Then there's the light in the Y. M. C. A. hut, and from General
Pershing down to the lowest private the army knows that this is the
warmest, friendliest, most home-like, most welcome light that shines
out through the darkness of war. It not only shines literally by
night, but it shines by day. I have seen some huts back of the front
lines lighted by the most brilliant electricity. Some of it is
obtained from local power-plants, and some of it is made by the Y. M.
C. A. Then I have seen some huts up near the lines that were lighted
by old-fashioned oil-lamps. Then I have been in Y. M. C. A. dugouts
and cellars and holes in the ground, up so close to the German lines
that they were shelled every day, and these have been lighted by tallow
candles stuck in a bottle or in their own melted grease. I have seen
huts back of the lines away from danger of air-raids that could have
their windows wide open, and I have seen the light pouring in a flood
out of these windows, a constant invitation to thousands of American
boys. And again I have seen our huts in places so near the lines that
the secretaries had not only to use candles but to screen their windows
with a double layer of black cloth, so that not a single ray of that
tiny candle might throw its beams to the watching German on the hill
beyond. I never knew before what Shakespeare meant when he said: "How
far a tiny candle throws its beams." But whether it has been in the
more protected huts back of the lines or in the dangerous huts close to
the lines, the lights in the huts are usually the only lights available
for the boys, and to these lights they flock every night. It is a
Rembrandt picture that they make in the dim light of the candles
sitting around the tables writing letters by candle-light. It is their
one warm, bright spot, for a great stove nearly always blazes away in
the Y. M. C. A. hut, and it is the only warmth the lad knows. Few of
the billets or tents in France boast of a stove.
Two things I shall never forget. One was the sight of a Y. M. C. A.
hut that I saw in a town far back of the trenches. It was in the town
where General Pershing's headquarters are located. On the very tip of
the hill above me was the hut. Its every window was a blaze of light.
It was the one dominating, scintillating building of the town, a big
double hut. When I climbed the hill to this hut I found it crowded to
its limits with men from everywhere. The rest of the town was dark and
there was little life, but here was the pulse of social life and
comradeship, and here was the one blaze and glory of light.
The other sight that I shall not forget was up within a few hundred
yards of the German lines. It was night. We were returning from our
furtherest hut "down the line." We met a crowd of American soldiers
tramping through the snow and mud and cold. They were shivering even
as they walked. We stopped the machine and gave them a lift. I asked
one of the lads where he was going. He said: "Down to the 'Y' hut in
----." I said: "Where is your camp?" He replied: "Up at ----." I
said: "Why, boy, that's four miles away from the hut." "We don't care.
We walk it every night. It's the only warm place in reach and the only
place where we can be where there are lights at night and where we can
get to see the fellows and write a letter. We stay there for an hour
or two and tramp back through this ---- (censored) mud to our billets."
And of all the lights o' war one must know that the lights of the Y. M.
C. A. huts cast their beams not only into the hearts of these lads but
across the world, and sometimes I think across the eternities, for in
these huts innumerable lads are seeing the light that never was on land
or sea, and are finding the light that lights the way to Home. And
these are the lights o' war.