Over the canteen in France, the woman became a trusted guardian of that home back in America. To her were revealed its joys and sorrows. Because of that same loneliness—that loss of background—the soldier poured out to the canteen worker his deepest and dearest memories and dreams. She must be ever ready to laugh with him, but she must also be ready to go down into heart-breaking valley with her soldier boy when he would get a bad bit of news—a mother, father, sister or even a wife or child might have been taken away; or, worse still, once in a great while the tragedy of faithlessness was made known to him. But by far, the letters from home were cheerful to have come straight from hearts of women tense with longing and anxiety. Oh, the pride of a new father! How well we remember a young “top” sergeant whom we had thought of as a mere boy. He walked up to the canteen one evening with the request that we send a cable home for him. He wrote the following: “Congratulations on birth of Spencer Roberts, Junior, and love to mother.” Saying to us, “No matter about the cost, I want to send it all.” How full of love were his eyes as he showed us the girl-face of that wife, and we could only say “How perfectly wonderful for the boy when he grows up! He will know that his father was in France at the time of his birth—a soldier in the world’s greatest war.”
When we established the first wet canteen in the St. Nazaire area for our own men, we were thinking of the real comfort of it to the men. We deliberately planned to make our chocolate so good that they would really come for it and our lemonade real lemonade, and crullers that would “taste just like home.” But we could not even dream of all that it would mean in cheer, comradeship and good will. It was pathetic to see long lines of men patiently waiting for a cup of chocolate and a cookie—to find many coming from distant camps not alone for the refreshments, but for the good cheer they found with us. It was a picture that would have touched the hearts of the homefolk—these men sitting around on the window-seats or at the tables, hundreds of them—quietly talking and sipping their drink. And the Y woman would leave her post behind the canteen for a little and wander from table to table for a word, or she would drink a cup of chocolate with a little group while they talked of farming, opening a store or returning to college after the war. It was so little and yet it was so much in that everyday life of war—war so terrible—so long.
Over the canteen in France meant not simply the eat and drink of it when rightly interpreted. It meant that we must not rely alone on the “Movies” and entertainments sent from Headquarters to the soldiers—but we must supply games, entertainments of our own and even parties. One party—our first—was only time in France we believe, in which we showed the “yellow streak.” It was to be a beautiful party in spite of the fact that but two women would be present. Two days had been spent in decorating the hut and stringing extra lights. Our hut secretary suggested that we put aside our uniform for an evening gown and lead the grand march, to which we most enthusiastically assented. But we were hardly prepared for the sight that met our eyes as we entered the outer hut. There were men crowded in every space even to the rafters—more men than we had ever seen in any one room. It was no use. We just could not get the courage needed to lead a march, and so we quietly sat down and looked on that night. How we used to wish for our home girls in those days! Oh, if we could have had some of the fine ones we knew at home to help in those little social affairs! As we think of this first party, we recall the last more than a year later in the embarkation camp at Brest. Not seven thousand men this time, but probably three hundred, and nine women to dance with them. We held the watch and there would be a pause in the music at intervals of three minutes. That meant “change partners.” The best part of that evening was the fun of securing a partner without a real rush upon her. Then, too, hearts were lighter by far than at that first party, for the war had ended, and the soldiers were simply waiting for the transports that would take them home.
With the co-operation of our splendid hut secretary, Mr. J. C. Wright, we had fitted out the first reading and reception room for the soldiers in our area. Other rooms had been open to them, but this was open for them and others. It was there that our men loved best to go in the twilight and evening hour. How quickly they learned to feel that it was worth while to look spick and span for such a cozy spot. It was because of this lovely room with its magazines, books, comfortable seats, beautiful plants, flowers, and cheerful fire that many men could endure the months in which “passes” to leave camp could not be secured. “We should worry when we have a place like this,” was a remark often heard in those days as they quietly discussed this special grievance. But this room became best known for its Chat Hour that came to fill it to overflow on Sundays at the twilight hour. Somehow it came to us that this was a lonely time for men. Sunday, just after supper—away from home and no special place to go. So we discussed it with some of the men and began with just informal talks on current topics—apart from the war or army. The interest grew. Men were there from Howard, Union, Hampton, Tuskegee, Morehouse, Atlanta, Clark, and other schools, so we had talks about their institutions and their founders. We had talks on race leaders, on work after the war—music, art, religion and every conceivable subject. We instituted a question box that was generally opened in fear and trembling, for one could never be quite sure of the questions. It might be, “When will you make us some fudge?” or it might be, “Which is the greatest science?” A question like the first we would answer, while one like the second would be respectfully deferred to the hut secretary or chaplain. A cup of tea or chocolate with a wafer would give the social side to the hour. It was so much better than most lyceums and forums we have known here at home, because somehow it was, as most things were over there, so much more full of human warmth. This little Chat Hour started in a simple way at Hut Five, St. Nazaire, remains one of its most precious memories, and was adopted in many other places. When the soldiers, who were for so many months a part of that hut, were sent to Camp Lusitania, they carried the Chat Hour with them, and it was there one of the finest features of that great camp as it continued to be at Hut Five even after many changes had been made.
Over the canteen in France meant much letter writing and the wrapping and sending home little presents that had been approved by the company commanders. At Christmas tide, this involved many hours of work, as it did always at embarkation time. Frequently the Y woman must go shopping for her boys to buy not only the presents sent home, but also the little necessities that the canteen and commissary of the camp did not have.
How can the picture of Christmas in camp ever fade away? The Y. M. C. A. was a most generous Santa Claus in its wonderful trees, decorations and presents. The hut was full of good cheer, but it was also full of memories, and men talked of other Christmastides back home. More than one fellow found it made him just too homesick to look upon the lighted Christmas tree, and yet he wanted it there—wanted that link with his own fireside. He was glad of the lights, of the music and the romping Santa who distributed the presents.
Then came the French school children—several hundreds of them, with their teachers, brought out in army trucks to be the guests of the camp. How their eyes filled with joyful wonder at the big glittering American tree! How they laughed and clapped as the men played, danced, and sang for them! Then they listened in rapt silence as a Red Cross lady told them in French about the American Christmas and its wonderful Santa Claus. With the native grace peculiar to the French child they received the presents handed them by the soldiers, but not trying to conceal their perfect ecstasy over them or their bon-bons. How lovely is that fine child courtesy of the Old World!
Somehow one found time for a great many things in camp, and so between the Christmas tree and canteen, we had prepared a real Christmas dinner for the Y men and the soldiers who helped with the canteen. But the dinner was too much for one of the soldiers, and he carefully put it all aside till later. The memory of the past Christmas was too vivid, when he had just arrived in France, and had only the cold ground for a bed and cold beans and hard tack to eat. Before the beginning of the evening’s activities, the hut was quiet for an hour, and we sat in the firelight’s glow for a moment of personal thought, on that wonderful Christmas day! So far were we from home and friends, yet far keener in human understanding and sympathy than ever before. In so many thousand American homes there could be no Christmas joy that day, only the memory of the dead lying somewhere on the cold bleak Western Front. What could the Christ Child signify at such a time? Perhaps there in the camp one could comprehend better than in America that through mighty travail was being born to the world a New Day in which men would be conscious of their worth, assured of their liberty, and learn that right after all is might.
Over the canteen in France included not only a cozy reading room and the selection of books for the men to read, but it meant also, reading to them or with them in leisure moments. One must help, too, in educational work. Our first visit to Camp Lusitania was spent teaching a class in English. Then came the Y woman to that camp, who gave a greater impetus to study there than had hitherto been known. She would spend hours guiding with her own small, fair hand, those of the men who for the first time were eager with desire to write their own names. It was thus, then, these women worked in the St. Nazaire area—at Camp Lusitania with its emphasis on educational activities; at Camp Montoir, where the excellence of the canteen became far-famed, and at Camp One with its joyous, homelike atmosphere.
After four months, a change came over the camp-life of the area. Mr. Wright returned to America to take part in the great drive for funds. The seven thousand stevedores and labor battalions that we had served with so much joy for four months, were divided between Camps Lusitania and Montoir. We saw with proud but sad heart the 807th march toward the Front. From the constant noise of many feet and voices, we found our hut reduced to an unbearable stillness and isolation. The camp was now to become exclusively an embarkation and debarkation center. For two days we were in danger of a good hard spell of home-sickness and then came the news that there were transports in the harbor—colored soldiers were coming—heaps of them!