Over the canteen at Brest meant hut activity from early morning till midnight. It was a part of what came to be known as the “Battle of Brest,” which Miss Watson, the Regional Secretary, declared “Ofttimes more terrible than that of ‘No Man’s Land’ because less open.” Every minute almost meant keeping men free from the despair of long waiting and hope deferred. Eight regiments of Pioneer Infantries, three labor battalions, many groups of casuals and several depot companies were among those whom we bade bon voyage during our days at Pontanezen. Here, as at St. Nazaire, the huts were crowded and the canteen lines unending. Men made “seconds,” as an additional helping was called, but rarely unless they were fortunate enough to slip into other men’s places. Those were busy but happy days at Brest! The men were not strange, for we had met them in the Leave Area or along the devastated highways. We closed our work there so happy that nothing could take away the joy of it.
Over the canteen in France we learned to know our own men as we had not known them before, and this knowledge makes large our faith in them. Because they talked first and talked last of their women back home, usually with a glory upon their faces, we learned to know that colored men loved their own women as they could love no other women in all the world. Their attitude of deep respect, often bordering on worship, toward the colored women who went to France to serve them only deepened this impression. The least man in camp assumed the right to protect his women, and never, by word or deed, did they put to shame the high calling of these women. But they were intensely human and their longing for their women showed itself in a hundred different ways. One night a Red Cross parade on Fifth Avenue, New York City, was being passed on the screen. When a group of colored women were shown marching, the men went wild. They did not want that particular scene to pass and many approached and fondled the screen with the remark, “Just look at them.” Mrs. Curtis, in whose hut this occurred, tells how it brought tears to her eyes. One man came to us saying, “Lady, do you want to get rich over in France?” We gave an affirmative reply and questioned how. He said, “Just get a tent and go in there and charge five cents a peep. These fellows would just be glad for even a peep at you.” Another man stood near the canteen one day, but not in line. He stood so quietly and so long that we finally asked could we serve him. He simply gave a negative shake of the head. After several minutes we said, “Surely you desire something,” only to be met by another shake of the head. The third time we inquired he said quietly, “Lady, I just want to look at you, if you charge anything for it I’ll pay you—it takes me back home.” Hundreds of incidents gave evidence of the love of these men for their women. Sometimes they shed tears at their first sight of a colored woman in France.
We learned somewhat of their matchless power of endurance and of their grim determination to be steady and strong to the end in spite of all odds. We came to know, too, that what was often taken for ignorance, was a deep and far-thinking silence. They were sympathetic and generous, often willing to risk the supreme sacrifice for a “buddie.” The chocolate might be too thin or too thick, but there was little complaint. On a cold day or after a hard hike it was just “hot-stuff” gratefully received.
We learned to know that there was being developed in France a racial consciousness and racial strength that could not have been gained in a half century of normal living in America. Over the canteen in France we learned to know that our young manhood was the natural and rightful guardian of our struggling race. Learning all this and more, we also learned to love our men better than ever before.
PEACE
Peace on a thousand hills and dales
Peace in the hearts of men
While kindliness reclaims the soil
Where bitterness has been.