Part 9

For all the period of the war and the dreary winter that followed it, there were just these three colored women with the American Expeditionary Forces in France. Time and time again they were lifted up by rumors that other canteen workers were on the way. Whenever they saw women arriving fresh from America, they would at once inquire if there were any colored women in their party. Always the rumors would prove false and the answer negative. Two hundred thousand colored soldiers and three colored women in France! So it was for many months. But finally the dream of help was realized when in the spring of 1919 sixteen canteen workers reached France. Only sixteen, to be sure, but to the three who had waited and served so long alone, they seemed a mighty host.

What a wonderful spirit these sixteen women brought with them! They had been impatiently waiting, some of them for many months, to answer the call. They knew how their soldiers needed their presence in France so they arrived eagerly ready for that last lap of Y service, the importance and significance of which can hardly be over-estimated. The Armies of the Allies had won the war, but there was a moral conflict for the war-weary men hardly less subtle and deadly in its effects than the conflict just ended. It required a program of compelling interest to hold the soldiers against the reaction of war’s excitement and ghastly experiences, and the new thirst for home and friends. Therefore, the coming at that time of sixteen canteen workers for our soldiers was wonderfully opportune.

But just what of the canteen service for all the months that had preceded their coming? How had just three of us managed to be mothers, sisters and friends to thousands of men?

The first colored woman who reached France had been sent to Saint Sulpice in the great Bordeaux area, and though she was quickly returned to Paris, the few days she had spent in the camp made a bright spot for the men there in that veritable wilderness of hardships. That she made ice cream and other “goodies” for them, and best of all, let them open their hearts to her, was never forgotten by the men of that camp. Reaching Paris, we found her with a group of men secretaries ordered home. It was then that for the first time we questioned the wisdom of our adventure. Surely we had not given up home, friends and work for such an experience! Would blind prejudice follow us even to France where men were dying by the thousands for the principles of truth and justice? There had been no slackening of the impulse to serve, when as a part of a mighty procession, we crossed the periled deep; no lessening of our enthusiasm for war work as we looked for the first time upon war’s dark picture. But somehow this incident, with its revelation of the fact that prejudice could follow us for three thousand miles across the Atlantic to the very heart of the world’s sorrow, tremendously shocked us in those first days. But it was a challenge to a heroic sacrifice, and we realized the significance of the challenge more deeply as the months receded.

Miss Kathryn Johnson was appointed to Brest, but that area, too, seems not to have been keen to the advantage of a colored canteen worker, so that she was returned to Paris. Both Miss Johnson and Mrs. Curtis were then assigned to the advanced sector, but found it impossible, because of the terrible drive, to reach their posts.

Meantime, Mrs. Hunton had been sent to the St. Nazaire area, and it is there that our story of canteen service really begins, because whatever of success came to the colored women in France, was due primarily to the record made by them in this area.

The St. Nazaire area, in the region of the Loire, was more than any other the pioneer section for colored work. There went Franklin O. Nichols, the very first colored welfare worker to reach France, and there he constructed the first Y hut for colored men in France. Soon, he was joined by the Rev. Leroy Ferguson, Mr. John C. Wright and Mr. William Stevenson, each of whom had direction of a Y hut in the area. In due time several secretaries arrived to help these first men.

When Mrs. Hunton reached Saint Nazaire, she was immediately assigned to Y hut 5, Camp One, for canteen service under the direction of Mr. John C. Wright, and to visit other camps of the area. Miss Kathryn Johnson came next and was placed at Camp Lusitania with the Rev. Leroy Ferguson. Then came Mrs. Curtis, who joined Mr. Stevenson at Camp Montoir. It was thus that the first three canteen workers were placed for all the period of the war and many weeks thereafter.

The St. Nazaire area, more than any other in all France at that time, warmly welcomed and gave opportunity to the colored Y secretaries to demonstrate their spirit and ability to serve their own soldiers. Indeed, it seemed rather providentially planned to give colored _women_ a first real chance. There were two reasons for this opportunity given them. First of all the broad, practical Christian spirit of the Divisional Secretary, Mr. W. S. Wallace, and second the attitude of our own Y men in charge of the huts. Mr. Wallace was not only an executive of rare Christian courage, but his attitude and opinions commanded the respect of those under his supervision. He dealt with the colored men and women of his area in the same fine manner and spirit that he dealt with all others. We shall always remember him among those fine spirits of his race that hold our faith for the ultimate triumph of the brotherhood of man.

The second contributing cause for whatever of success the women came to have was in the personnel of the men with whom they worked. For, however fine might be the Divisional Secretary or no matter how far-visioned and energetic the woman herself might be, she could hardly render efficient service unless she had the sympathetic co-operation of her hut secretary.

The writer was most fortunate in doing her first work with Mr. John C. Wright. It was a rare privilege that gave us four months of most enthusiastic service under the direction of this Christian gentleman. He was one of the few men who really desired a woman in his hut, so that in our first four months of service we were able to plan and accomplish something really constructive for the seven thousand permanent colored troops of our camp, and to help the regiments that spent a few weeks with us as they prepared for the front. With him we tried to study and comprehend the needs and desires of the soldiers, “our boys,” as we usually called them, and to meet these needs and desires in the very best way possible.

Over the canteen in France was essentially different from the same thing in the United States where friendships and home ties had not yet been really severed and war was still thousands of miles from the camp. In France, war, with its mystery of pain and suffering, was over all. Everywhere were evidence of its mutilation and destruction of life and home. Everywhere there was exhausting work and deep loneliness. In the most joyous hour in the Y hut we knew that there was a nervousness, a tenseness, a deep undercurrent of seriousness that could be found only in an environment of death and desolation.

Over the canteen in France friendships and confidences ripened quickly because of the loneliness of men—because of the haunting and yearning memories of their women-folk at home. A glass of lemonade or a cup of chocolate offered with a sympathetic touch was usually sufficient to break down all barriers and make way for the usual question, “Where are you from”? This answered, a like question asked and the acquaintance was established. Always there was real happiness if one could from somewhere in the memory resurrect a mutual friend in one of these home towns. Then came quickly talks of family and life in the States. We learned to anticipate that from some pocket in the jacket—usually the one nearest the heart—would be drawn forth a wallet or a much worn envelope. From it photographs would come forth. Sometimes it would be the “best mother,” again the “dearest wife,” and still again the “finest girl” or “cutest kid” that a fellow ever had. The families or the girls would become visualized for us, and after that we would ask about them as if they were old friends.

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!

We were never quite so glad to see any soldiers as we were the 809th Pioneer Infantry, and the 33 Lieutenants of the Artillery who arrived that Monday morning in October. We met them first as they rested on the beautiful ocean boulevard of St. Nazaire. Life flowed into us once again as we flitted among them welcoming them to our camp and hot chocolate. Even then, many of them looked very worn and ill, but we hardly dreamed of the tragedy of that October transport. We were on our way that morning to the weekly Y Conference with its inspirational and helpful program that, no doubt, was a large factor in the success of the area. But the conference seemed very long, so anxious were we to get to camp. We requested at headquarters special transportation to speed our errands and hurry us to work. Soon we are in our hut—it is crowded—men are everywhere and we look over the crowd and wonder what has happened. These are not the swarthy lads we were welcoming on the ocean front—only here and there do we see one. We are still wondering when a voice close at hand says, “Lady, got any paper and envelopes?” “Certainly,” we say, and then we begin to meet the first need of the soldiers. Meantime, we are saying, “No, no stamps necessary—turn your letter over to your company commander to be censored.” “Oh, yes—three-cent stamp if your folks are in Italy.” Later we learn that many of our own boys have been sent to another camp, and that most of those in our camp are in a distant part. We learn something else—influenza is raging—hundreds of men have died on the voyage—the hospitals are crowded, so are the barracks. Sick men could hardly be left in “pup” tents in the deep mud and constant rain of that season. That night another change comes over our hut. On all the benches, in all the corners and in what had been our cheerful reading room are sick men, many of them ill unto death. We are not only preparing hot chocolate now, but all day long we are preparing lemons, so that at night we may pass among these men with hot lemonade. It is a sad time—graves can hardly be dug rapidly enough—nurses are scarce—every one is doing the best he knows. True, these are not colored boys we are serving, but what matters that—they are soldiers all, and every lad of them a mother’s son. We go to the hospital and move among them. They can only see the smile in our eyes, for we wear the white masque across our faces. To the convalescent we give cigarettes, literature, gum, and now and then candy. For the very ill we leave oranges or lemons. For some there is little need to leave anything but a prayer.

The following is an extract from a letter received from a soldier with reference to that period, “It was in St. Nazaire at Base 101, that I was desperately sick with ‘Flu’ in October, 1918. Mr. Davis, whom I had known at Evansville, came through my ward. Next day you and Miss Johnson came with oranges and that most prized thing in all the world at that time—lemons. Oh, how good you did look to me! Then, too, how kind you folk were when I rejoined my outfit at Camp One. My mind recalls that Sunday evening ‘Quiet Hour’ you held, while we were there. How you spoke to the boys and urged them to keep themselves clean for the sake of the good women back home. Then when you asked us to talk—what man could have kept still.” The plague passed, and many a man was laid to rest having done his bit to the utmost, though it simply meant breaking home ties and reaching the port of France. After, the plague had spent itself, we marched one day with a long line to the American Cemetery, a mile distant from the town. There, while the day was dying, a Red Cross Chaplain told impressively the challenge flung to us by those white crosses upon which we looked, and that had come so suddenly into our little part of that death-ridden country. The French people brought flowers, the Red Cross and Y secretaries sang, the band played “America,” the trumpeter sounded the “Taps,” the guns rang out for the dead and then we left them alone in their glory.