STORIES OF THE INVERTED TRIANGLE
I am sending you a pound note, the first I ever
received, as I am a poor old woman not able to
work. To maintain my home I used to take in
washing, but now I cannot even do my own, but the
other Sunday, when I shook hands with one that I
used to wash for, he put that bit of paper in my
hand, but said nothing, so I received it as part
payment for work done over seven years ago, and
when I looked at it, I thanked God, and said I
would give it to some good cause, and I think I
cannot do better than help you to get shelter for
the soldiers. God bless 'em.
MORE than five hundred thousand men have signed the War Roll pledge of
allegiance to our Lord Jesus Christ, which has now been formally adopted
by the Churches, and which reads as follows:
'I hereby pledge my allegiance to the Lord Jesus
Christ, as my Saviour and King, and by God's help
will fight His battles for the Victory of His
Kingdom.'
Many have no doubt forgotten their promise, but for many it has meant
the beginning of a new life, and to thousands of parents the knowledge
that the boy, who was their all, signed this declaration before making
the supreme sacrifice, has brought untold comfort.
Wherever practicable a Quiet Room for prayer and Bible study is included
in our camp outfit, also a book-stall for Testaments, pledge cards, and
religious literature. Millions of Testaments and gospel portions have
been distributed free of charge, and realising the difficulty of
obtaining gospel booklets or tracts that appeal to men, a new one from
the pen of the General Secretary was issued each of the first thirty
weeks of the war. The approved plan has been to have family prayers, no
matter how brief, as far as practicable in every hut, every night, and
if this feature of the programme is not popular, the fault is usually to
be found in the one who leads.
A casual observer, after visiting a Y.M.C.A. hut, sometimes comes to the
conclusion that the Association is doing a great social work, but is not
much as a religious force. It is not difficult to understand that point
of view. He has seen two or three hundred men clamouring at the
refreshment counter for coffee, buns or cigarettes; the billiard tables
have been fully occupied; hundreds of soldiers were writing letters at
the tables provided for the purpose, and hundreds joining in some rowdy
chorus, or heartily laughing at a humorous song or funny sketch. Where
then does the spiritual work of the Red Triangle come in? The best
answer is to quote what has actually happened.
To the south-west of Salisbury Plain there was before the war a tiny
village. To-day it is the centre of a big camp, which, incidentally,
contains several Y.M.C.A. huts. The leader of No. 4 was talking to the
Church of England padre one morning. They were warm friends and the
chaplain was frank in his remarks: 'I think you are overdoing it,' said
he, 'by having prayers in the hut every night. Surely it would be
better,' he added, 'if you concentrated on one evening of the week
instead.' 'I have thought and prayed about it,' replied the leader, 'and
it is a matter of principle with me. These dear boys are all going to
the Front next week, and no matter what the programme of the day, I feel
we ought to finish at night with a public acknowledgment of God.' 'Very
good,' replied the padre, 'if that is your conviction, carry on! Take
prayers yourself this evening.' And he did. He was no orator; he was not
a college man, neither was he ordained. It was a simple little service,
and did not take more than ten or fifteen minutes from start to finish.
There was an opening hymn, one of the old familiar ones, that took the
lads away back to the homes of their childhood. A short passage of
scripture was read, followed by a few straight but sympathetic words of
exhortation and a brief closing prayer. That was all, and the same
thing, no doubt, took place in hundreds of centres the same night.
Prayers over and the 'King' sung, the leader came down from the
platform, where a young private greeted him and shook his hand till it
hurt saying, 'I want to thank you for giving me a new vision of a God I
once knew.' Walking towards the centre of the hall, a young subaltern
greeted him saying, 'I want to thank you for that little service; it has
been no end of a help to me, and I should like to give you this for your
work,' so saying he handed him an envelope, and looking inside he found
a letter from the lieutenant's mother, containing thirty shillings in
postal orders to be spent by him in camp. The service had helped him,
and that was his thankoffering. The hut cleared, the men retired for the
night to their sleeping quarters. A solitary soldier lingered by the
doorway as if he wanted some one to speak to him. 'Good-night, my lad,'
said the leader, 'can I do anything for you?' Instead of replying the
soldier burst out crying, and later said, 'If you will you can save me
from a great crime!' 'Save you from a crime--whatever do you mean?' And
then the trooper told his story. There was nothing uncommon about it. He
and his brother had made love to the same girl, their mother had
intervened, 'and,' he said, 'I have written to my mother this evening a
letter that no boy should write to his mother, and after attending your
service to-night, I feel I would give all I've got to take back that
letter!' The letter was found and destroyed, and the soldier rejoiced in
what he regarded as a great deliverance. This is no story of an orthodox
revival, but of the kind of thing that may be taking place hundreds of
times any week.
* * * * *
In the early days the famous ---- Division assembled in one of the great
camps near Winchester. Regiments and units were there from India, South
Africa--from all parts of the world. Rain came down in torrents and the
mud was appalling. The huge Red Triangle tents were crowded from morning
till night and the devoted workers, all too few in number, had neither
time nor strength for religious work in the ordinary acceptance of the
term. They could have limited their canteen work, and closed the
refreshment counter excepting for a few hours daily. That would have
been the easier plan, and would have given them the opportunity of
devoting themselves to concerts and meetings in the evenings. The
alternative would have been to spend and be spent in serving the
material needs of the men, trusting that God would use the atmosphere of
the place and the personal contact of the workers to influence the men,
and thus make up for their inability to do much in the meeting line.
They chose the latter plan, and the leader retiring for the night would
throw himself on his bed and sometimes fall asleep without undressing.
At times suffering from the reaction, he would ask himself the question,
'Is it worth while? Am I doing the right thing?' The answer came the
night before the men left for the Front. It had been a record day, every
moment had been crowded, and they had sold out. The majority had
retired for the night, a few remained to tidy up the tents. This task
accomplished, a group of soldiers gathered round the leader, and the
talk soon turned quite naturally to some of the deepest problems of
life. Presently a stalwart young Gordon Highlander told of his home in
far away Scotland, of his farewell to his dear old mother before he went
out to India, and of the promise he made her--the promise he had not
kept--to read his Bible every day, to lead a pure clean life, and to
keep clear of drink. The atmosphere of that crowded Y.M.C.A. tent had
brought it all back to him and, unknown to the staff, he had renewed his
vows to God and his mother. In making this confession he was overcome by
emotion, and throwing his arms round the leader's neck he sobbed out the
story of his repentance. There is no more moving sight than the anguish
of a strong man, probably no sight that gives more joy in Heaven than
the tears that tell of the return of the one that had been lost.
* * * * *
A young Canadian officer who had lost a leg and an arm wrote to me
before sailing to Montreal from Bristol in May 1918, and this is what he
said:--'I would like to tell you how much we have appreciated the
Y.M.C.A. I came over with the first batch of Canadians; we were drafted
to Larkhill, Salisbury Plain. After leaving my home--a godly home--I
fell into the hands of very ungodly people and sank very, very deep in.
I was lying on the roadside much the worse for drink. I was down and
couldn't get up; comrades and every one seemed to have left me. I saw
one of your cars rush by. When it had passed about a hundred yards, out
jumped a Y.M.C.A. man. He came back to me and said, "Come along my
friend, I will take you to your hut." I looked at him and said, "I've
sunk too low for a man like you to touch me." He helped me up, took me
to my hut, and said, "This is my work in the Y.M.C.A., to help the
helpless. Come in and have a cup of tea with me to-morrow." Shamefaced,
I went the next day. He was there to greet me; he talked and prayed with
me, but I saw no light until one night in the trenches, I thought I
heard this man praying, and I heard it again and again, and had no rest
till I laid my sins at the foot of the Cross. Although I am going home
with a leg and an arm off, I have a clean heart washed in the Blood of
the Lamb. I have visited many huts, but that was the only man who spoke
to me personally about my sinful condition. Your leaders can do much if
they will. God bless the work and the workers. I will enclose this
leader's card so that you can let him know his prayers followed me up to
the trenches. God bless him!'
Cecil Thompson, the leader referred to, never saw this letter. Long
before it was written he had 'gone west,' had passed to his reward, one
of the Red Triangle martyrs of Salisbury Plain. But he 'shall in no wise
lose his reward,' for it is work like this that pays, and the spirit of
Cecil Thompson lives on in the lives of those who have been won, not by
his eloquence, but by the personal contact of a man who had yielded
himself to become a channel for the Divine blessing.
* * * * *
The greatest romance of the Red Triangle is the romance of its religious
work. War always seems to have one of two effects upon the lives of
those who participate in it--either it hardens a man and makes him
callous, or else it purifies and ennobles him. The Chaplains, the
Churches, the Y.M.C.A., the Church Army, the C.E.T.S., the Salvation
Army, and countless other organisations and individuals are always at
work, trying to counteract the power of the downward pull. It was our
youngest General, the late Brig.-Gen. R. B. Bradford, V.C., M.C., who
addressed to his men in France, shortly before his death, the following
stirring words:--'I am going to ask you to put your implicit trust and
confidence in me, to look upon me not only as your Brigadier, but as
your friend. By the help of God I will try and lead you to the best of
my ability, and remember your interests are my interests. As you all
know, a few days from now we are going to attack; your powers of
endurance are going to be tested. They must not fail you. Above all,
pray; more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. It is
God alone who can give us the victory, and bring us through this battle
safely.'
* * * * *
It is said that General Smuts' attention was drawn to Herbert Schmalz's
picture, 'The Silent Witness,' in the Royal Academy. It showed the
interior of a French church, and many wearied and wounded French
soldiers huddled together on the floor. A soldier with a wounded arm was
awakened by the pain, and raising himself on his unwounded arm saw the
figure of the Christ, the silent witness of his suffering and agony.
Looking long and earnestly at the picture, it is said the famous Boer
General quietly remarked, 'Many a man has seen that vision in this war.'
[Illustration: THE RED TRIANGLE IN JERUSALEM]
[Illustration: THE HEXHAM ABBEY HUT, SCHEVENINGEN, HOLLAND]
* * * * *
When visiting Bailleul in 1917 the following story was told me by a
distinguished padre serving with the Y.M.C.A. It concerned a casualty
clearing station on the outskirts of the town. A gentleman ranker was
brought in terribly wounded. His shoulder had been shattered by shrapnel
and gas gangrene had set in A constant and welcome visitor was the
senior chaplain. One day he called, and said cheerily, 'Well, old
fellow, how goes it to-day?' 'Thanks, padre,' was the reply, 'the pain
is not quite so bad to-day, but, padre,' he added earnestly, stroking
his wounded arm, 'I wish you would persuade them to take this away.'
'Don't talk like that,' said the chaplain; 'you'll want to use that old
arm for many a year to come!' 'No, padre,' he replied with conviction,
'I shall never use it again; I'm going west!' A moment later he was
seized with a frightful paroxysm of pain, and with a torrent of oaths
shrieked out, 'Why the b---- h---- can't they take this arm away!' He
fell back exhausted, but an instant later sat bolt upright and with arms
held out looked intently towards the roof of the hut. His face became
radiant, and there was no trace of pain. In an ecstatic voice he cried
out, 'Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!' and fell back dead. Thank God that's
possible, and even in the hour of death, the blasphemer may receive
forgiveness and the knowledge of salvation, for
'The ways of men are narrow,
But the gates of Heaven are wide.'
[Illustration: SALONICA: WINTER ON THE DOIRAN FRONT, SHOWING Y.M.C.A.
TENT]
[Illustration: A WELCOME Y.M.C.A. IN THE TRENCHES]
* * * * *
A lady worker in the Isle of Wight felt unaccountably drawn to a young
soldier who had vowed he would never enter the Y.M.C.A. again, because
he objected to evening prayers. Little by little she won his confidence,
until the night before he left for France with a draft, he came in to
say good-bye, and told her she was the first person to speak to him
about sacred things, adding--'I may do some day, but at present I cannot
see things as you do.' He went to France, followed by her prayers, and
in due course took part in the famous attack on Cambrai. Nothing was
heard of him for weeks, and his friends were forced to the conclusion
that he was numbered amongst the dead. Time passed by, until one morning
the lady of the Red Triangle received a letter from him, written from a
German prisoner of war camp. It was a commonplace letter and told of the
great fight, of his capture and internment, and so forth, but the
concluding words were the ones she wanted--'You will be glad to know I
can see things as you do now.'
* * * * *
We were speaking at the opening of a hut near Portsmouth. At the close
of the ceremony a dear little old widow lady, sitting in the front row,
told us of her own boy. He was a young officer serving in France, and
was called out late one night to help repel a sudden attack by the
enemy. Shot down by machine-gun fire, a brother officer stooped to help
him, but he cried, 'Lead on, lead forward, I go to my God!'
* * * * *
A day later another Y.M.C.A. lady in one of the hospital huts told us
the story of her nephew. He, too, was a young officer, and was called
out to assist in repelling a sudden attack by the Huns. Our men had
scarcely reached No Man's Land when the enemy turned on their dreadful
gas. One of the first to be overcome by its fumes was the sergeant of
his platoon. Regardless of the risk he ran, that young officer stuck to
his disabled sergeant until help arrived. Not realising that he had
himself become affected by the noxious fumes, he tried to stagger to his
feet, but fell backwards into a shell-hole, and in falling broke his
neck. The sad news was conveyed to his people in the North of England,
and the night they received it his father and mother sat alone in the
quiet of their home. Presently the mother spoke--'I feel,' said she,
'that the only thing that would console me in my loss would be to know
that the man for whom my boy died was a good man.' It was only a week
later that the sergeant for whom the young officer died, came to that
home, and when he came he was hopelessly intoxicated. The parents
quickly ascertained that it was not the case of a man having been
overcome by sudden temptation; they could have forgiven that, but he was
an utter waster, about as bad as a man could be. When he had left the
house those two sat once again in the silence of their home, and it was
the mother who spoke, slowly and quietly, 'It almost breaks my heart to
know my boy gave his precious life for a worthless life like that.' And
yet, what of the young officer himself? Did he know the type of man it
was for whom he was about to make the supreme sacrifice? Of course, he
knew; he was in his own platoon, and yet, knowing, he willingly gave his
life in an attempt to save him. One cannot recall this story without
thinking of those wonderful words: 'For scarcely for a righteous man
will one die: yet per-adventure for a good man some would even dare to
die, but God commendeth His Love towards us, in that, while we were yet
sinners, Christ died for us.'
* * * * *
In a far away corner of the Harfleur Valley the Y.M.C.A. has one of its
finest equipments. The leader was a great man in every sense of the
word, and every night he organised a sing-song for the troops, which
invariably went with a swing. He seemed to know by instinct when to
strike right in, and what to say. A night came, however, when he seemed
to have struck a bad patch, for no one would play, sing, or recite. The
story is told here almost word for word, as it was first told me by a
leading worker home from France, who drew a graphic word picture of the
hut leader pleading from the platform for help which never came. The
huge hut was crammed with men, and looking at the crowd standing at the
back he noticed a movement amongst them. A trooper detaching himself
from the crowd slowly elbowed his way to the front. It was easy to tell
by his unsteady steps that he was under the influence of drink. Mounting
the platform, he turned first to the audience and then to the Y.M.C.A.
leader, and cried in a voice that every one could hear: 'What's the
matter, Boss? Won't any one oblige you? Never mind, padre, if nobody
will help you, I will! What would you like me to do? I can play, or I
can sing, or I can recite--or I can pray!' For a moment the secretary
did not know what to reply. He was a man of experience, but had never
been placed in a predicament like that before. To his horror he saw the
poor drunken trooper stumble to the edge of the platform and with hands
outstretched called for prayer, and there followed one of the strangest
prayers ever heard in public as the drunkard cried out, 'Everlasting
God! Everlasting God! Everlasting God----!' He could get no further, but
broke down and sobbed like a child, and in his agony cried out, 'I had a
good mother once; I've been a damned fool. May God forgive me!' Could
God possibly hear and answer a prayer like that? Of course He could, and
He did! Possibly He would rather have even a prayer like that, than the
meaningless prayers with which we sometimes mock Him, and if any man
ever gave evidence of his conversion to God it was that trooper. He
stayed only four days longer in that reinforcement camp in the
Harfleur Valley, but if he could help it, never for a moment would he
let our leader out of his sight, and in a hundred ways he helped him
with his work. He would go methodically and frequently round the hut,
gather up the dirty mugs, bring them back to the counter and help to
wash them. He would go down on his hands and knees under the tables,
pick up scraps of paper and cigarette ends and help clean up the floor.
Four days later he was sent with a detachment up the line; three days
later still, with his company, he was ordered 'over the top,' and
literally he went into the 'Valley of the Shadow of Death,' but he did
not go alone, for 'there went with him One the form of Whom was like
unto the form of the Son of God!'
[Illustration: Y.M.C.A. FOR INTERNED PRISONERS OF WAR, LEYSIN,
SWITZERLAND]
The Y.M.C.A. is a Christian Association, the Red Triangle a Christian
emblem, and for that very reason the freedom of the Association is
given to every enlisted man. Protestant and Catholic, Anglican,
Free-Churchman, Jew, Hindoo, Mohammedan--men of any religion, every
religion, and no religion at all, are equally welcomed beneath its roof,
and no man will ever hear unkind or disrespectful things said from a
Y.M.C.A. platform concerning the faith he holds dear. At the same time
we can never forget that the greatest need of every man, amongst the
millions we serve in our huts, is that he should have a Friend who will
never fail him nor forsake him, who will stand shoulder to shoulder with
him in his fierce fight with temptation in camp or city, will be with
him in the trenches, in the firing line, as he goes over the parapet, or
even into the dread 'Valley of the Shadow,' and there is only One Who
can thus meet every need of every man, and that One is the strong Son of
God, the Lord Jesus Christ, the best Friend, the truest Comrade we can
have.
We often fall far short of our aim, alas! but the primary aim of the
Y.M.C.A. always has been, and is, to lead men to a saving knowledge of
that Friend.