Chapter XII. Letters of Appreciation

Illustrations

General Bramwell Booth.

Commander Evangeline Booth.

Lieutenant Colonel William S. Barker.

“Introduced to French Rain and French Mud.”

She Called the Little Company of Workers Together and Gave Them a Charge.

The Lassie Who Fried the First Doughnut in France.

“Tin Hat for a Halo! Ah! She Wears It Well!”.

The Patient Officers Who Were Seeing to All These Details Worked Almost Day and Night.

Here During the Day They Worked in Dugouts Far Below the Shell-tortured Earth.

They Came To Get Their Coats Mended and Their Buttons Sewed On.

The Entrance to the Old Wine Cellar in Mandres.

The Salvation Army Was Told that Ansauville Was Too Far Front for Any Women To Be Allowed To Go.

L’Hermitage, Nestled in the Heart of a Deep Woods.

L’Hermitage, Inside the Tent.

“Ma”.

They Had a Pie-baking Contest in Gondrecourt One Day.

A Letter of Inspiration from the Commander.

The Salvation Army Boy Truck Driver.

The Centuries-old Gray Cemetery in Treveray.

Colonel Barker Placing the Commander’s Flowers on Lieutenant Quentin Roosevelt’s Grave.

The Salvation Army Boy Who Drove the Famous Doughnut Truck.

Bullionville, Promptly Dubbed by the American Boy “Souptown”.

Here They Found a Whole Little Village of German Dugouts.

The Girls Who Came Down to Help in the St. Mihiel Drive.

The Wrecked House in Neuvilly Where the Lassies Went to Sleep in the Cellar.

The Wrecked Church in Neuvilly Where the Memorable Meeting Was Held.

Right in the Midst of the Busy Hurrying Throng of Union Square.

“Smiling Billy”.

Thomas Estill.

The Hut at Camp Lewis.

[Illustration: William Bramwell Booth, General of the Salvation Army]

[Illustration: Evangeline Booth, Commander-in-Chief of the Salvation

Army in America]

Foreword

In presenting the narrative of some of the doings of the Salvation Army

during the world’s great conflict for liberty, I am but answering the

insistent call of a most generous and appreciative public.

When moved to activity by the apparent need, there was never a thought

that our humble services would awaken the widespread admiration that

has developed. In fact, we did not expect anything further than

appreciative recognition from those immediately benefited, and the

knowledge that our people have proved so useful is an abundant

compensation for all toil and sacrifice, for _service_ is our

watchword, and there is no reward equal to that of doing the most good

to the most people in the most need. When our National Armies were

being gathered for overseas work, the likelihood of a great need was

self-evident, and the most logical and most natural thing for the

Salvation Army to do was to hold itself in readiness for action. That

we were straitened in our circumstances is well understood, more so by

us than by anybody else. The story as told in these pages is

necessarily incomplete, for the obvious reason that the work is yet in

progress. We entered France ahead of our Expeditionary Forces, and it

is my purpose to continue my people’s ministries until the last of our

troops return. At the present moment the number of our workers overseas

equals that of any day yet experienced.

Because of the pressure that this service brings, together with the

unmentioned executive cares incident to the vast work of the Salvation

Army in these United States, I felt compelled to requisition some

competent person to aid me in the literary work associated with the

production of a concrete story. In this I was most fortunate, for a

writer of established worth and national fame in the person of Mrs.

Grace Livingston Hill came to my assistance; and having for many days

had the privilege of working with her in the sifting process, gathering

from the mass of matter that had accumulated and which was being daily

added to, with every confidence I am able to commend her patience and

toil. How well she has done her work the book will bear its own

testimony.

This foreword would be incomplete were I to fail in acknowledging in a

very definite way the lavish expressions of gratitude that have

abounded on the part of “The Boys” themselves. This is our reward, and

is a very great encouragement to us to continue a growing and more

permanent effort for their welfare, which is comprehended in our plans

for the future. The official support given has been of the highest and

most generous character. Marshal Foch himself most kindly cabled me,

and General Pershing has upon several occasions inspired us with

commendatory words of the greatest worth.

Our beloved President has been pleased to reflect the people’s pleasure

and his own personal gratification upon what the Salvation Army has

accomplished with the troops, which good-will we shall ever regard as

one of our greatest honors.

The lavish eulogy and sincere affection bestowed by the nation upon the

organization I can only account for by the simple fact that our

ministering members have been in spirit and reality with the men.

True to our first light, first teaching, and first practices, we have

always put ourselves close beside the man irrespective of whether his

condition is fair or foul; whether his surroundings are peaceful or

perilous; whether his prospects are promising or threatening. As a

people we have felt that to be of true service to others we must be

close enough to them to lift part of their load and thus carry out that

grand injunction of the Apostle Paul, “Bear ye one another’s burdens

and so fulfill the law of Christ.”

The Salvation Army upon the battlefields of France has but worked along

the same lines as in the great cities of the nations. We are, with our

every gift to serve, close up to those in need; and so, as

Lieut.-Colonel Roosevelt put it, “Whatever the lot of the men, the

Salvation Army is found with them.”

We never permit any superiority of position, or breeding, or even grace

to make a gap between us and any who may be less fortunate. To help

another, you must be near enough to catch the heart-beat. And so a

large measure of our success in the war is accounted for by the fact

that we have been with them. With a hundred thousand Salvationists on

all fronts, and tens and tens of thousands of Salvationists at their

ministering posts in the homelands as well as overseas, from the time

that each of the Allied countries entered the war the Salvation Army

has been with the fighting- men.

With them in the thatched cottage on the hillside, and in the humble

dwelling in the great towns of the homelands, when they faced the great

ordeal of wishing good-bye to mothers and fathers and wives and

children.

With them in the blood-soaked furrows of old fields; with them in the

desolation of No Man’s Land; and with them amid the indescribable

miseries and gory horrors of the battlefield. With them with the

sweetest ministry, trained in the art of service, white-souled, brave,

tender-hearted men and women could render.

[Evangeline Booth]

National Headquarters Salvation Army, New York City.

April, 1919.

From the Commander’s Own Pen

The war is over. The world’s greatest tragedy is arrested. The awful

pull at men’s heart-strings relaxed. The inhuman monster that leapt out

of the darkness and laid blood-hands upon every home of a peace-blest

earth has been overthrown. Autocracy and diabolical tyranny lie

defeated and crushed behind the long rows of white crosses that stand

like sign-posts pointing heavenward, all the way from the English

Channel to the Adriatic, linking the two by an inseverable chain.

While the nations were in the throes of the conflict, I was constrained

to speak and write of the Salvation Army’s activities in the frightful

struggle. Now that all is over and I reflect upon the price the nations

have paid I realize much hesitancy in so doing.

When I think of England-where almost every man you meet is but a piece

of a man! France—one great graveyard! Its towns and cities a wilderness

of waste! The allied countries—Italy, and deathless little Belgium, and

Serbia—well-nigh exterminated in the desperate, gory struggle! When I

think upon it—the price America has paid! The price her heroic sons

have paid! They that come down the gangways of the returning boats on

crutches! They that are carried down on stretchers! They that sail into

New York Harbor, young and fair, but never again to see the Statue of

Liberty! The price that dear mothers and fathers have paid! The price

that the tens of thousands of little children have paid! The price they

that sleep in the lands they made free have paid! When I think upon all

this, it is with no little reluctance that I now write of the small

part taken by the Salvation Army in the world’s titanic sacrifice for

liberty, but which part we shall ever regard as our life’s crowning

honor.

Expressions of surprise from officers of all ranks as well as the

private soldier have vied with those of gratitude concerning the

efficiency of this service, but no thought of having accomplished any

achievement higher than their simplest duty is entertained by the

Salvationists themselves; for uniformly they feel that they have but

striven to measure up to the high standards of service maintained by

the Salvation Army, which standards ask of its officers all over the

world that no effort shall be left unprosecuted, no sacrifice

unrendered, which will help to meet the _need at their door_.

And it is such high standards of devoted service to our fellow, linked

with the practical nature of the movement’s operations, the deeply

religious character of its members, its intelligent system of

government, uniting, and thus augmenting, all its activities; with the

immense advantage of the military training provided by the

organization, that give to its officers a potency and adaptability that

have for the greater period of our brief lifetime made us an

influential factor in seasons of civic and national disaster.

When that beautiful city of the Golden Gate, San Francisco, was laid

low by earthquake and fire, the Salvationists were the first upon the

ground with blankets, and clothes, and food, gathering frightened

little children, looking after old age, and rescuing many from the

burning and falling buildings.

At the time of the wild rush to the Klondike, the Salvation Army was,

with its sweet, pure women—the only women amidst tens of thousands of

men— upon the mountain-side of the Chilcoot Pass saving the lives of

the gold- seekers, and telling those shattered by disappointment of

treasure that “doth not perish.”

At the time of the Jamestown, the Galveston, and the Dayton floods the

Salvation Army officer, with his boat laden with sandwiches and warm

wraps, was the first upon the rising waters, ministering to marooned

and starving families gathered upon the housetops.

In the direful disaster that swept over the beautiful city of Halifax,

the Mayor of that city stated: “I do not know what I should have done

the first two or three days following the explosion, when everyone was

panic- stricken without the ready, intelligent, and unbroken

day-and-night efforts of the Salvation Army.”

On numerous other similar occasions we have relieved distress and

sorrow by our almost instantaneous service. Hence when our honored

President decided that our National Emblem, heralder of the inalienable

rights of man, should cross the seas and wave for the freedom of the

peoples of the earth, automatically the Salvation Army moved with it,

and our officers passed to the varying posts of helpfulness which the

emergency demanded.

Now on all sides I am confronted with the question: _What is the secret

of the Salvation Army’s success in the war?_

Permit me to suggests three reasons which, in my judgment, account for

it:

First, when the war-bolt fell, when the clarion call sounded, it found

_the Salvation Army ready!_

Ready not only with our material machinery, but with that precious

piece of human mechanism which is indispensable to all great and high

achievement—the right calibre of man, and the right calibre of woman.

Men and women equipped by a careful training for the work they would

have to do.

We were not many in number, I admit. In France our numbers have been

regrettably few. But this is because I have felt it was better to fall

short in quantity than to run the risk in falling short in quality.

Quality is its own multiplication table. Quality without quantity will

spread, whereas quantity without quality will shrink. Therefore, I

would not send any officers to France except such as had been fully

equipped in our training schools.

Few have even a remote idea of the extensive training given to all

Salvation Army officers by our military system of education, covering

all the tactics of that particular warfare to which they have

consecrated their lives—_the service of humanity_.

We have in the Salvation Army thirty-nine Training Schools in which our

own men and women, both for our missionary and home fields, receive an

intelligent tuition and practical training in the minutest details of

their service. They are trained in the finest and most intricate of all

the arts, the art of dealing ably with human life.

It is a wonderful art which transfigures a sheet of cold grey canvas

into a throbbing vitality, and on its inanimate spread visualizes a

living picture from which one feels they can never turn their eyes

away.

It is a wonderful art which takes a rugged, knotted block of marble,

standing upon a coarse wooden bench, and cuts out of its uncomely

crudeness—as I saw it done—the face of my father, with its every

feature illumined with prophetic light, so true to life that I felt

that to my touch it surely must respond.

But even such arts as these crumble; they are as dust under our feet

compared with that much greater art, _the art of dealing ably with

human life in all its varying conditions and phases_.

It is in this art that we seek by a most careful culture and training

to perfect our officers.

They are trained in those expert measures which enable them to handle

satisfactorily those that cannot handle themselves, those that have

lost their grip on things, and that if unaided go down under the high,

rough tides. Trained to meet emergencies of every character—to leap

into the breach, to span the gulf, and to do it without waiting to be

told _how_.

Trained to press at every cost for the desired and decided-upon end.

Trained to obey orders willingly, and gladly, and wholly—not in part.

Trained to give no quarter to the enemy, no matter what the character,

nor in what form he may present himself, and to never consider what

personal advantage may be derived.

Trained in the art of the winsome, attractive coquetries of the round,

brown doughnut and all its kindred.

Trained, if needs be, to seal their services with their life’s blood.

One of our women officers, on being told by the colonel of the regiment

she would be killed if she persisted in serving her doughnuts and cocoa

to the men while under heavy fire, and that she must get back to

safety, replied: “Colonel, we can die with the men, but we cannot leave

them.”

When, therefore, I gathered the little companies together for their

last charge before they sailed for France, I would tell them that while

I was unable to arm them with many of the advantages of the more

wealthy denominations; that while I could give them only a very few

assistants owing to the great demand upon our forces; and that while I

could promise them nothing beyond their bare expenses, yet I knew that

without fear I could rely upon them for an unsurpassed devotion to the

God-inspired standards of the emblem of this, the world’s greatest

Republic, the Stars and Stripes, now in the van for the freedom of the

peoples of the earth. That I could rely upon them for unsurpassed

devotion to the brave men who laid their lives upon the altar of their

country’s protection, and that I could rely upon them for an

unsurpassed devotion to that other banner, the Banner of Calvary, the

significance of which has not changed in nineteen centuries, and by the

standards of which, alone, all the world’s wrongs can be redressed, and

by the standards of which alone men can be liberated from all their

bondage. And they have not failed.

A further reason for the success of the Salvation Army in the war is,

_it found us accustomed to hardship_.

We are a people who have thrived on adversity. Opposition, persecution,

privation, abuse, hunger, cold and want were with us at the

starting-post, and have journeyed with us all along the course.

We went to the battlefields _no strangers to suffering_. The biting

cold winds that swept the fields of Flanders were not the first to lash

our faces. The sunless cellars, with their mouldy walls and

water-seeped floors, where our women sought refuge from shell-fire

through the hours of the night, contributed no new or untried

experience. In such cellars as these, in their home cities, under the

flicker of a tallow candle, they have ministered to the sick and

comforted the dying.

Wet feet, lack of deep, being often without food, finding things

different from what we had planned, hoped and expected, were frequent

experiences with us. All such things we Salvationists encounter in our

daily toils for others amid the indescribable miseries and inestimable

sorrows, the sins and the tragedies of the underworlds of our great

cities—the _underneath_ of those great cities which upon the surface

thunder with enterprise and glitter with brilliance.

We are not easily affrighted by frowns of fortune. We do not change our

course because of contrary currents, nor put into harbor because of

head- winds. Almost all our progress has been made in the teeth of the

storm. We have always had to “tack,” but as it is “the set of the

sails, and not the gales” that decides the ports we reach, the

competency of our seamanship is determined by the fact that we “get

there.”

Our service in France was not, therefore, an experiment, but an

organized, tested, and proved system. We were enacting no new rôle. We

were all through the Boer War. Our officers were with the besieged

troops in Mafeking and Ladysmith. They were with Lord Kitchener in his

victorious march through Africa. It was this grand soldier who

afterwards wrote to my father, General William Booth, the Founder of

our movement, saying: “Your men have given us an example both of how to

live as good soldiers and how to die as heroes.” And so it was quite

natural that our men and women, with that fearlessness which

characterizes our members, should take up positions under fire in

France.

In fact, our officers would have considered themselves unfaithful to

Salvation Army traditions and history, and untrue to those who had gone

before, if they had deserted any post, or shirked any duty, because

cloaked with the shadows of death.

This explains why their dear forms loomed up in the fog and the rain,

in the hours of the night, on the roads, under shell fire, serving

coffee and doughnuts.

This is how it was they were with them on the long dreary marches, with

a smile and a song and a word of cheer.

This is how it is the Salvation Army has no “closing hours.” “Taps”

sound for us _when the need is relieved_.

Three of our women officers in the Toul Sector had slept for three

weeks in a hay-stack, in an open field, to be near the men of an

ammunition train taking supplies to the front under cover of darkness.

The boys had watched their continued, devoted service for them—the many

nights without sleep—and noticing the shabby uniform of the little

officer in charge, collected among themselves 1600 francs, and offered

it to her for a new one, and some other comforts, the spokesman saying:

“This is just to show you how grateful we are to you.” The officer was

deeply touched, but told them she could not think of accepting it for

herself. “I am quite accustomed to hard toils,” she said. “I have only

done what all my comrades are doing—my duty,” and offered to compromise

by putting the money into a general fund for the benefit of all—to buy

more doughnuts and more coffee for the boys.

Salvation Army teaching and practice is: Choose your purpose, then set

your face as flint toward that purpose, permitting no enemy that can

oppose, and no sacrifice that can be asked, to turn you from it.

Again, a reason for our success in the war is, _our practical

religion_.

That is, our religion is _practicable_. Or, I would rather say, our

Christianity is practicable. Few realize this as the secret of our

success, and some who do realize it will not admit it, but this is what

it really is.

We _do_ worship; both in spirit and form, in public and in private. We

rely upon prayer as the only line of communication between the creature

and his Creator, the only wing upon which the soul’s requirements and

hungerings can be wafted to the Fount of all spiritual supply. Through

our street, as well as our indoor meetings, perhaps oftener than any

other people, we come to the masses with the divine benediction of

prayer; and it would be difficult to find the Salvationist’s home that

does not regard the family altar as its most precious and priceless

treasure.

We do preach. We preach God the Creator of earth and heaven, unerring

in His wisdom, infinite in His love and omnipotent in His power. We

preach Jesus Christ, God’s only begotten Son, dying on Calvary for a

world’s transgressions, able to save to the uttermost “all those who

come unto God by Him.” We preach God the Holy Ghost, sanctifier and

comforter of the souls of men, making white the life, and kindling

lights in every dark landing-place. We preach the Bible, authentic in

its statements, immaculate in its teaching, and glorious in its

promises. We preach grace, limitless grace, grace enough for all men,

and grace enough for each. We preach Hell, the irrevocable doom of the

soul that rejects the Saviour. We preach Heaven, the home of the

righteous, the reward of the good, the crowning of them that endure to

the end.

Even as we preach, so we practice Christianity. We reduce theory to

action. We apply faith to deeds. We confess and present Jesus Christ in

things that can be done. It is this that has carried our flag into

sixty- three countries and colonies, and despite the bitterest

opposition has given us the financial support of twenty-one national

governments. It is this that has brought us up from a little handful of

humble workers to an organization with 21,000 officers and workers,

preaching the gospel in thirty-nine tongues. It is this that has

multiplied the one bandsman and a despised big drum to an army of

27,000 musicians, and it is this-our practice of religion-that has

placed _Christ in deeds_.

Arthur E. Copping gives as the reason for the movement’s success-“the

simple, thorough-going, uncompromising, seven-days-a-week character of

its Christianity.” It is this every-day-use religion which has made us

of infinite service in the places of toil, breakage, and suffering;

this every-day-use religion which has made us the only resource for

thousands in misery and vice; this every-day-use religion which has

insured our success to an extent that has induced civic authorities,

Judges, Mayors, Governors, and even National Governments-such as India

with its Criminal Tribes-to turn to us with the problems of the poor

and the wicked.

While the Salvationist is not of the generally understood ascetic or

monastic type, yet his spirit and deeds are of the very essence of

saintliness.

As man has arrested the lazy cloud sleeping on the brow of the hill,

and has brought it down to enlighten our darkness, to carry our

mail-bags, to haul our luggage, and to flash our messages, so, I would

say with all reverence, that the Salvation Army in a very particular

way has again brought down Jesus Christ from the high, high thrones,

golden pathways, and wing-spread angels of Glory, to the common mud

walks of earth, and has presented Him again in the flesh to a

storm-torn world, touching and healing the wounds, the bruises, and the

bleeding sores of humanity.

That was a wonderful sermon Christ preached on the Mount, but was it

more wonderful than the ministry of the wounded man fallen by the

roadside, or the drying of the tears from the pale, worn face of the

widow of Nain? Or more wonderful than when He said, Let them come—let

them come—mothers and the little children—and blessed them?

It has only been this same Christ, _this Christ in deeds_, when our

women have washed the blood from the faces of the wounded, and taken

the caked mud from their feet; when under fire, through the hours of

the night, they have made the doughnuts; when instead of sleeping they

have written the letters home to soldiers’ loved ones, when they have

lifted the heavy pails of water and struggled with them over the

shell-wrecked roads that the dying soldiers might drink; when they have

sewn the torn uniforms; when they have strewn with the first spring

flowers the graves of those who died for liberty. Only _Christ in

deeds_ when our men went unarmed into the horrors of the Argonne Forest

to gather the dying boys in their arms and to comfort them with love,

human and divine.

That valiant champion of justice and truth; that faithful, able and

brilliant defender of American standards, the late Honorable Theodore

Roosevelt, told me personally a few days before he went into the

hospital that his son wrote him of how our officer, fifty-three years

of age, despite his orders, went unarmed over the top, in the

whirl-wind of the charge, amidst the shriek of shell and tear of

shrapnel, and picked up the American boy left for dead in No Man’s

Land, carrying him on hie back over the shell-torn fields to safety.

It is this _Christ in deeds_ that has made the doughnut to take the

place of the “cup of cold water” given in His name. It is this _Christ

in deeds_ that has brought from our humble ranks the modern Florence

Nightingales and taken to the gory horrors of the battlefields the

white, uplifting influences of pure womanhood. It is this _Christ in

deeds_ that made Sir Arthur Stanley say, when thanking our General for

$10,000 donated for more ambulances: “I thank you for the money, but

much more for the men; they are quite the best in our service.”

It is this Christ who has given to our humblest service a

sheen-something of a glory-which the troops have caught, and which will

make these simple deeds to hold tenaciously to history, and to outlive

the effacing fingers of time-even to defy the very dissolution of

death.

As Premier Clemenceau said: “We must love. We must believe. This is the

secret of life. If we fail to learn this lesson, we exist without

living: we die in ignorance of the reality of life.”

A senator, after several months spent in France, stated: “It is my

opinion that the secret of the success of this organization is their

complete abandonment to their cause, _the service of the man_.”

Of the many beautiful tributes paid to us by a most gracious public,

and by the noblest-hearted and most kindly and gallant army that ever

stood up in uniform, perhaps the most correct is this: _Complete

abandonment to the service of the man_.

This, in large measure, is the cause of our success all over the world.

When you come to think of it, the Salvation Army is a remarkable

arrangement. It is remarkable in its construction. It is a great

empire. An empire geographically unlike any other. It is an empire

without a frontier. It is an empire made up of geographical fragments,

parted from each other by vast stretches of railroad and immense sweeps

of sea. It is an empire composed of a tangle of races, tongues, and

colors, of types of civilization and enlightened barbarism such as

never before in all human history gathered together under one flag.

It is an army, with its titles rambling into all languages, a soldiery

spreading over all lands, a banner upon which the sun never goes

down-with its head in the heart of a cluster of islands set in the

grey, wind-blown Northern seas, while its territories are scattered

over every sea and under every sky.

The world has wondered what has been the controlling force holding this

strange empire together. What is the electro-magnetism governing its

furthest atom as though it were at your elbow? What is the magic

sceptre that compels this diversity of peoples to act as one man? What

is the master passion uniting these multifarious pulsations into one

heart-beat?

Has it been a sworn-to signature attached to bond or paper? No; these

can all too readily be designated “scraps” and be rent in twain. Has it

been self-interest and worldly fame? No, for all selfish gain has had

to be sacrificed upon the threshold of the contract. Has it been the

bond of kinship, or blood, or speech? No, for under this banner the

British master has become the servant of the Hindoo, and the American

has gone to lay down his life upon the veldts of Africa. Has it been

the bond of that almost supernatural force, glorious patriotism? No,

not even this, for while we “know no man after the flesh,” we recognize

our brother in all the families of the earth, and our General infused

into the breasts of his followers the sacred conviction that the

Salvationist’s country is the world.

What was it? What is it? Those ties created by a spiritual ideal. Our

love for God demonstrated by our sacrifice for man.

My father, in a private audience with the late King Edward, said: “Your

Majesty, some men’s passion is gold; some men’s passion is art; some

men’s passion is fame; my passion is man!”

This was in our Founder’s breast the white flame which ignited like

sparks in the hearts of all his followers.

_Man is our life’s passion._

It is for man we have laid our lives upon the altar. It is for man we

have entered into a contract with our God which signs away our claim to

any and all selfish ends. It is for man we have sworn to our own hurt,

and—my God thou knowest-when the hurt came, hard and hot and fast, it

was for man we held tenaciously to the bargain.

After the torpedoing of the _Aboukir_ two sailors found themselves

clinging to a spar which was not sufficiently buoyant to keep them both

afloat. Harry, a Salvationist, grasped the situation and said to his

mate: “Tom, for me to die will mean to go home to mother. I don’t think

it’s quite the same for you, so you hold to the spar and I will go

down; but promise me if you are picked up you will make my God your God

and my people your people.” Tom was rescued and told to a weeping

audience in a Salvation Army hall the act of self-sacrifice which had

saved his life, and testified to keeping his promise to the boy who had

died for him.

When the _Empress of Ireland_ went down with a hundred and thirty

Salvation Army officers on board, one hundred and nine officers were

drowned, and not one body that was picked up had on a life-belt. The

few survivors told how the Salvationists, finding there were not enough

life- preservers for all, took off their own belts and strapped them

upon even strong men, saying, “I can die better than you can;” and from

the deck of that sinking boat they flung their battle-cry around the

world— _Others!_

_Man!_ Sometimes I think God has given us special eyesight with which

to look upon him, We look through the exterior, look through the shell,

look through the coat, and find the man. We look through the ofttimes

repulsive wrappings, through the dark, objectionable coating collected

upon the downward travel of misspent years, through the artificial

veneer of empty seeming-through to the _man_.

He that was made after God’s image.

He that is greater than firmaments, greater than suns, greater than

worlds.

Man, for whom worlds were created, for whom Heavens were canopied, for

whom suns were set ablaze. He in whose being there gleams that immortal

spark we call the soul. And when this war came, it was natural for us

to look to the man-the man under the shabby clothes, enlisting in the

great armies of freedom; the man going down the street under the spick

and span uniform; the man behind the gun, standing in the jaws of death

hurling back world autocracy; the man, the son of liberty, discharging

his obligations to them that are bound; the man, each one of them,

although so young, who when the fates of the world swung in the

balances proved to be _the man of the hour;_ the man, each one of them,

fighting not only for today but for tomorrow, and deciding the world’s

future; the man who gladly died that freedom might not be dead; the man

dear to a hundred million throbbing hearts; the man God loved so much

that to save him He gave His only Son to the unparalleled sacrifice of

Calvary, with its measureless ocean of torment heaving up against His

Heart in one foaming, wrathful, omnipotent surge.

Wherein is price? What constitutes cost, when the question is _The

Man_?

Preface by the Writer

I wish I could give you a picture of Commander Evangeline Booth as I

saw her first, who has been the Source, the Inspiration, the Guide of

this story.

I went to the first conference about this book in curiosity and some

doubt, not knowing whether it was my work; not altogether sure whether

I cared to attempt it. She took my hand and spoke to me. I looked in

her face and saw the shining glory of her great spirit through those

wonderful, beautiful, wise, keen eyes, and all doubts vanished. I

studied the sincerity and beauty of her vivid face as we talked

together, and heard the thrilling tale she was giving me to tell

because she could not take the time from living it to write it, and I

trembled lest she would not find me worthy for so great a task. I knew

that I was being honored beyond women to have been selected as an

instrument through whom the great story of the Salvation Army in the

War might go forth to the world. That I wanted to do it more than any

work that had ever come to my hand, I was certain at once; and that my

whole soul was enmeshed in the wonder of it. It gripped me from the

start. I was over-joyed to find that we were in absolute sympathy from

the first.

One sentence from that earliest talk we had together stands clear in my

memory, and it has perhaps unconsciously shaped the theme which I hope

will be found running through all the book:

“Our people,” said she, flinging out her hands in a lovely embracing

movement, as if she saw before her at that moment those devoted workers

of hers who follow where she leads unquestioningly, and stay not for

fire or foe, or weariness, or peril of any sort:

“Our people know that Christ is a living presence, that they can reach

out and feel He is near: that is why they can live so splendidly and

die so heroically!”

As she spoke a light shone in her face that reminded me of the light

that we read was on Moses’ face after he had spent those days in the

mountain with God; and somewhere back in my soul something was

repeating the words: “And they took knowledge of them that they had

been with Jesus.”

That seems to me to be the whole secret of the wonderful lives and

wonderful work of the Salvation Army. They have become acquainted with

Jesus Christ, whom to know is life eternal; they feel His presence

constantly with them and they live their lives “as seeing Him who is

invisible.” They are a living miracle for the confounding of all who

doubt that there is a God whom mortals may know face to face while they

are yet upon the earth.

The one thing that these people seem to feel is really worth while is

bringing other people to know their Christ. All other things in life

are merely subservient to this, or tributary to it. All their

education, culture and refinement, their amazing organization, their

rare business ability, are just so many tools that they use for the

uplift of others. In fact, the word “others” appears here and there,

printed on small white cards and tacked up over a desk, or in a hallway

near the elevator, anywhere, everywhere all over the great building of

the New York Headquarters, a quiet, unobtrusive, yet startling reminder

of a world of real things in the midst of the busy rush of life.

Yet they do not obtrude their religion. Rather it is a secret joy that

shines unaware through their eyes, and seems to flood their whole being

with happiness so that others can but see. It is there, ready, when the

time comes to give comfort, or advice, or to tell the message of the

gospel in clear ringing sentences in one of their meetings; but it

speaks as well through a smile, or a ripple of song, or a bright funny

story, or something good to eat when one is hungry, as it does through

actual preaching. It is the living Christ, as if He were on earth again

living in them. And when one comes to know them well one knows that He

is!

“Go straight for the salvation of souls: never rest satisfied unless

this end is achieved!” is part of the commission that the Commander

gives to her envoys. It is worth while stopping to think what would be

the effect on the world if every one who has named the name of Christ

should accept that commission and go forth to fulfill it.

And you who have been accustomed to drop your pennies in the tambourine

of the Salvation Army lassies at the street corners, and look upon her

as a representative of a lower class who are doing good “in their way,”

prepare to realize that you have made a mistake. The Salvation Army is

not an organization composed of a lot of ignorant, illiterate, reformed

criminals picked out of the slums. There may be among them many of that

class who by the army’s efforts have been saved from a life of sin and

shame, and lifted up to be useful citizens; but great numbers of them,

the leaders and officers, are refined, educated men and women who have

put Christ and His Kingdom first in their hearts and lives. Their young

people will compare in every way with the best of the young people of

any of our religious denominations.

After the privilege of close association with them for some time I have

come to feel that the most noticeable and lovely thing about the girls

is the way they wear their womanhood, as if it were a flower, or a rare

jewel. One of these girls, who, by the way, had been nine months in

France, all of it under shell fire, said to me:

“I used to wish I had been born a boy, they are not hampered so much as

women are; but after I went to France and saw what a good woman meant

to those boys in the trenches I changed my mind, and I’m glad I was

born a woman. It means a great deal to be a woman.”

And so there is no coquetry about these girls, no little personal

vanity such as girls who are thinking of themselves often have. They

take great care to be neat and sweet and serviceable, but as they are

not thinking of themselves, but only how they may serve, they are blest

with that loveliest of all adorning, a meek and quiet spirit and a joy

of living and content that only forgetfulness of self and communion

with Jesus Christ can bring.

I feel as if I would like to thank every one of them, men and women and

young girls, who have so kindly and generously and wholeheartedly given

me of their time and experiences and put at my disposal their

correspondence to enrich this story, and have helped me to go over the

ground of the great American drives in the war and see what they saw,

hear what they heard, and feel as they felt. It has been one of the

greatest experiences of my life.

And she, their God-given leader, that wonderful woman whose wise hand

guides every detail of this marvellous organization in America, and

whose well furnished mind is ever thinking out new ways to serve her

Master, Christ; what shall I say of her whom I have come to know and

love so well?

Her exceptional ability as a public speaker is of the widest fame,

while comparatively few, beyond those of her most trusted Officers, are

brought into admiring touch with her brilliant executive powers. All

these, however, unite in most unstinted praise and declare that

functioning in this sphere, the Commander even excels her platform

triumphs. But one must know her well and watch her every day to

understand her depth of insight into character, her wideness of vision,

her skill of making adverse circumstances serve her ends. Born with an

innate genius for leadership, swallowed up in her work, wholly

consecrated to God and His service, she looks upon men, as it were,

with the eyes of the God she loves, and sees the best in everybody. She

sees their faults also, but she sees the good, and is able to take that

good and put it to account, while helping them out of their faults.

Those whom she has so helped would kiss the hem of her garment as she

passes. It is easy to see why she is a leader of men. It is easy to see

who has made the Army here in America. It is easy to see who has

inspired the brave men and wonderful women who went to France and

labored.

She would not have me say these things of her, for she is humble, as

such a great leader should be, knowing all her gifts and attainments to

be but the glory of her Lord; and this is her book. Only in this

chapter can I speak and say what I will, for it is not my book. But

here, too, I waive my privilege and bow to my Commander.

[Grace Livingston Hill]

The War Romance of the Salvation Army

I.

Into the heavy shadows that swathe the feet of the tall buildings in

West Fourteenth Street, New York, late in the evening there slipped a

dark form. It was so carefully wrapped in a black cloak that it was

difficult to tell among the other shadows whether it was man or woman,

and immediately it became a part of the darkness that hovered close to

the entrances along the way. It slid almost imperceptibly from shadow

to shadow until it crouched flatly against the wall by the steps of an

open door out of which streamed a wide band of light that flung itself

across the pavement.

Down the street came two girls in poke bonnets and hurried in at the

open door. The figure drew back and was motionless as they passed, then

with a swift furtive glance in either direction a head came cautiously

out from the shadow and darted a look after the two lassies, watched

till they were out of sight, and a form slid into the doorway, winding

about the turning like a serpent, as if the way were well planned, and

slipped out of sight in a dark corner under the stairway.

Half an hour or perhaps an hour passed, and one or two hurrying forms

came in at the door and sped up the stairs from some errand of mercy;

then the night watchman came and fastened the door and went away again,

out somewhere through a back room.

The interloper was instantly on the alert, darting out of its hiding

place, and slipping noiselessly up the stairs as quietly as the shadow

it imitated; pausing to listen with anxious mien, stepping as a cloud

might have stepped with no creak of stairway or sound of going at all.

Up, up, up and up again, it darted, till it came to the very top,

pausing to look sharply at a gleam of light under a door of some

student not yet asleep.

From under the dark cloak slid a hand with something in it. Silently it

worked, swiftly, pouring a few drops here, a few drops there, of some

colorless, odorless matter, smearing a spot on the stair railing,

another across from it on the wall, a little on the floor beyond, a

touch on the window seat at the end of the hall, some more on down the

stairs.

On rubbered feet the fiend crept down; halting, listening, ever working

rapidly, from floor to floor and back to the entrance way again. At

last with a cautious glance around, a pause to rub a match skilfully

over the woolen cloak, and to light a fuse in a hidden corner, he

vanished out upon the street like the passing of a wraith, and was gone

in the darkness.

Down in the dark corner the little spark brooded and smouldered. The

watchman passed that way but it gave no sign. All was still in the

great building, as the smouldering spark crept on and on over its

little thread of existence to the climax.

But suddenly, it sprang to life! A flame leaped up like a great tongue

licking its lips before the feast it was about to devour; and then it

sprang as if it were human, to another spot not far away; and then to

another, and on, and on up the stair rail, across to the wall, leaping,

roaring, almost shouting as if in fiendish glee. It flew to the top of

the house and down again in a leap and the whole building was enveloped

in a sheet of flame!

Some one gave the cry of Fire! The night watchman darted to his box and

sent in the alarm. Frightened girls in night attire crowded to their

doors and gasping fell back for an instant in horror; then bravely

obedient to their training dashed forth into the flame. Young men on

other floors without a thought for themselves dropped into order

automatically and worked like madmen to save everyone. The fire engines

throbbed up almost immediately, but the building was doomed from the

start and went like tinder. Only the fire drill in which they had

constant almost daily practice saved those brave girls and boys from an

awful death. Out upon the fire escapes in the bitter winter wind the

girls crept down to safety, and one by one the young men followed. The

young man who was fire sergeant counted his men and found them all

present but one cadet. He darted back to find him, and that moment with

a last roar of triumph the flames gave a final leap and the building

collapsed, burying in a fiery grave two fine young heroes. Afterward

they said the building had been “smeared” or it never could have gone

in a breath as it did. The miracle was that no more lives were lost.

So that was how the burning of the Salvation Army Training School

occurred.

The significant fact in the affair was that there had been sleeping in

that building directly over the place where the fire started several of

the lassies who were to sail for France in a day or two with the

largest party of war workers that had yet been sent out. Their trunks

were packed, and they were all ready to go. The object was all too

evident.

There was also proof that the intention had been to destroy as well the

great fireproof Salvation Army National Headquarters building adjoining

the Training School.

A few days later a detective taking lunch in a small German restaurant

on a side street overheard a conversation:

“Well, if we can’t burn them out we’ll blow up the building, and get

that damn Commander, anyhow!”

Yet when this was told her the Commander declined the bodyguard offered

her by the Civic Authorities, to go with her even to her country home

and protect her while the war lasted! She is naturally a soldier.

The Commander had stayed late at the Headquarters one evening to finish

some important bit of work, and had given orders that she should not be

interrupted. The great building was almost empty save for the night

watchman, the elevator man, and one or two others.

She was hard at work when her secretary appeared with an air of

reluctance to tell her that the elevator man said there were three

ladies waiting downstairs to see her on some very important business.

He had told them that she could not be disturbed but they insisted that

they must see her, that she would wish it if she knew their business.

He had come up to find out what he should answer them.

The Commander said she knew nothing about them and could not be

interrupted now. They must be told to come again the next day.

The elevator man returned in a few minutes to say that the ladies

insisted, and said they had a great gift for the Salvation Army, but

must see the Commander at once and alone or the gift would be lost.

Quickly interested the Commander gave orders that they should be

brought up to her office, but just as they were about to enter, the

secretary came in again with great excitement, begging that she would

not see the visitors, as one of the men from downstairs had ’phoned up

to her that he did not like the appearance of the strangers; they

seemed to be trying to talk in high strained voices, and they had very

large feet. Maybe they were not women at all.

The Commander laughed at the idea, but finally yielded when another of

her staff entered and begged her not to see strangers alone so late at

night; and the callers were informed that they would have to return in

the morning if they wished an interview.

Immediately they became anything but ladylike in their manner,

declaring that the Salvation Army did not deserve a gift and should

have nothing from them. The elevator man’s suspicions were aroused. The

ladies were attired in long automobile cloaks, and close caps with

large veils, and he studied them carefully as he carried them down to

the street floor once more, following them to the outer door. He was

surprised to find that no automobile awaited them outside. As they

turned to walk down the street, he was sure he caught a glimpse of a

trouser leg from beneath one of the long cloaks, and with a stride he

covered the space between the door and his elevator where was a

telephone, and called up the police station. In a few moments more the

three “ladies” found themselves in custody, and proved to be three men

well armed.

But when the Commander was told the truth about them she surprisingly

said: “I’m sorry I didn’t see them. I’m sure they would have done me no

harm and I might have done them some good.”

But if she is courageous, she is also wise as a serpent, and knows when

to keep her own counsel.

During the early days of the war when there were many important matters

to be decided and the Commander was needed everywhere, she came

straight from a conference in Washington to a large hotel in one of the

great western cities where she had an appointment to speak that night.

At the revolving door of the hotel stood a portly servitor in house

uniform who was most kind and noticeably attentive to her whenever she

entered or went out, and was constantly giving her some pointed little

attention to draw her notice. Finally, she stopped for a moment to

thank him, and he immediately became most flattering, telling her he

knew all about the Salvation Army, that he had a brother in its ranks,

was deeply interested in their work in France, and most proud of what

they were doing. He told her he had lived in Washington and said he

supposed she often went there. She replied pleasantly that she had but

just come from there, but some keen intuition began to warn this

wise-hearted woman and when the next question, though spoken most

casually, was: “Where are the Salvation Army workers now in France?”

she replied evasively:

“Oh, wherever they are most needed,” and passed on with a friend.

“I believe that man is a spy!” she said to her friend with conviction

in her voice.

“Nonsense!” the friend replied; “you are growing nervous. That man has

been in this hotel for several years.”

But that very night the man, with five others, was arrested, and proved

to be a spy hunting information about the location of the American

troops in France.

Now these incidents do not belong in just this spot in the book, but

they are placed here of intention that the reader may have a certain

viewpoint from which to take the story. For well does the world of evil

realize what a strong force of opponents to their dark deeds is found

in this great Christian organization. Sometimes one is able the better

to judge a man, his character and strength, when one knows who are his

enemies.

It was the beginning of the dark days of 1917.

The Commander sat in her quiet office, that office through which,

except on occasions like this when she locked the doors for a few

minutes’ special work, there marched an unbroken procession of men and

affairs, affecting both souls and nations.

Before her on the broad desk lay the notes of a new address which she

was preparing to deliver that evening, but her eyes were looking out of

the wide window, across the clustering roofs of the great city to the

white horizon line, and afar over the great water to the terrible scene

of the Strife of Nations.

For a long time her thoughts had been turning that way, for she had

many beloved comrades in that fight, both warring and ministering to

the fighters, and she had often longed to go herself, had not her work

held her here. But now at last the call had come! America had entered

the great war, and in a few days her sons would be marching from all

over the land and embarking for over the seas to fling their young

lives into that inferno; and behind them would stalk, as always in the

wake of War, Pain and Sorrow and Sin! Especially Sin. She shuddered as

she thought of it all. The many subtle temptations to one who is lonely

and in a foreign land.

Her eyes left the far horizon and hovered over the huddling roofs that

represented so many hundreds of thousands of homes. So many mothers to

give up their sons; so many wives to be bereft; so many men and boys to

be sent forth to suffer and be tried; so many hearts already

overburdened to be bowed beneath a heavier load! Oh, her people! Her

beloved people, whose sorrows and burdens and sins she bore in her

heart and carried to the feet of the Master every day! And now this

war!

And those young men, hardly more than children, some of them! With her

quick insight and deep knowledge of the world, she visualized the way

of fire down which they must walk, and her soul was stricken with the

thought of it! It was her work and the work of her chosen Army to help

and save, but what could she do in such a momentous crisis as this? She

had no money for new work. Opportunities had opened up so fast. The

Treasury was already overtaxed with the needs on this side of the

water. There were enterprises started that could not be given up

without losing precious souls who were on the way toward becoming

redeemed men and women, fit citizens of this world and the next. There

was no surplus, ever! The multifarious efforts to meet the needs of the

poorest of the cities’ poor, alone, kept everyone on the strain. There

seemed no possibility of doing more. Besides, how could they spare the

workers to meet the new demand without taking them from places where

they were greatly needed at home? And other perplexities darkened the

way. There were those sitting in high places of authority who had

strongly advised the Salvation Army to remain at home and go on with

their street meetings, telling them that the battlefield was no place

for them, they would only be in the way. They were not adapted to a

thing like war. But well she knew the capacity of the Salvation Army to

adapt itself to whatever need or circumstance presented. The same

standard they had borne into the most wretched places of earth in times

of peace would do in times of war.

Out there across the waters the Salvation Brothers and Sisters were

ministering to the British armies at the front, and now that the

American army was going, too, duty seemed very clear; the call was most

imperative!

The written pages on her desk loudly demanded attention and the

Commander tried to bring her thoughts back to them once more, but again

and again the call sounded in her heart.

She lifted her eyes to the wall across the room from her desk where

hung the life-like portrait of her Christian-Warrior father, the grand

old keen-eyed, wise-hearted General, founder of the movement. Like her

father she knew they must go. There was no question about it. No

hindrance should stop them. They must go! The warrior blood ran in her

veins. In this the world’s greatest calamity they must fulfill the

mission for which he lived and died.

“Go!” Those pictured eyes seemed to speak to her, just as they used to

command her when he was here: “You must go and bear the standard of the

Cross to the front. Those boys are going over there, many of them to

die, and some are telling them that if they make the supreme sacrifice

in this their country’s hour of need it will be all right with them

when they go into the world beyond. But when they get over there under

shell fire they will know that it is not so, and they will need Christ,

the only atonement for sin. You must go and take the Christ to them.”

Then the Commander bowed her head, accepting the commission; and there

in the quiet room perhaps the Master Himself stood beside her and gave

her his charge—just as she would later charge those whom she would send

across the water—telling her that He was depending upon the Salvation

Army to bear His standard to the war.

Perhaps it was at this same high conference with her Lord that she

settled it in her heart that Lieutenant-Colonel William S. Barker was

to be the pioneer to blaze the way for the work in France.

However that may be he was an out-and-out Salvationist, of long and

varied experience. He was chosen equally for his proved consecration to

service, for his unselfishness, for his exceptional and remarkable

natural courage by which he was afraid of nothing, and for his

unwavering persistence in plans once made in spite of all difficulties.

The Commander once said of him: “If you want to see him at his best you

must put him face to face with a stone wall and tell him he must get on

the other side of it. No matter what the cost or toil, whether hated or

loved, he would get there!”

Thus carefully, prayerfully, were each one of the other workers

selected; each new selection born from the struggle of her soul in

prayer to God that there might be no mistakes, no unwise choices, no

messengers sent forth who went for their own ends and not for the glory

of God. Here lies the secret which makes the world wonder to-day why

the Salvation Army workers are called “the real thing” by the soldiers.

They were hand-picked by their leader on the mount, face to face with

God.

She took no casual comer, even with offers of money to back them, and

there were some of immense wealth who pleaded to be of the little band.

She sent only those whom she knew and had tried. Many of them had been

born and reared in the Salvation Army, with Christlike fathers and

mothers who had made their homes a little piece of heaven below. All of

them were consecrated, and none went without the urgent answering call

in their own hearts.

It was early in June, 1917, when Colonel Barker sailed to France with

his commission to look the field over and report upon any and every

opportunity for the Salvation Army to serve the American troops.

In order to pave his way before reaching France, Colonel Barker secured

a letter of introduction from Secretary-to-the-President Tumulty, to

the American Ambassador in France, Honorable William G. Sharp.

In connection with this letter a curious and interesting incident

occurred. When Colonel Barker entered the Secretary’s office, he

noticed him sitting at the other end of the room talking with a

gentleman. He was about to take a seat near the door when Mr. Tumulty

beckoned to him to come to the desk. When he was seated, without

looking directly at the other gentleman, the Colonel began to state his

mission to Mr. Tumulty. Before he had finished the stranger spoke up to

Mr. Tumulty: “Give the Colonel what he wants and make it a good one!”

And lo! he was not a stranger, but a man whose reform had made no small

sensation in New York circles several years before, a former attorney

who through his wicked life had been despaired of and forsaken by his

wealthy relatives, who had sunk to the lowest depths of sin and poverty

and been rescued by the Salvation Army.

Continuing to Mr. Tumulty, he said: “You know what the Salvation Army

has done for me; now do what you can for the Salvation Army.”

Mr. Tumulty gave him a most kind letter of introduction to the American

Ambassador.

On his arrival in Liverpool Colonel Barker availed himself of the

opportunity to see the very splendid work being done by the Salvation

Army with the British troops, both in France and in England, visiting

many Salvation Army huts and hostels. He also put the Commander’s plans

for France before General Bramwell Booth in London.

As early as possible Colonel Barker presented his letter of

introduction to the American Ambassador, who in turn provided him with

a letter of introduction to General Pershing which insured a cordial

reception by him. Mr. Sharp informed Colonel Barker that he understood

the policy of the American army was to grant a monopoly of all welfare

work to the Y.M.C.A. He feared the Salvation Army would not be welcome,

but assured him that anything he could properly do to assist the

Salvation Army would be most gladly done. In this connection he stated

that he had known of and been interested in the work of the Salvation

Army for many years, that several men of his acquaintance had been

converted through their activities and been reformed from dissolute,

worthless characters to kind husbands and fathers and good business

men; and that he believed in the Salvation Army work as a consequence.

On many occasions during the subsequent months, Mr. Sharp was never too

busy to see the Salvation Army representatives, and has rendered

valuable assistance in facilitating the forwarding of additional

workers by his influence with the State Department.

It appeared that among military officers a kind feeling existed toward

the Salvation Army, though it was generally thought that there was no

opening for their service. Their conception of the Salvation Army was

that of street corner meetings and public charity. The officers at that

time could not see that the soldiers needed charity or that they would

be interested in religion. They could see how a reading-room, game-room

and entertainments might be helpful, but anything further than that

they did not consider necessary.

Colonel Barker presented his letter of introduction to General

Pershing, and on behalf of Commander Booth offered the services of the

Salvation Army in any form which might be desired.

General Pershing, who received the Colonel with exceptional cordiality,

suggested that he go out to the camps, look the field over, and report

to him. Calling in his chief of staff he gave instructions that a side

car should be placed at Colonel Barker’s disposal to go out to the

camps; and also that a letter of introduction to the General commanding

the First Division should be given to him, asking that everything

should be done to help him.

The first destination was Gondrecourt, where the First Division

Headquarters was established.

II.

The Gondrecourt Area

The advance guard of the American Expeditionary Forces had landed in

France, and other detachments were arriving almost daily. They were

received by the French with open arms and a big parade as soon as they

landed. Flowers were tossed in their path and garlands were flung about

them. They were lauded and praised on every hand. On the crest of this

wave of enthusiasm they could have swept joyously into battle and never

lost their smiles.

But instead of going to the front at once they were billeted in little

French villages and introduced to French rain and French mud.

When one discovers that the houses are built of stone, stuck together

mainly by this mud of the country, and remembers how many years they

have stood, one gets a passing idea of the nature of this mud about

which the soldiers have written home so often. It is more like Portland

cement than anything else, and it is most penetrative and hard to get

rid of; it gets in the hair, down the neck, into the shoes and it

sticks. If the soldier wears hip-boots in the trenches he must take

them off every little while and empty the mud out of them which somehow

manages to get into even hip-boots. It is said that one reason the

soldiers were obliged to wear the wrapped leggings was, not that they

would keep the water out, but that they would strain the mud and at

least keep the feet comparatively clean.

[Illustration: Lieutenant-Colonel William S. Barker

Director of War Work in France]

[Illustration: “Introduced to French Rain and French Mud”]

There were sixteen of these camps at this time and probably twelve or

thirteen thousand soldiers were already established in them.

There was no great cantonment as at the camps on this side of the

water, nor yet a city of tents, as one might have expected. The forming

of a camp meant the taking over of all available buildings in the

little French peasant villages. The space was measured up by the town

mayor and the battalion leader and the proper number of men assigned to

each building. In this way a single division covered a territory of

about thirty kilometers. This system made a camp of any size available

in very short order and also fooled the Huns, who were on the lookout

for American camps.

These villages were the usual farming villages, typical of eastern

France. They are not like American villages, but a collection of farm

yards, the houses huddled together years ago for protection against

roving bands of marauders. The farmer, instead of living upon his land,

lives in the village, and there he has his barn for his cattle, his

manure pile is at his front door, the drainage from it seeps back under

the house at will, his chickens and pigs running around the streets.

These houses were built some five or eight hundred years ago, some a

thousand or twelve hundred years. One house in the town aroused much

curiosity because it was called the “new” house. It looked just like

all the others. One who was curious asked why it should have received

this appellative and was told because it was the last one that was

built—only two hundred and fifty years ago.

There is a narrow hall or court running through these houses which is

all that separates the family from the horses and pigs and cows which

abide under the same roof.

The whole place smells alike. There is no heat anywhere, save from a

fireplace in the kitchen. There is a community bakehouse.

The soldiers were quartered in the barns and outhouses, the officers

were quartered in the homes of these French peasants. There were no

comforts for either soldier or officer. It rained almost continuously

and at night it was cold. No dining-rooms could be provided where the

men could eat and they lined up on the street, got their chow and ate

it standing in the rain or under whatever cover they could find. Few of

them could understand any French, and all the conditions surrounding

their presence in France were most trying to them. They were drilled

from morning to night. They were covered with mud. The great fight in

which they had come to participate was still afar off. No wonder their

hearts grew heavy with a great longing for home. Gloom sat upon their

faces and depression grew with every passing hour.

Into these villages one after another came the little military side-car

with its pioneer Salvationists, investigating conditions and inquiring

the greatest immediate need of the men.

All the soldiers were homesick, and wherever the little car stopped the

Salvation Army uniform attracted immediate and friendly attention. The

boys expressed the liveliest interest in the possibility of the

Salvation Army being with them in France. These troops composed the

regular army and were old-timers. They showed at once their respect for

and their belief in the Salvation Army. One poor fellow, when he saw

the uniform, exclaimed: “The Salvation Army! I believe they’ll be

waiting for us when we get to hell to try and save us!”

It appeared that the pay of the American soldier was so much greater

than that of the French soldier that he had too much money at his

disposal; and this money was a menace both to him and to the French

population. If some means could be provided for transferring the

soldier’s money home, it would help out in the one direction which was

most important at that time.

It will be remembered that the French habit of drinking wine was ever

before the American soldier, and with 165 francs a month in his pocket,

he became an object of interest to the French tradespeople, who

encouraged him to spend his money in drink, and who also raised the

price on other commodities to a point where the French population found

it made living for them most difficult.

The Salvation Army authorities in New York were all prepared to meet

this need. The Organization has one thousand posts throughout the

United States commanded by officers who would become responsible to get

the soldier’s money to his family or relatives in the United States. A

simple money-order blank issued in France could be sent to the National

Headquarters of the Salvation Army in New York and from there to the

officer commanding the corps in any part of the United States, who

would deliver the money in person.

In this way the friends and relatives of the soldier in France would be

comforted in the knowledge that the Salvation Army was in touch with

their boy; and if need existed in the family at home it would be

discovered through the visit of the Salvation Army officer in the

homeland and immediate steps taken to alleviate it.

Perhaps this has done more than anything else to bring the blessing of

parents and relatives upon the organization, for tens of thousands of

dollars that would have been spent in gambling and drink have been sent

home to widowed mothers and young wives.

This suggestion appealed very strongly to the military general, who

said that if the Salvation Army got into operation it could count upon

any assistance which he could give it, and if they conducted meetings

he would see that his regimental band was instructed to attend these

meetings and furnish the music.

Several chaplains, both Protestant and Catholic, expressed themselves

as being glad to welcome the Salvation Army among them.

Among the Regular Army officers there was rather a pessimistic

attitude. It was in nowise hostile, but rather doubtful.

One general said that he did not see that the Salvation Army could do

any good. His idea of the Salvation Army being associated altogether

with the slums and men who were down and out. But on the other hand, he

said that he did not see that the Salvation Army could do any harm,

even if they did not do any good, and as far as he was concerned he was

agreeable to their coming in to work in the First Division; and he

would so report to General Pershing.

St. Nazaire, the base, was being used for the reception of the troops

as they reached the shores of France. Here was a new situation. The men

had been cooped up on transports for several days and on their landing

at St. Nazaire they were placed in a rest camp with the opportunity to

visit the city. Here they were a prey to immoral women and the officer

commanding the base was greatly concerned about the matter and eagerly

welcomed the idea of having the Salvation Army establish good women in

St. Nazaire who would cope with the problem.

The report given to General Pershing resulted in an official

authorization permitting the Salvation Army to open their work with the

American Expeditionary Forces, and a suggestion that they go at once to

the American Training Area and see what they could do to alleviate the

terrible epidemic of homesickness that had broken out among the

soldiers.

In the meantime, back in New York, the Commander had not been idle.

Daily before the throne she had laid the great concerns of her Army,

and daily she had been preparing her first little company of workers to

go when the need should call.

There was no money as yet, but the Commander was not to be daunted, and

so when the report came from over the water, she borrowed from the

banks twenty-five thousand dollars.

She called the little company of pioneer workers together in a quiet

place before they left and gave them such a charge as would make an

angel search his heart. Before the Most High God she called upon them

to tell her if any of them had in his or her heart any motive or

ambition in going other than to serve the Lord Christ. She looked down

into the eyes of the young maidens and bade them put utterly away from

them the arts and coquetries of youth, and remember that they were sent

forth to help and save and love the souls of men as God loved them; and

that self must be forgotten, or their work would be in vain. She

commanded them if even at this last hour any faltered or felt himself

unfit for the God-given task, that he would tell her even then before

it was too late. She begged them to remember that they held in their

hands the honor of the Salvation Army, and the glory of Jesus Christ

their Saviour as they went out to serve the troops. They were to be

living examples of Christ’s love, and they were to be willing to lay

down their lives if need be for His sake.

There were tears in the eyes of some of those strong men that day as

they listened, and the look of exaltation on the faces of the women was

like a reflection from above. So must have looked the disciples of old

when Jesus gave them the commission to go into all the world and preach

the gospel. They were filled with His Spirit, and there was a look of

utter joy and self-forgetfulness as they knelt with their leader to

pray, in words which carried them all to the very feet of God and laid

their lives a willing sacrifice to Him who had done so much for them.

Still kneeling, with bowed heads, they sang, and their words were but a

prayer. It is a way these wonderful people have of bursting into song

upon their knees with their eyes closed and faces illumined by a light

of another world, their whole souls in the words they are

singing—“singing as unto the Lord!” It reminds one of the days of old

when the children of Israel did everything with songs and prayers and

rejoicing, and the whole of life was carried on as if in the visible

presence of God, instead of utterly ignoring Him as most of us do now.

The song this time was just a few lines of consecration:

“Oh, for a heart whiter than snow!

Saviour Divine, to whom else can I go?

Thou who hast died, loving me so,

Give me a heart that is whiter than snow!”

The dramatic beauty of the scene, the sweet, holy abandonment of that

prayer-song with its tender, appealing melody, would have held a throng

of thousands in awed wonder. But there was no audience, unless,

perchance, the angels gathered around the little company, rejoicing

that in this world of sin and war there were these who had so given

themselves to God; but from that glory-touched room there presently

went forth men and women with the spirit in their hearts that was to

thrill like an electric wire every life with which it came in contact,

and show the whole world what God can do with lives that are wholly

surrendered to Him.

[Illustration: She called the little company of workers together and

gave them such a charge as would make an angel search his heart]

[Illustration: The lassie who fried the first doughnut in France]

It was a bright, sunny afternoon, August 12th, when this first party of

American Salvation Army workers set sail for France.

No doubt there was many a smile of contempt from the bystanders as they

saw the little group of blue uniforms with the gold-lettered scarlet

hatbands, and noticed the four poke bonnets among the number. What did

the tambourine lassies know of real warfare? To those who reckoned the

Salvation Army in terms of bands on the street corner, and shivering

forms guarding Christmas kettles, it must have seemed the utmost

audacity for this “play army” to go to the front.

When they arrived at Bordeaux on August 21st they went at once to Paris

to be fitted out with French uniforms, as General Pershing had given

them all the rank of military privates, and ordered that they should

wear the regulation khaki uniforms with the addition of the red

Salvation Army shield on the hats, red epaulets, and with skirts for

the women.

A cabled message had reached France from the Commander saying that

funds to the extent of twenty-five thousand dollars had been arranged

for, and would be supplied as needed, and that a party of eleven

officers were being dispatched at once. After that matters began to

move rapidly.

A portable tent, 25 feet by 100 feet, was purchased and shipped to

Demange;—and a touring car was bought with part of the money advanced.

Purchasing an automobile in France is not a matter merely of money. It

is a matter for Governmental sanction, long delay, red tape—amazing

good luck.

At the start the whole Salvation Army transportation system consisted

of this one first huge limousine, heartlessly overdriven and

overworked. For many weeks it was Colonel Barker’s office and bedroom.

It carried all of the Salvation Army workers to and from their

stations, hauled all of the supplies on its roof, inside, on its

fenders, and later also on a trailer. It ran day and night almost

without end, two drivers alternating. It was a sort of super-car, still

in the service, to which Salvationists still refer with an affectionate

amazement when they consider its terrific accomplishments. It hauled

all of the lumber for the first huts and a not uncommon sight was to

see it tearing along the road at forty miles an hour, loaded inside and

on top with supplies, several passengers clinging to its fenders, and a

load of lumber or trunks trailing behind. For a long time Colonel

Barker had no home aside from this car. He slept wherever it happened

to be for the night—often in it, while still driven. One night he and a

Salvation Army officer were lost in a strange woods in the car until

four in the morning. They were without lights and there were no real

roads.

Later, of course, after long waiting, other trucks were bought and

to-day there are about fifty automobiles in this service. Chauffeurs

had to be developed out of men who had never driven before. They were

even taken from huts and detailed to this work.

In this first touring car Colonel Barker with one of the newly arrived

adjutants for driver, started to Demange.

Twenty kilometers outside of Paris the car had a breakdown. The two

clambered out and reconnoitered for help. There was nothing for it but

to take the car back to Paris. A man was found on the road who was

willing to take it in tow, but they had no rope for a tow line. Over in

the field by the roadside the sharp eyes of the adjutant discovered

some old rusty wire. He pulled it out from the tangle of long grass,

and behold it was a part of old barbed-wire entanglements!

In great surprise they followed it up behind the camouflage and found

themselves in the old trenches of 1914. They walked in the trenches and

entered some of the dugouts where the soldiers had lived in the

memorable days of the Marne fight. As they looked a little farther up

the hillside they were startled to see great pieces of heavy field

artillery, their long barrels sticking out from pits and pointing at

them. They went closer to examine, and found the guns were made of wood

painted black. The barrels were perfectly made, even to the breech

blocks mounted on wheels, the tires of which were made of tin. They

were a perfect imitation of a heavy ordnance piece in every detail.

Curious, wondering what it could mean, the two explorers looked about

them and saw an old Frenchman coming toward them. He proved to be the

keeper of the place, and he told them the story. These were the guns

that saved Paris in 1914.

The Boche had been coming on twenty kilometers one day, nineteen the

next, fourteen the next, and were daily drawing nearer to the great

city. They were so confident that they had even announced the day they

would sweep through the gates of Paris. The French had no guns heavy

enough to stop that mad rush, and so they mounted these guns of wood,

cut away the woods all about them and for three hundred meters in

front, and waited with their pitifully thin, ill-equipped line to

defend the trenches.

Then the German airplanes came and took pictures of them, and returned

to their lines to make plans for the next day; but when the pictures

were developed and enlarged they saw to their horror that the French

had brought heavy guns to their front and were preparing to blow them

out of France. They decided to delay their advance and wait until they

could bring up artillery heavier than the French had, and while they

waited the Germans broke into the French wine cellars and stole the

“vin blanche” and “vin rouge.” The French call this “light” wine and

say it takes the place of water, which is only fit for washing; but it

proved to be too heavy for the Germans that day. They drank freely, not

even waiting to unseal the bottles of rare old vintage, but knocked the

necks off the bottles against the stone walls and drank. They were all

drunk and in no condition to conquer France when their artillery came

up, and so the wooden French guns and the French wine saved Paris.

When the two men finally arrived in Demange the Military General

greeted them gladly and invited them to dine with him.

He had for a cook a famous French chef who provided delicious meals,

but for dessert the chef had attempted to make an American apple pie,

which was a dismal failure. The colonel said to the general: “Just wait

till our Salvation Army women get here and I will see that they make

you a pie that is a pie.”

The General and the members of his staff said they would remember that

promise and hold him to it.

The pleasure which the thought of that pie aroused furnished a

suggestion for work later on.

Within two or three days the hut had arrived. The question of a lot

upon which to place it was most important. The billeting officers

stated that none could be had within the town and insisted that the hut

would have to be placed in an inaccessible spot on the outskirts of the

town, but Colonel Barker asked the General if he would mind his looking

about himself and he readily assented. The indomitable Barker, true to

the “never-say-die” slogan of the Salvation Army, went out and found a

splendid lot on the main street in the heart of the town, which was

being partly used by its owner as a vegetable garden. He quickly

secured the services of a French interpreter and struck a bargain with

the owner to rent the lot for the sum of sixteen dollars a year, and on

his return with the information that this lot had been secured the

General was greatly impressed.

A wire had been sent to Paris instructing the men of the party to come

down immediately. A couple of tents were secured to provide temporary

sleeping accommodation and the men lined up in the chow line with the

doughboys at meal-time.

The six Salvationists pulled off their coats at once and went to work,

much to the amusement of a few curious soldiers who stood idly watching

them.

They discovered right at the start that the building materials which

had been sent ahead of them had been dumped on the wrong lot, and the

first thing they had to do was to move them all to the proper site.

This was no easy task for men who had but recently left office chairs

and clerical work. Unaccustomed muscles cried out in protest and weary

backs ached and complained, but the men stubbornly marched back and

forth carrying big timbers, and attracting not a little attention from

soldiers who wondered what in the world the Salvation Army could be up

to over in France. Some of them were suspicious. Had they come to try

and stuff religion down their throats? If so, they would soon find out

their mistake. So, half in belligerence, half in amusement, the

soldiers watched their progress. It was a big joke to them, who had

come here for _serious_ business and longed to be at it.

Steadily, quietly, the work went on. They laid the timbers and erected

the framework of their hut, keeping at it when the rain fell and soaked

them to the skin. They were a bit awkward at it at first, perhaps, for

it was new work to them, and they had but few tools. The hut was

twenty-five feet wide and a hundred feet long. The walls went up

presently, and the roof went on. One or two soldiers were getting

interested and offered to help a bit; but for the most part they stood

apart suspiciously, while the Salvation Army worked cheerily on and

finished the building with their own hands.

Colonel Barker meanwhile had gone back to Paris for supplies and to

bring the women overland in the automobile, because he was somewhat

fearful lest they might be held up if they attempted to go out by

train. The idea of women in the camps was so new to our American

soldiers, and so distasteful to the French, that they presented quite a

problem until their work fully justified their presence.

It got about that some real American girls were coming. The boys began

to grow curious. When the big French limousine carrying them arrived in

the camp it was greeted by some of the soldiers with the greatest

enthusiasm while others looked on in critical silence. But very soon

their influence was felt, for a commanding officer stated that his men

were more contented and more easily handled since the unprecedented

innovation of women in the camp than they had been within the

experience of the old Regular Army officers. Profanity practically

ceased in the vicinity of the hut and was never indulged in in the

presence of the Salvationists.

While the hut was being erected meetings were conducted in the open air

which were attended by great throngs, and after every meeting from one

to four or five boys asked for the privilege of going into the tent at

the back and being prayed with, and many conversions resulted from

these first open-air meetings. Boys walked in from other camps from a

distance as far away as five miles to attend these meetings and many

were converted. The hut was finally completed and equipped and was to

be formally opened on Sunday evening.

In the meantime the Y.M.C.A. was getting busy also establishing its

work in the camps; therefore, the Salvation Army tried to place their

huts in towns where the Y. was not operating, so that they might be

able to reach those who had the greatest need of them.

Officers had been appointed to take charge of the Demange hut and

immediately further operations in other towns were being arranged.

A Y.M.C.A. hut, however, followed quickly on the heels of the Salvation

Army at Demange and the night of the opening of the Salvation Army hut

someone came to ask if they would come over to the Y. and help in a

meeting. Sure, they would help! So the Staff-Captain took a cornetist

and two of the lassies and went over to the Y.M.C.A. hut.

It was early dusk and a crowd was gathered about where a rope ring

fenced off the place in which a boxing match had been held the day

before, across the road from the hut. The band had been stationed there

giving a concert which was just finished, and the men were sitting in a

circle on the ground about the ring.

The Salvationists stood at the door of the hut and looked across to the

crowd.

“How about holding our meeting over there?” asked the Staff-Captain of

the man in charge.

“All right. Hold it wherever you like.”

So a few willing hands brought out the piano, and the four

Salvationists made their way across to the ring. The soldiers raised a

loud cheer and hurrah to see the women stoop and slip under the rope,

and a spirit of sympathy seemed to be established at once.

There were a thousand men gathered about and the cornet began where the

band had left off, thrilling out between the roar of guns.

Up above were the airplanes throbbing back and forth, and signal lights

were flashing. It was a strange place for a meeting. The men gathered

closer to see what was going on.

The sound of an old familiar hymn floated out on the evening, bringing

a sudden memory of home and days when one was a little boy and went to

Sunday school; when there was no war, and no one dreamed that the sons

would have to go forth from their own land to fight. A sudden hush

stole over the men and they sat enthralled watching the little band of

singers in the changing flicker of light and darkness. Women’s voices!

Young and fresh, too, not old ones. How they thrilled with the

sweetness of it:

“Nearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer to Thee,

E’en though it be a cross

That raiseth me.”

A cross! Was it possible that God was leading them to Him through all

this awfulness? But the thought only hovered above them and hushed

their hearts into attention as they gruffly joined their young voices

in the melody. Another song followed, and a prayer that seemed to bring

the great God right down in their midst and make Him a beloved comrade.

They had not got over the wonder of it when a new note sounded on piano

and cornet and every voice broke forth in the words:

“When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound

And time shall be no more—”

How soon would that trumpet sound for many of them! Time should be no

more! What a startling thought!

Following close upon the song came the sweet voice of a young girl

speaking. They looked up in wonder, listening with all their souls. It

was like having an angel drop down among them to see her there, and

hear her clear, unafraid voice. The first thing that struck them was

her intense earnestness, as if she had a message of great moment to

bring to them.

Her words searched their hearts and found out the weak places; those

fears and misgivings that they had known were there from the beginning,

and had been trying hard to hide from themselves because they saw no

cure for them. With one clear-cut sentence she tore away all camouflage

and set them face to face with the facts. They were in a desperate

strait and they knew it. Back there in the States they had known it.

Down in the camps they had felt it, and had made various attempts to

find something strong and true to help them, but no one had seemed to

understand. Even when they went to church there had been so much talk

about the “supreme sacrifice” and the glory of dying for one’s country,

that they had a vague feeling that even the minister did not believe in

his religion any more. And so they had whistled and tried to be jolly

and forget. They were all in the same boat, and this was a job that had

to be done, they couldn’t get out of it; best not think about the

future! So they had lulled their consciences to sleep. But it was

there, back in their minds all the time, a looming big awful question

about the hereafter; and when the great guns boomed afar as a few were

doing tonight and they thought how soon they might be called to go over

the top, they would have been fools not to have recognized it.

But here at last was someone else who understood!

She was telling the old, old story of Jesus and His love, and every man

of them as he listened felt it was true. It had been like a vague tale

of childhood before; something that one outgrows and smiles at; but now

it suddenly seemed so simple, so perfect, so fitted to their desperate

need. Just the old story that everybody has sinned, and broken God’s

law: that God in His love provided a way of escape in the death of His

Son Jesus on the Cross, from penalty for sin for all who would accept

it; that He gave every one of us free wills; and it was up to us

whether we would accept it or not.

There were men in that company who had come from college classes where

they had been taught the foolishness of blood atonement, and who had

often smiled disdainfully at the Bible; there were boys from cultured,

refined homes where Jesus Christ had always been ignored; there were

boys who had repudiated the God their mothers trusted in; and there

were boys of lower degree whose lips were foul with blasphemy and whose

hearts were scarred with sin; but all listened, now, in a new way. It

was somehow different over here, with the thunder of artillery in the

near distance, the hovering presence of death not far away, the

flashing of signal lights, the hum of the airplanes, the whole

background of war. The message of the gospel took on a reality it had

never worn before. When this simple girl asked if they would not take

Jesus tonight as their Saviour, there were many who raised their hands

in the darkness and many more hearts were bowed whose owners could not

quite bring themselves to raise their hands.

Then a lassie’s voice began to sing, all alone:

“I grieved my Lord from day to day,

I scorned His love, so full and free,

And though I wandered far away,

My Mother’s prayers have followed me.

I’m coming home, I’m coming home,

To live my wasted life anew,

For Mother’s prayers have followed me,

Have followed me, the whole world through.

“O’er desert wild, o’er mountain high,

A wanderer I chose to be—-

A wretched soul condemned to die;

Still Mother’s prayers have followed me.

“He turned my darkness into light,

This blessed Christ of Calvary;

I’ll praise His name both day and night,

That Mother’s prayers have followed me!

I’m coming home, I’m coming home—-”

Only the last great day will reveal how many hearts echoed those words;

but the voices were all husky with emotion as they tried to join in the

closing hymn that followed.

There were those who lingered about the speakers and wanted to inquire

the way of salvation, and some knelt in a quiet corner and gave

themselves to Christ. Over all of them there was a hushed

thoughtfulness. When the workers started back to their own hut the

crowd went with them, talking eagerly as they went, hovering about

wistfully as if here were the first real thing they had found since

coming away from home.

Over at the Salvation Army hut another service had been going forward

with equal interest, the dedication of the new building. The place was

crowded to its utmost capacity, and crowds were standing outside and

peering in at the windows. Some of the French people of the

neighborhood, women and children and old men, had drifted over, and

were listening to the singing in open-eyed wonderment. Among them one

of the Salvation Army workers had distributed copies of the French “War

Cry” with stories of Christ in their own language, and it began to dawn

upon them that these people believed in the same Jesus that was

worshipped in their French churches; yet they never had seen services

like these. The joyous music thrilled them.

Before they slept that night the majority of the soldiers in that

vicinity had lost most of their prejudice against the little band of

unselfish workers that had dropped so quietly down into their midst.

Word was beginning to filter out from camp to camp that they were a

good sort, that they sold their goods at cost and a fellow could even

“jawbone” when he was “broke.”

Salvation Army huts gave the soldiers “jawbone,” this being the

soldier’s name for credit. No accounts were kept of the amount allowed

to each soldier. When a soldier came to the canteen and asked for

“jawbone,” he was asked how much he had already been allowed. If the

amount owed by him already was large, he was cautioned not to go too

deeply into his next pay check; but never was a man refused anything

within reason. Frequently one hut would have many thousands of francs

outstanding by the end of a month. But, although there was no check

against them, soldiers always squared their accounts at pay-day and

very little indeed was lost.

One man came in and threw 300 francs on the counter, saying: “I owe you

285 francs. Put the change in the coffee fund.”

One Salvation Army Ensign frequently loaned sums of money out of his

own pocket to soldiers, asking that, when they were in a position to

return it, they hand it in to any Salvation Army hut, saying that it

was for him. He says that he has never lost by doing this.

One day as he was driving from Havre to Paris he met six American

soldiers whose big truck had broken down. They asked him where there

was a Salvation Army hut; but there was none in that particular

section. They had no food, no money, and no place to sleep. He handed

them seventy francs and told them to leave it at any Salvation Army hut

for him when they were able. Five months passed and then the money was

turned in to a Salvation Army hut and forwarded to him. With it was a

note stating that the men had been with the French troops and had not

been able to reach a Salvation Army establishment. They were very

grateful for the trust reposed in them by the Salvationist. Undoubtedly

there are many such instances.

The Salvation Army officer who with his wife was put in charge of the

hut at Demange, soon became one of the most popular men in camp. His

generous spirit, no less than his rough-and-ready good nature, manful,

soldier-like disposition, coupled with a sturdy self-respect and a

ready humor, made him blood brother to those hard-bitten old regulars

and National Guardsmen of the first American Expeditionary Force.

The Salvation Army quickly became popular. Meetings were held almost

every night at that time with an average attendance of not less than

five hundred. Meetings as a rule were confined to wonderful song

services and brief, snappy talks. At first there were very few

conversions, but there have been more since the great drives in which

the Americans have taken so large a share. The Masons, the Moose and a

Jewish fraternity used the hut for fraternal gatherings. Catholic

priests held mass in it upon various occasions. The school for officers

and the school for “non-coms” met in it. The band practiced in it every

morning. Because of its popularity among the men it was known among the

officers as “the soldiers’ hut.” General Duncan once addressed his

staff officers in it upon some important matters.

It rained every day for three months. The hut was on rather low ground

and in back of it ran the river, considerably swollen by the rains. One

night the river rose suddenly, carried away one tent and flooded the

other two and the hut. The Salvation Army men spent a wild, wet,

sleepless night trying to salvage their scanty personal belongings and

their stock of supplies. When the river retreated it left the hut floor

covered with slimy black mud which the two men had to shovel out. This

was a back-breaking task occupying the better part of two days.

The first snow fell on the bitterest night of the year. It was preceded

by the rain and was damp and heavy. The soldiers suffered terribly,

especially the men on guard duty who had perforce to endure the full

blast of the storm. During the earlier hours of the night the girls

served all comers with steaming coffee and filled the canteens of the

men on guard (free). When they saw how severe the night would be they

remained up to keep a supply of coffee ready for the Salvation Army men

who went the rounds through the storm every half hour, serving the

sentries with the warming fluid.

That first Expeditionary Force wanted for many things, and endured

hardships unthought of by troops arriving later, after the war

industries at home had swung into full production. It was almost

impossible to secure stoves, and firewood was scarce. For every load

that went to the Salvation Army Hut, men of the American Expeditionary

Force had to do without, and yet wood was always supplied to the

Salvationists (it could not be bought).

At St. Joire, the wood pile had entirely given out and it looked as if

there was to be no heat at the Salvation Army hut that night. The

sergeant promised them half a load, but the wood wagon lost a wheel

about a hundred yards out of town.

“Never mind,” said the sergeant to the girls, “the boys will see that

you get some to-night.”

So he requested every man going up to the Salvation Army hut that

evening to carry a stick of wood with him (“a stick” may weigh anywhere

from 10 to 100 pounds). By eight o’clock there was over a wagon load

and a half stacked in back of the hut.

Two small stoves cast circles of heat in the big hut at Demange. Around

them the men crowded with their wet garments steaming so profusely that

the hut often took on the appearance of a steam-room in a Turkish bath.

The rest of the hut was cold; but compared to the weather outside, it

was heaven-like. For all of its size, the hut was frail, and the winter

wind blew coldly through its many cracks; but compared with the

soldier’s billets, it was a cozy palace. The Salvationists spent hours

each week sitting on the roof in the driving rain patching leaks with

tar-paper and tacks.

The life was a hard one for the girls. They nearly froze during the

days, and at nights they usually shivered themselves to sleep, only

sleeping when sheer exhaustion overcame them. There were no baths at

all. The experience was most trying for women and only the spirit of

the great enterprise in which they were engaged carried them through

the winter. Even soldiers were at times seen weeping with cold and

misery.

One night the gasoline tank which supplied light to the hut exploded

and set the place on fire. A whole regiment turned out of their

blankets to put out the blaze. This meant more hours for those in

charge repairing the roof in the snow. They also had to cut all of the

wood for the hut. Later details were supplied to every hut by the

military authorities to cut wood, sweep and clean up, carry water,

_etc_. Soldiers used the hut for a mess hall. There was no other place

where they could eat with any degree of comfort.

By this time the fact that the Salvation Army was established at

Demange was becoming known throughout the division.

One of the towns where there had been no arrangements made for welfare

workers at all was Montiers-sur-Saulx, where the First Ammunition Train

was established, and here the officer temporarily commanding the

ammunition train gave a most hearty welcome to the Salvation Army.

Two large circus tents had been sent on from New York and one of these

was to be erected until a wooden building could be secured.

The touring car went back to Demange, picked up a Staff-Captain, a

Captain, five white tents, the largest one thirty by sixty feet, the

others smaller, carried them across the country and dropped them down

at the roadside of the public square in Montiers.

There stood the Salvationists in the road wondering what to do next.

Then a hearty voice called out: “Are you locating with us?” and the

military officer of the day advanced to meet them with a hand-shake and

many expressions of his appreciation of the Salvation Army.

“We are going to stay here if you will have us,” said the

Staff-Captain.

“Have you! Well, I should say we would have you! Wait a minute and I’ll

have a detail put your baggage under cover for the night. Then we’ll

see about dinner and a billet.”

Thus auspiciously did the work open in Montiers.

In a few minutes they were taken to a French café and a comfortable

place found for them to spend the night.

Soon after the rising of the sun the next morning they were up and

about hunting a place for the tents which were to serve for a

recreation centre for the boys. The American Major in charge of the

town personally assisted them to find a good location, and offered his

aid in any way needed.

Before nightfall the five white tents were up, standing straight and

true with military precision, and the two officers with just pride in

their hard day’s work, and a secret assurance that it would stand the

hearty approval of the commanding officer whom they had not as yet met,

went off to their suppers, for which they had a more than usually

hearty appetite.

Suddenly the door of the dining-room swung open and a gruff voice

demanded: “Who put up those tents?” The Salvation Army Staff-Captain

stood forth saluting respectfully and responded: “I, sir.” “Well,” said

the Colonel, “they look mighty fine up on that hill—mighty fine!

Splendid location for them—splendid! But the enemy can spot them for a

hundred miles, so I expect you had better get them down or camouflage

them with green boughs and paint by tomorrow night at the latest. Good

evening to you, sir!”

The Staff-Captain and his helper suddenly lost their fine appetites and

felt very tired. Camouflage! How did they do that at a moment’s notice?

They left their unfinished dinner and hurried out in search of help.

The first soldier the Staff-Captain questioned reassured him.

“Aw, that’s dead easy! Go over the hill into the woods and cut some

branches, enough to cover your tents; or easier yet, get some green and

yellow paint and splash over them. The worse they look the better they

are!”

So the weary workers hunted the town over for paint, and found only

enough for the big tent, upon which they worked hard all the next

morning. Then they had to go to the woods for branches for the rest.

Scratched and bleeding and streaked with perspiration and dirt, they

finished their work at last, and the white tents had disappeared into

the green and the yellow and the brown of the hillside. Their beautiful

military whiteness was gone, but they were hidden safe from the enemy

and the work might now go forward.

Then the girls arrived and things began to look a bit more cheerful.

“But where is the cook stove?” asked one of the lassies after they had

set up their two folding cots in one of the smaller tents and made

themselves at home.

Dismay descended upon the face of the weary Staff-Captain.

“Why,” he answered apologetically, “we forgot all about that!” and he

hurried out to find a stove.

A thorough search of the surrounding country, however, disclosed the

fact that there was not a stove nor a field range to be had—no, not

even from the commissary. There was nothing for it but to set to work

and contrive a fireplace out of field stone and clay, with a bit of

sheet iron for a roof, and two or three lengths of old sewer pipe

carefully wired together for a stovepipe. It took days of hard work,

and it smoked woefully except when the wind was exactly west, but the

girls made fudge enough on it for the entire personnel of the

Ammunition train to celebrate when it was finished.

When the girls first arrived in Montiers the Salvation Army

Staff-Captain was rather at a loss to know what to do with them until

the hut was built. They were invited to chow with the soldiers, and to

eat in an old French barn used as a kitchen, in front of which the men

lined up at the open doorways for mess. It was a very dirty barn

indeed, with heavy cobwebs hanging in weird festoons from the ceiling

and straw and manure all over the floor; quite too barnlike for a

dining-hall for delicately reared women. The Staff-Captain hesitated

about bringing them there, but the Mess-Sergeant offered to clean up a

corner for them and give them a comfortable table.

“I don’t know about bringing my girls in here with the men,” said the

Staff-Captain still hesitating. “You know the men are pretty rough in

their talk, and they’re always cussing!”

“Leave that to me!” said the Mess-Sergeant. “It’ll be all right!”

There was an old dirty French wagon in the barnyard where they kept the

bread. It was not an inviting prospect and the Staff-Captain looked

about him dubiously and went away with many misgivings, but there

seemed to be nothing else to be done.

The boys did their best to fix things up nicely. When meal time arrived

and the girls appeared they found their table neatly spread with a dish

towel for a tablecloth. It purported to be clean, but there are degrees

of cleanliness in the army and there might have been a difference of

opinion. However, the girls realized that there had been a strenuous

attempt to do honor to them and they sat down on the coffee kegs that

had been provided _en lieu_ of chairs with smiling appreciation.

The Staff-Captain’s anxiety began to relax as he noticed the quiet

respectful attitude of the men when they passed by the doorway and

looked eagerly over at the corner where the girls were sitting. It was

great to have American women sitting down to dinner with them, as it

were. Not a “cuss word” broke the harmony of the occasion. The best

cuts of meat, the largest pieces of pie, were given to the girls, and

everybody united to make them feel how welcome they were.

Then into the midst of the pleasant scene there entered one who had

been away for a few hours and had not yet been made acquainted with the

new order of things at chow; and he entered with an oath upon his lips.

He was a great big fellow, but the strong arm of the Mess-Sergeant

flashed out from the shoulder instantly, the sturdy fist of the

Mess-Sergeant was planted most unexpectedly in the newcomer’s face, and

he found himself sprawling on the other side of the road with all his

comrades glaring at him in silent wrath. That was the beginning of a

new order of things at the mess.

The Colonel in charge of the regiment had gone away, and the commanding

Major, wishing to make things pleasant for the Salvationists, sent for

the Staff-Captain and invited them all to his mess at the chateau;

telling him that if he needed anything at any time, horses or supplies,

or anything in his power to give, to let him know at once and it should

be supplied.

The Staff-Captain thanked him, but told him that he thought they would

stay with the boys.

The boys, of course, heard of this and the Salvation Army people had

another bond between them and the soldiers. The boys felt that the

Salvationists were their very own. Nothing could have more endeared

them to the boys than to share their life and hardships.

The Salvation Army had not been with the soldiers many hours before

they discovered that the disease of homesickness which they had been

sent to succor was growing more and more malignant and spreading fast.

The training under French officers was very severe. Trench feet with

all its attendant suffering was added to the other discomforts. Was it

any wonder that homesickness seized hold of every soldier there?

It had been raining steadily for thirty-six days, making swamps and

pools everywhere. Depression like a great heavy blanket hung over the

whole area.

The Salvation Army lassies at Montiers were in consultation. Their

supplies were all gone, and the state of the roads on account of the

rain was such that all transportation was held up. They had been

waiting, hoping against hope, that a new load of supplies would arrive,

but there seemed no immediate promise of that.

“We ought to have something more than just chocolate to sell to the

soldiers, anyway,” declared one lassie, who was a wonderful cook,

looking across the big tent to the drooping shoulders and discouraged

faces of the boys who were hovering about the Victrola, trying to

extract a little comfort from the records. “We ought to be able to give

them some real home cooking!”

They all agreed to this, but the difficulties in the way were great.

Flour was obtainable only in small quantities. Now and then they could

get a sack of flour or a bag of sugar, but not often. Lard also was a

scarce article. Besides, there were no stoves, and no equipment had as

yet been issued for ovens. All about them were apple orchards and they

might have baked some pies if there had been ovens, but at present that

was out of the question. After a long discussion one of the girls

suggested doughnuts, and even that had its difficulties, although it

really was the only thing possible at the time. For one thing they had

no rolling-pin and no cake-cutter in the outfit. Nevertheless, they

bravely went to work. The little tent intended for such things had

blown down, so the lassie had to stand out in the rain to prepare the

dough.

The first doughnuts were patted out, until someone found an empty

grape-juice bottle and used that for a rolling-pin. As they had no

cutter they used a knife, and twisted them, making them in shape like a

cruller. They were cooked over a wood fire that had to be continually

stuffed with fuel to keep the fat hot enough to fry. The pan they used

was only large enough to cook seven at once, but that first day they

made one hundred and fifty big fat sugary doughnuts, and when the

luscious fragrance began to float out on the air and word went forth

that they had real “honest-to-goodness” home doughnuts at the Salvation

Army hut, the line formed away out into the road and stood patiently

for hours in the rain waiting for a taste of the dainties. As there

were eight hundred men in the outfit and only a hundred and fifty

doughnuts that first day, naturally a good many were disappointed, but

those who got them were appreciative. One boy as he took the first

sugary bite exclaimed: “Gee! If this is war, let it continue!”

The next day the girls managed to make three hundred, but one of them

was not satisfied with a doughnut that had no hole in it, and while she

worked she thought, until a bright idea came to her. The top of the

baking-powder can! Of course! Why hadn’t they thought of that before?

But how could they get the hole? There seemed nothing just right to cut

it. Then, the very next morning the inside tube to the coffee

percolator that somebody had brought along came loose, and the lassie

stood in triumph with it in her hand, calling to them all to see what a

wonderful hole it would make in the doughnut. And so the doughnut came

into its own, hole and all.

That was at Montiers, the home of the doughnut.

One of the older Salvation Army workers remarked jocularly that the

Salvation Army had to go to France and get linked up with the doughnut

before America recognized it; but it was the same old Salvation Army

and the same old doughnut that it had always been. He averred that it

wasn’t the doughnut at all that made the Salvation Army famous, but the

wonderful girls that the Salvation Army brought over there; the girls

that lay awake at night after a long hard day’s work scheming to make

the way of the doughboy easier; scheming how to take the cold out of

the snow and the wet out of the rain and the stickiness out of the mud.

The girls that prayed over the doughnuts, and then got the maximum of

grace out of the minimum of grease.

The young Adjutant lassie who fried the first doughnut in France says

that invariably the boys would begin to talk about home and mother

while they were eating the doughnuts. Through the hole in the doughnut

they seemed to see their mother’s face, and as the doughnut disappeared

it grew bigger and clearer.

The young Ensign lassie who had originated and _made_ the first

doughnut in France contrived to make many pies on a very tiny French

stove with an oven only large enough to hold two pies at a time.

Meanwhile, frying doughnuts on the top of the stove.

It wasn’t long before the record for the doughnut makers had been

brought up to five thousand a day, and some of the unresting workers

developed “doughnut wrist” from sticking to the job too long at a time.

It was the original thought that pie would be the greatest attraction,

but it was difficult to secure stoves with ovens adequate for baking

pies, and after the ensign’s experiment with doughnuts it was found

that they could more easily be made and were quite as acceptable to the

American boy.

Meantime, the pie was coming into its own, back in Demange also.

It was only a little stove, and only room to bake one pie at a time,

but it was a savory smell that floated out on the air, and it was a

long line of hungry soldiers that hurried for their mess kits and stood

hours waiting for more pies to bake; and the fame of the Salvation Army

began to spread far and wide. Then one day the “Stars and Stripes,” the

organ of the American Army, printed the following poem about the lassie

who labored so far forward that she had to wear a tin hat:

“Home is where the heart is”—

Thus the poet sang;

But “home is where the pie is”

For the doughboy gang!

Crullers in the craters,

Pastry in abris—

This Salvation Army lass

Sure knows how to please!

Tin hat for a halo!

Ah! She wears it well!

Making pies for homesick lads

Sure is “beating hell!”

In a region blasted

By fire and flame and sword,

This Salvation Army lass

Battles for the Lord!

Call me sacrilegious

And irreverent, too;

Pies? They link us up with home

As naught else can do!

“Home is, where the heart is”—

True, the poet sang;

But “home is where the pie is”—

To the Yankee gang!

It was no easy task to open up a chain of huts, for there was an

amazing variety of details to be attended to, any one of which might

delay the work. A hundred and one unexpected situations would develop

during the course of a single day which must be dealt with quickly and

intelligently. The fact that the Salvation Army section of the American

Expeditionary Force is militarized and strictly accountable for all of

its action to the United States military authorities is complicated in

many places by the further fact that the French civil and military

authorities must also be taken into consideration and consulted at

every step. Nevertheless, in spite of all difficulties the work went

steadily forward. The patient officers who were seeing to all these

details worked almost night and day to place the huts and workers where

they would do the most good to the greatest number; and steadily the

Salvation Army grew in favor with the soldiers.

It was extremely difficult to obtain materials for the erection of

huts— in many cases almost impossible. Once when Colonel Barker found

troops moving, he discovered the village for which they were bound,

rushed ahead in his automobile, and commandeered an old French barracks

which would otherwise have been occupied by the American soldiers. When

the soldiers arrived they were overjoyed to find the Salvation Army

awaiting them with hot food. They were soaked through by the rain, and

never was hot coffee more welcome. There was a little argument about

the commandeered barracks. It was to have been used as headquarters,

but when the commanding officer went out into the rain and saw for

himself what service it was performing for his men, and how overjoyed

they were by the entertainment he said: “We’ll leave it to the men,

whether they will be billeted here or let the Salvation Army have the

place.” The men with one accord voted to give it to the Salvation Army.

In one town, after an animated discussion with a crowd of enlisted men,

a sergeant came to the Salvation Army Major as he worked away with his

hammer putting up a hut and said: “Captain, would it make you mad if we

offered our services to help?”

[Illustration: “Tin hat for a halo! Ah! She wears it well!”]

[Illustration: The patient officers who were seeing to all these

details worked out almost day and night]

After that the work went on in record time. In less than a week the hut

was finished and ready for business. Two self-appointed details of

soldiers from the regulars employed all their spare time in a friendly

rivalry to see which could accomplish the most work. When it was

dedicated the popularity of the hut was well assured. Later, in another

location, a hut 125 feet by 27 feet was put up with the assistance of

soldiers in six hours and twenty minutes.

More men and women had arrived from America, and the work began to

assume business-like proportions. There were huts scattered all through

the American training area.

As other huts were established the making of pies and doughnuts became

a regular part of the daily routine of the hut. It was found that a

canteen where candy and articles needed by the soldiers could be

obtained at moderate prices would fill a very pressing need and this

was made a part of their regular operation.

The purchase of an adequate quantity of supplies was a great problem.

It was necessary to make frequent trips to Paris, to establish

connections with supply houses there, and to attend to the shipping of

the supplies out to the camps. At first it was impossible to purchase

any quantity of supplies from any house. The demand for everything was

so great that wholesale dealers were most independent. Three hundred

dollars’ worth of supplies was the most that could be purchased from

any one house, but in course of time, confidence and friendly relations

being established, it became possible to purchase as much as ten

thousand dollars’ worth at one time from one dealer.