The most memorable motor run we ever had was from Souastre to Arras in 1916. The hut was closed when we reached Souastre in the morning, the leader having received a letter from the Town Major politely requesting him to close it from 7.30 a.m. as it was expected that the Huns would strafe the village at 8 a.m., and again at 4.30, and so it happened. This seemed strange, as the village had not been strafed of late. How could the British have known when Fritz would fire again? It seemed uncanny, until a strange unwritten reciprocal working arrangement between friend and foe was explained, which means in effect that Fritz refrains from bombing or bombarding 'A——' three or four miles behind the British lines if Tommy leaves village 'B——' behind his lines alone, and vice versa. As both villages are used as billets for the rival armies, both have been glad at times to honour this understanding. The run from Souastre to the railhead at Saulty was uneventful. Night was closing in as we left for Arras and there was no moon. For twenty kilos or more we had to travel with lights extinguished. We were less than a mile from the enemy trenches, which ran parallel to the road we were traversing. 'Verey' lights or star-shells sent up by the enemy continually made everything as light as day for the few seconds they were in the air. There were mysterious noises from the gun emplacements that run along the roadside, and mysterious shapes loomed up ahead of us from time to time as we overhauled and passed transport wagons and the like. At last we reached our destination, and it was the writer's first visit to a town of considerable size that had been wrecked by bombardment. There were barricades in the streets, shell-holes and ruins everywhere. We motored through the famous Grande Place and passed through street after street in that city of the dead, until, turning a corner, we entered a narrow street near the ruined cathedral, and hearing a piano playing rag-time, it was obvious that we were near the Y.M.C.A. The memory of that old château in the narrow street will always remain with us as we saw it then—the entrance hall, where free hot drinks were being dispensed; the canteen crammed with British soldiers, including many 'Bantams,' who were then stationed at Arras; the little concert-room, with possibly a hundred men gathered round a piano singing choruses and snatches of songs or listening to the rag-time, accompanying it at times by whistling the refrain or stamping on the floor. Another crowd upstairs had been entertained to a lantern lecture, and the day's programme was being concluded with family prayers. As we lay awake that night we heard many familiar noises that sounded strange there—a cat call, the cry of a baby, whilst ever and anon a shell would go shrieking over the town. In the morning we visited the ruined cathedral, which was a sight to make men or angels weep, but even there one saw erect amid the ruins, at the highest point, the Cross, the emblem of our Christian faith, and one knew that though it might be by way of the Cross, yet truth and freedom would triumph in the end.
A well-known war correspondent writing from British Headquarters in France to the Daily Mail, on August 13, 1918, told the story of a village under shell-fire and still within reach of machine-gun bullets, in which was a German notice-board pointing to an incinerator, and wrote:—'I hear from an officer who visited the spot again a day later that another notice, "This way to the Y.M.C.A." was added. A dashing cavalry officer, very much of the old school, possessing a voice that would carry two miles, begged me with great earnestness to do him one service, "Would I mention the Y.M.C.A.? It had provided his men with hot coffee before riding out."' That is the kind of service the Red Triangle has the privilege of rendering to our fighting men in the course of practically every battle.
The Bois Carré in 1916 was a very unhealthy spot. At the edge of a wood in a tiny natural amphitheatre the Y.M.C.A. had one of its outposts. An orderly was usually in charge, and day and night he kept up a good supply of hot drinks for free distribution to the troops. There they could buy biscuits, cigarettes, soap, and other necessaries, or receive free of charge the ever-welcome writing-paper and materials. The supervising secretary visiting the dug-out one day in the course of his rounds found it had been blown in by a big shell. The orderly was terribly wounded, part of his side having been blown away, but smiling amid his agony, he said, 'The money's safe here, sir!' Careless of himself, the brave fellow's first consideration was to safeguard the money in the Y.M.C.A. till.
We have vivid recollections of our visit to the Bois Carré in 1916. Late in the evening we reached Dickebusch. The Y.M.C.A. was there in the main street of the little Belgian village, and immediately behind it was the ruined church. It was only a small strafed building in a ruined street when the Red Triangle first made its appearance in Dickebusch, but the secretary held that to be the most convenient type of Y.M.C.A. building, 'for,' said he, 'if it becomes too small, all you have to do is to knock a hole through the wall on either side, and take in additional houses.' This was exactly what we had done and, unattractive as it was, the place drew crowds of men. At the Dickebusch Y.M.C.A. we were provided with shrapnel and gas helmets and instructed in the use of the latter. A two-mile trudge across a duck-walk over 'b——y meadow' brought us to the famous Ridgewood Dug-outs. It was here that the Canadians lost their guns in the early days of the war, and afterwards so gloriously regained them. We entered the wood at midnight. A huge rat crossed our path, and as we entered the first of the Y.M.C.A. dug-outs where free cocoa was being dispensed in empty jam tins, we remembered a yarn told us the day before by one of our workers. He had come to Ridgewood as a special speaker, and after the evening meeting lay down on the floor of the dug-out to sleep, but as he was beginning to feel drowsy, a huge rat ran over his legs, and later one passed across his face. With an electric flash-lamp he scared them away, but soon getting used to it they came on 'in close formation.' He lit a candle, and a few minutes later the rat ran away with the candle—so he said! From the Ridgewood we went on to the Bois Carré. Shells were screaming overhead all the time, but it was not a long walk though it provided many thrills. For a couple of hundred yards we were on open ground, and within easy reach of the Hun snipers. Only two of us were allowed to pass at a time, and my guide and I had to keep fifty yards apart, and when a 'Verey' light went up, had to stand absolutely still until it fell to earth, and its light was extinguished. Weird things those star shells! They shoot up to a good height like rockets, burst into brilliant light, poise in mid-air and gradually shimmer down and out. A few minutes brought us to the shelter of a ruined brasserie, and from its further side we entered the communication trenches, and thus passed to the Bois Carré. Standing back to visualise the scene, the orderly caught my arm and pulled me into the shelter of the dug-out—a second later came the patter of machine bullets on the sand-bags where we had stood not ten seconds before. There was something fascinating about that little dug-out Y.M.C.A., with its caterer's boiler, urns and stores, and it is sad to think that since then it has been destroyed by shell-fire, even though other dug-outs have been opened to take its place.
A GREAT BOON TO BRITISH TOMMY—A Y.M.C.A. WELL UNDER SHELL-FIRE
