CHAPTER IX
'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.