'LES PARENTS BLESSÉES'
The Y.M.C.A.? Why, they could no more do without
the Y.M.C.A. than they could do without munitions
at the Front? I have seen it in operation.--THE
RIGHT HON. WILL CROOKS, M.P.
'A GREAT Mother Hen,' so wrote one who for the first time saw the work
of the Y.M.C.A. for the relatives of dangerously wounded men. This work
is carried on in London and a number of provincial centres, but it is
seen at its best in France, for there it is on a much larger scale. If a
man is dangerously wounded and lying in one of the hospitals on the
other side of the Channel, a message is sent to his people at home
containing the requisite permission to visit him, and telling them,
moreover, that from the moment they reach France the Y.M.C.A. will take
care of them. Red Triangle motors meet every boat as it reaches a French
port; automatically the relatives of wounded, or 'Les Parents Blessées'
as the French call them, are handed over to our care, and we motor them
to their destination--assisted sometimes by the Red Cross. As this may
mean a run of eighty or a hundred miles, and in war time may mean a
whole day, or possibly two days on the French railways, the motor run is
in itself a great boon. During the whole of the time they are in France,
the relatives are entertained as the guests of the Red Triangle in the
special hostels that have been established for the purpose in the
principal bases. Many of them have never been away from their own homes
before; they know no language but their own, and a journey of the kind
would have its terrors at any time, but to all the ordinary
difficulties has now to be added the fact that they are consumed with
anxiety on account of those who are dearer than life itself. It means
everything to them that the Y.M.C.A. as a 'Great Mother Hen' takes them
under its protection, soothes and protects them, so that in the darkest
moments of their lives they are not dealt with by any officials who have
to get through so many cases in a given time, but by sympathetic
friends, actuated only by the love of God, and of country. One of the
most beautiful of these hostels is 'Les Iris.' It is hidden away in the
depths of a wood near the sea, and in the springtime the nights are full
of the melody of the nightingales. This hostel is reserved largely for
the use of the relatives of dangerously wounded officers. The lady who
presides over another of the hostels has been called the Florence
Nightingale of the Red Triangle, and indeed that would be a suitable
name for any of these ladies who take the relatives to their hearts, and
do everything possible to comfort and cheer them and make them feel at
home. As we write, a letter from one of our guests lies before us. We
quote from it because it is typical of thousands of letters received
from grateful friends:--
'Many thanks for the photo of my son's grave
received this morning. How very kind you Y.M.C.A.
people are. I little thought last November when I
was begging (Hut Week in Brighton) that I should
reap personal benefit from the Y.M.C.A. The
kindness and hospitality extended to my husband
and I when we came to France nearly three months
ago, we shall never forget. It is not in our power
to help with money except in a small way, but we
tell all we can, and help in every way in our
power.'
During a recent visit to France we had the privilege of being shown over
one of the British hospitals, which, like all our hospitals, was
wonderfully efficient. Everything that could be done to alleviate
suffering was done. In one ward every man was seriously wounded, and
side by side were two beds, one occupied by a young Canadian and the
other by a young Britisher. The latter had his mother with him, who was
one of our guests. The Canadian watched them together for some time in
silence, but followed them with his eyes as a cat might a mouse.
Suddenly, without any warning, he flung himself over on to his side and
burst out crying. Questioned as to what was the matter, he replied,
'Nothing.' 'Then what makes you cry? Is the pain worse?' 'No, thanks,
the pain is better.' 'Then what makes you cry like that?' Drying his
eyes, the boy replied, 'It's all very well for him, he's got his mother
with him. My mother is more than six thousand miles away!' Is it not
worth any effort and any cost to help the loved ones of these men who
have made such great sacrifices for us? The whole of this work for 'Les
Parents Blessées' is full of pathos. On one occasion we reached a big
hospital centre just as another Association car arrived from a big base
port, bringing three English women to see their husbands. The Y.M.C.A.
leader took them to the wards they were seeking. At the first, the
sister in charge came to speak to one of our guests and said, 'I am very
sorry, but am afraid your husband won't know you. He has been terribly
ill, and all sorts of complications have set in, but you had better come
in and see him.' Twenty minutes later we saw her again, and she told us
that for ten minutes she sat by her husband's bedside, but he did not
know her. Then stooping over him, she whispered, 'You remember little
Lizzie and little Willie at home, don't you?' For one second he gave her
that look of love and recognition that made the long journey from home
worth while.
Passing on to another ward we sent in a message, and the sister came to
greet our guest, and said, 'I am glad to say your husband is much
better. I'll tell him you are here.' When she came back she said she had
asked the invalid, 'What would you like best in all the world?' Without
a moment's hesitation, he replied, 'To go back to Blighty, Sister.'
'Blighty'--how many of those who use it realise the meaning of the word?
It comes from the Indian 'Vilayhti' and means 'The home across the sea.'
'Blighty!' said the Sister; 'you know that's impossible. What would you
like next best?' 'To see my wife,' was the prompt reply. 'And what
would you say if I told you your wife was waiting outside to see you?'
queried the Sister, as she moved from his bedside and opened the door.
Yes, to these people many thousands of them, the Red Triangle has indeed
been as a Great Mother Hen at a time when they most needed its care. We
are all very much like big children, and to all of us there are times
when we need some one to take us by the hand and speak words of
consolation and good cheer.