and second the attitude of our
own Y men in charge of the huts. Mr. Wallace was not only an executive
of rare Christian courage, but his attitude and opinions commanded
the respect of those under his supervision. He dealt with the colored
men and women of his area in the same fine manner and spirit that he
dealt with all others. We shall always remember him among those fine
spirits of his race that hold our faith for the ultimate triumph of the
brotherhood of man.
The second contributing cause for whatever of success the women came
to have was in the personnel of the men with whom they worked. For,
however fine might be the Divisional Secretary or no matter how
far-visioned and energetic the woman herself might be, she could hardly
render efficient service unless she had the sympathetic co-operation of
her hut secretary.
The writer was most fortunate in doing her first work with Mr. John
C. Wright. It was a rare privilege that gave us four months of most
enthusiastic service under the direction of this Christian gentleman.
He was one of the few men who really desired a woman in his hut,
so that in our first four months of service we were able to plan
and accomplish something really constructive for the seven thousand
permanent colored troops of our camp, and to help the regiments that
spent a few weeks with us as they prepared for the front. With him we
tried to study and comprehend the needs and desires of the soldiers,
“our boys,” as we usually called them, and to meet these needs and
desires in the very best way possible.
[Illustration: SOLDIERS IN FRANCE]
Over the canteen in France was essentially different from the same
thing in the United States where friendships and home ties had not yet
been really severed and war was still thousands of miles from the camp.
In France, war, with its mystery of pain and suffering, was over all.
Everywhere were evidence of its mutilation and destruction of life and
home. Everywhere there was exhausting work and deep loneliness. In the
most joyous hour in the Y hut we knew that there was a nervousness, a
tenseness, a deep undercurrent of seriousness that could be found only
in an environment of death and desolation.
Over the canteen in France friendships and confidences ripened quickly
because of the loneliness of men—because of the haunting and yearning
memories of their women-folk at home. A glass of lemonade or a cup of
chocolate offered with a sympathetic touch was usually sufficient to
break down all barriers and make way for the usual question, “Where are
you from”? This answered, a like question asked and the acquaintance
was established. Always there was real happiness if one could from
somewhere in the memory resurrect a mutual friend in one of these home
towns. Then came quickly talks of family and life in the States. We
learned to anticipate that from some pocket in the jacket—usually the
one nearest the heart—would be drawn forth a wallet or a much worn
envelope. From it photographs would come forth. Sometimes it would
be the “best mother,” again the “dearest wife,” and still again the
“finest girl” or “cutest kid” that a fellow ever had. The families or
the girls would become visualized for us, and after that we would ask
about them as if they were old friends.
Over the canteen in France, the woman became a trusted guardian of
that home back in America. To her were revealed its joys and sorrows.
Because of that same loneliness—that loss of background—the soldier
poured out to the canteen worker his deepest and dearest memories and
dreams. She must be ever ready to laugh with him, but she must also be
ready to go down into heart-breaking valley with her soldier boy when
he would get a bad bit of news—a mother, father, sister or even a wife
or child might have been taken away; or, worse still, once in a great
while the tragedy of faithlessness was made known to him. But by far,
the letters from home were cheerful to have come straight from hearts
of women tense with longing and anxiety. Oh, the pride of a new father!
How well we remember a young “top” sergeant whom we had thought of as a
mere boy. He walked up to the canteen one evening with the request that
we send a cable home for him. He wrote the following: “Congratulations
on birth of Spencer Roberts, Junior, and love to mother.” Saying to us,
“No matter about the cost, I want to send it all.” How full of love
were his eyes as he showed us the girl-face of that wife, and we could
only say “How perfectly wonderful for the boy when he grows up! He will
know that his father was in France at the time of his birth—a soldier
in the world’s greatest war.”
When we established the first wet canteen in the St. Nazaire area for
our own men, we were thinking of the real comfort of it to the men.
We deliberately planned to make our chocolate so good that they would
really come for it and our lemonade real lemonade, and crullers that
would “taste just like home.” But we could not even dream of all that
it would mean in cheer, comradeship and good will. It was pathetic
to see long lines of men patiently waiting for a cup of chocolate
and a cookie—to find many coming from distant camps not alone for
the refreshments, but for the good cheer they found with us. It was
a picture that would have touched the hearts of the homefolk—these
men sitting around on the window-seats or at the tables, hundreds of
them—quietly talking and sipping their drink. And the Y woman would
leave her post behind the canteen for a little and wander from table to
table for a word, or she would drink a cup of chocolate with a little
group while they talked of farming, opening a store or returning to
college after the war. It was so little and yet it was so much in that
everyday life of war—war so terrible—so long.
Over the canteen in France meant not simply the eat and drink of it
when rightly interpreted. It meant that we must not rely alone on the
“Movies” and entertainments sent from Headquarters to the soldiers—but
we must supply games, entertainments of our own and even parties.
One party—our first—was only time in France we believe, in which we
showed the “yellow streak.” It was to be a beautiful party in spite of
the fact that but two women would be present. Two days had been spent
in decorating the hut and stringing extra lights. Our hut secretary
suggested that we put aside our uniform for an evening gown and lead
the grand march, to which we most enthusiastically assented. But we
were hardly prepared for the sight that met our eyes as we entered
the outer hut. There were men crowded in every space even to the
rafters—more men than we had ever seen in any one room. It was no use.
We just could not get the courage needed to lead a march, and so we
quietly sat down and looked on that night. How we used to wish for our
home girls in those days! Oh, if we could have had some of the fine
ones we knew at home to help in those little social affairs! As we
think of this first party, we recall the last more than a year later in
the embarkation camp at Brest. Not seven thousand men this time, but
probably three hundred, and nine women to dance with them. We held the
watch and there would be a pause in the music at intervals of three
minutes. That meant “change partners.” The best part of that evening
was the fun of securing a partner without a real rush upon her. Then,
too, hearts were lighter by far than at that first party, for the war
had ended, and the soldiers were simply waiting for the transports that
would take them home.
With the co-operation of our splendid hut secretary, Mr. J. C. Wright,
we had fitted out the first reading and reception room for the soldiers
in our area. Other rooms had been open to them, but this was open for
them and others. It was there that our men loved best to go in the
twilight and evening hour. How quickly they learned to feel that it
was worth while to look spick and span for such a cozy spot. It was
because of this lovely room with its magazines, books, comfortable
seats, beautiful plants, flowers, and cheerful fire that many men could
endure the months in which “passes” to leave camp could not be secured.
“We should worry when we have a place like this,” was a remark often
heard in those days as they quietly discussed this special grievance.
But this room became best known for its Chat Hour that came to fill
it to overflow on Sundays at the twilight hour. Somehow it came to us
that this was a lonely time for men. Sunday, just after supper—away
from home and no special place to go. So we discussed it with some of
the men and began with just informal talks on current topics—apart from
the war or army. The interest grew. Men were there from Howard, Union,
Hampton, Tuskegee, Morehouse, Atlanta, Clark, and other schools, so we
had talks about their institutions and their founders. We had talks
on race leaders, on work after the war—music, art, religion and every
conceivable subject. We instituted a question box that was generally
opened in fear and trembling, for one could never be quite sure of
the questions. It might be, “When will you make us some fudge?” or
it might be, “Which is the greatest science?” A question like the
first we would answer, while one like the second would be respectfully
deferred to the hut secretary or chaplain. A cup of tea or chocolate
with a wafer would give the social side to the hour. It was so much
better than most lyceums and forums we have known here at home, because
somehow it was, as most things were over there, so much more full of
human warmth. This little Chat Hour started in a simple way at Hut
Five, St. Nazaire, remains one of its most precious memories, and was
adopted in many other places. When the soldiers, who were for so many
months a part of that hut, were sent to Camp Lusitania, they carried
the Chat Hour with them, and it was there one of the finest features
of that great camp as it continued to be at Hut Five even after many
changes had been made.
Over the canteen in France meant much letter writing and the wrapping
and sending home little presents that had been approved by the company
commanders. At Christmas tide, this involved many hours of work, as it
did always at embarkation time. Frequently the Y woman must go shopping
for her boys to buy not only the presents sent home, but also the
little necessities that the canteen and commissary of the camp did not
have.
How can the picture of Christmas in camp ever fade away? The Y. M. C.
A. was a most generous Santa Claus in its wonderful trees, decorations
and presents. The hut was full of good cheer, but it was also full of
memories, and men talked of other Christmastides back home. More than
one fellow found it made him just too homesick to look upon the lighted
Christmas tree, and yet he wanted it there—wanted that link with his
own fireside. He was glad of the lights, of the music and the romping
Santa who distributed the presents.
Then came the French school children—several hundreds of them, with
their teachers, brought out in army trucks to be the guests of the
camp. How their eyes filled with joyful wonder at the big glittering
American tree! How they laughed and clapped as the men played, danced,
and sang for them! Then they listened in rapt silence as a Red Cross
lady told them in French about the American Christmas and its wonderful
Santa Claus. With the native grace peculiar to the French child they
received the presents handed them by the soldiers, but not trying to
conceal their perfect ecstasy over them or their bon-bons. How lovely
is that fine child courtesy of the Old World!
Somehow one found time for a great many things in camp, and so between
the Christmas tree and canteen, we had prepared a real Christmas dinner
for the Y men and the soldiers who helped with the canteen. But the
dinner was too much for one of the soldiers, and he carefully put it
all aside till later. The memory of the past Christmas was too vivid,
when he had just arrived in France, and had only the cold ground for a
bed and cold beans and hard tack to eat. Before the beginning of the
evening’s activities, the hut was quiet for an hour, and we sat in the
firelight’s glow for a moment of personal thought, on that wonderful
Christmas day! So far were we from home and friends, yet far keener in
human understanding and sympathy than ever before. In so many thousand
American homes there could be no Christmas joy that day, only the
memory of the dead lying somewhere on the cold bleak Western Front.
What could the Christ Child signify at such a time? Perhaps there in
the camp one could comprehend better than in America that through
mighty travail was being born to the world a New Day in which men would
be conscious of their worth, assured of their liberty, and learn that
right after all is might.
Over the canteen in France included not only a cozy reading room and
the selection of books for the men to read, but it meant also, reading
to them or with them in leisure moments. One must help, too, in
educational work. Our first visit to Camp Lusitania was spent teaching
a class in English. Then came the Y woman to that camp, who gave a
greater impetus to study there than had hitherto been known. She would
spend hours guiding with her own small, fair hand, those of the men who
for the first time were eager with desire to write their own names.
It was thus, then, these women worked in the St. Nazaire area—at Camp
Lusitania with its emphasis on educational activities; at Camp Montoir,
where the excellence of the canteen became far-famed, and at Camp One
with its joyous, homelike atmosphere.
After four months, a change came over the camp-life of the area. Mr.
Wright returned to America to take part in the great drive for funds.
The seven thousand stevedores and labor battalions that we had served
with so much joy for four months, were divided between Camps Lusitania
and Montoir. We saw with proud but sad heart the 807th march toward the
Front. From the constant noise of many feet and voices, we found our
hut reduced to an unbearable stillness and isolation. The camp was now
to become exclusively an embarkation and debarkation center. For two
days we were in danger of a good hard spell of home-sickness and then
came the news that there were transports in the harbor—colored soldiers
were coming—heaps of them!
We were never quite so glad to see any soldiers as we were the 809th
Pioneer Infantry, and the 33 Lieutenants of the Artillery who arrived
that Monday morning in October. We met them first as they rested on
the beautiful ocean boulevard of St. Nazaire. Life flowed into us once
again as we flitted among them welcoming them to our camp and hot
chocolate. Even then, many of them looked very worn and ill, but we
hardly dreamed of the tragedy of that October transport. We were on
our way that morning to the weekly Y Conference with its inspirational
and helpful program that, no doubt, was a large factor in the success
of the area. But the conference seemed very long, so anxious were we
to get to camp. We requested at headquarters special transportation to
speed our errands and hurry us to work. Soon we are in our hut—it is
crowded—men are everywhere and we look over the crowd and wonder what
has happened. These are not the swarthy lads we were welcoming on the
ocean front—only here and there do we see one. We are still wondering
when a voice close at hand says, “Lady, got any paper and envelopes?”
“Certainly,” we say, and then we begin to meet the first need of the
soldiers. Meantime, we are saying, “No, no stamps necessary—turn
your letter over to your company commander to be censored.” “Oh,
yes—three-cent stamp if your folks are in Italy.” Later we learn
that many of our own boys have been sent to another camp, and that
most of those in our camp are in a distant part. We learn something
else—influenza is raging—hundreds of men have died on the voyage—the
hospitals are crowded, so are the barracks. Sick men could hardly be
left in “pup” tents in the deep mud and constant rain of that season.
That night another change comes over our hut. On all the benches,
in all the corners and in what had been our cheerful reading room
are sick men, many of them ill unto death. We are not only preparing
hot chocolate now, but all day long we are preparing lemons, so that
at night we may pass among these men with hot lemonade. It is a sad
time—graves can hardly be dug rapidly enough—nurses are scarce—every
one is doing the best he knows. True, these are not colored boys we are
serving, but what matters that—they are soldiers all, and every lad of
them a mother’s son. We go to the hospital and move among them. They
can only see the smile in our eyes, for we wear the white masque across
our faces. To the convalescent we give cigarettes, literature, gum, and
now and then candy. For the very ill we leave oranges or lemons. For
some there is little need to leave anything but a prayer.
The following is an extract from a letter received from a soldier with
reference to that period, “It was in St. Nazaire at Base 101, that I
was desperately sick with ‘Flu’ in October, 1918. Mr. Davis, whom I
had known at Evansville, came through my ward. Next day you and Miss
Johnson came with oranges and that most prized thing in all the world
at that time—lemons. Oh, how good you did look to me! Then, too, how
kind you folk were when I rejoined my outfit at Camp One. My mind
recalls that Sunday evening ‘Quiet Hour’ you held, while we were there.
How you spoke to the boys and urged them to keep themselves clean
for the sake of the good women back home. Then when you asked us to
talk—what man could have kept still.” The plague passed, and many a man
was laid to rest having done his bit to the utmost, though it simply
meant breaking home ties and reaching the port of France. After, the
plague had spent itself, we marched one day with a long line to the
American Cemetery, a mile distant from the town. There, while the day
was dying, a Red Cross Chaplain told impressively the challenge flung
to us by those white crosses upon which we looked, and that had come so
suddenly into our little part of that death-ridden country. The French
people brought flowers, the Red Cross and Y secretaries sang, the band
played “America,” the trumpeter sounded the “Taps,” the guns rang out
for the dead and then we left them alone in their glory.
The sixteen Y women who came to France in the spring of 1919 worked
much as the first three women had, except that they were able to go
out by twos. The first three women had always been in different camps,
each a lone woman in her hut. There might be a dozen Y women in her
camp—but she worked absolutely alone, often her hours stretching from
9 in the morning to 9 at night—but always it was a work of love. When
the sixteen women arrived, they brought in themselves companionship,
not only for the soldiers but for the women already over there. Five
of them went to the Leave Area. Dr. N. Fairfax Brown, Mrs. Childs
and Mrs. Williamson joined Mrs. Curtis at Chambery and Misses Evans
and Thomas with Miss Johnson, who had been at St. Nazaire, joined
Mrs. Hunton at Challes-les-Eaux. Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Craigwell
succeeded Miss Johnson at St. Nazaire, while Misses Bruce and Garbon
went to Marseilles. First Misses Rochon, Edwards and Phelps found
place with that splendid secretary, Mr. Sadler, in the Chaumont Area.
Misses Saurez and Turner went to Le Mans. The soldiers had seen every
variety of entertainer sent to France. They had heard some of the very
best of American and foreign pianists, but none had received the
ovation from the colored soldiers that was given Miss Helen Hagan, the
only colored artist sent to France. Everywhere she was received by
tremendous crowds of men with rapturous applause, and her wonderful
talent was never put to better use nor more deeply appreciated. The
last woman to arrive for overseas work was Mrs. Mary V. Talbert,
President of the National Association of Colored Women. We felt deeply
honored in having her a member of our overseas group. With Misses
Rochon and Edwards, Mrs. Talbert joined Mrs. Curtis, who had succeeded
Mrs. Hunton at Romagne. There she won the hearts of the soldiers
completely. They gave her a purse of $1,000 for the Frederick Douglass
Home at Anacostia, which through Mrs. Talbert’s untiring efforts, has
been made a national memorial for colored Americans.
[Illustration: A. Men in Class Room. B. A Group of Canteen Workers en
route Home! C. Serving at the Wet Canteen. D. “Our Boys.” E. More of
“Our Boys” at Brest.]
Many changes were made by the Y women in that last lap of the work.
This was caused by the rapid closing of the various areas and the
departure of the men for the ports. With the close of the Leave Area
Mrs. Curtis went to Romagne. Miss Thomas and Mrs. Williamson were sent
to Belleau Woods, near Chateau Thierry. It was not lovely like the
Leave Area, but living in tents, they served the lonely fellows who
were making the cemetery there. Their Y hut was only a large tent, but
it was beautiful inside the day we saw it with plants and wild flowers
in profusion and with one corner equipped as a library. On one side was
the canteen with its ice-cold lemonade and macaroons. How proud the men
were of it all and how they worshipped those women! For the women it
was the biggest work they had ever done.
To Joinville went Dr. Brown and Mrs. Childs, to serve for many, many
weeks the 806th Pioneer Infantry and others who were building the
Pershing Stadium. For their splendid work there, the men sang their
praises without stint.
General Pershing in commending the splendid service rendered by the
Y. M. C. A. in the Leave Area, especially commends the work of the
women. While always there was competent French help and splendid men
secretaries came to help in the Leave Area, for four months almost,
Mrs. Curtis and Mrs. Hunton felt not only the responsibility of
providing the meals served in the two areas, but the beautifying and
housekeeping of the buildings and constant entertainment of the men.
Over the canteen in the Leave Area was something more than the jolly
vacation that we worked to make it—it was a time for bracing the morale
of the men and sending them back to camp with hope and cheer, vision
and strength.
Misses Rochon and Edwards in the Chaumont Area and Miss Evans in the Le
Mans Area did what was known as rolling canteen service for the men.
We have heard the men tell of the first time these “angels” appeared
in their isolated camps. It was difficult to believe their eyes—that
American women of their own had sought them out in those far-off lonely
places, and were actually bringing them good, hot chocolate and other
heavenly blessings, but best of all the sunshine of their smiles.
No woman who went to France won stronger approbation for her work than
did Miss Saurez. When a prize had been offered at Le Mans for the most
homelike and best kept hut, it was this little colored Y lady who won
it.
Over the canteen at Brest meant hut activity from early morning till
midnight. It was a part of what came to be known as the “Battle of
Brest,” which Miss Watson, the Regional Secretary, declared “Ofttimes
more terrible than that of ‘No Man’s Land’ because less open.” Every
minute almost meant keeping men free from the despair of long waiting
and hope deferred. Eight regiments of Pioneer Infantries, three labor
battalions, many groups of casuals and several depot companies were
among those whom we bade _bon voyage_ during our days at Pontanezen.
Here, as at St. Nazaire, the huts were crowded and the canteen lines
unending. Men made “seconds,” as an additional helping was called,
but rarely unless they were fortunate enough to slip into other men’s
places. Those were busy but happy days at Brest! The men were not
strange, for we had met them in the Leave Area or along the devastated
highways. We closed our work there so happy that nothing could take
away the joy of it.
Over the canteen in France we learned to know our own men as we had not
known them before, and this knowledge makes large our faith in them.
Because they talked first and talked last of their women back home,
usually with a glory upon their faces, we learned to know that colored
men loved their own women as they could love no other women in all the
world. Their attitude of deep respect, often bordering on worship,
toward the colored women who went to France to serve them only deepened
this impression. The least man in camp assumed the right to protect
his women, and never, by word or deed, did they put to shame the high
calling of these women. But they were intensely human and their longing
for their women showed itself in a hundred different ways. One night a
Red Cross parade on Fifth Avenue, New York City, was being passed on
the screen. When a group of colored women were shown marching, the men
went wild. They did not want that particular scene to pass and many
approached and fondled the screen with the remark, “Just look at them.”
Mrs. Curtis, in whose hut this occurred, tells how it brought tears to
her eyes. One man came to us saying, “Lady, do you want to get rich
over in France?” We gave an affirmative reply and questioned how. He
said, “Just get a tent and go in there and charge five cents a peep.
These fellows would just be glad for even a peep at you.” Another man
stood near the canteen one day, but not in line. He stood so quietly
and so long that we finally asked could we serve him. He simply gave a
negative shake of the head. After several minutes we said, “Surely you
desire something,” only to be met by another shake of the head. The
third time we inquired he said quietly, “Lady, I just want to look at
you, if you charge anything for it I’ll pay you—it takes me back home.”
Hundreds of incidents gave evidence of the love of these men for their
women. Sometimes they shed tears at their first sight of a colored
woman in France.
We learned somewhat of their matchless power of endurance and of their
grim determination to be steady and strong to the end in spite of all
odds. We came to know, too, that what was often taken for ignorance,
was a deep and far-thinking silence. They were sympathetic and
generous, often willing to risk the supreme sacrifice for a “buddie.”
The chocolate might be too thin or too thick, but there was little
complaint. On a cold day or after a hard hike it was just “hot-stuff”
gratefully received.
We learned to know that there was being developed in France a racial
consciousness and racial strength that could not have been gained in a
half century of normal living in America. Over the canteen in France
we learned to know that our young manhood was the natural and rightful
guardian of our struggling race. Learning all this and more, we also
learned to love our men better than ever before.
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