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The War Romance of the Salvation Army

E >> Evangeline Booth and Grace Livingston Hill >> The War Romance of the Salvation Army




The work was extended to other camps in the Gondrecourt area and finally
the time came for the troops to move up to the front to occupy part of a
sector.




III.

The Toul Sector



Headquarters of the First Division were established at Menil-la-Tour and
that of the First Brigade at Ansauville. Information came on leaving the
Gondrecourt Area, that the district would be abandoned to the French, so
the wooden hut at Montiers was moved and set up again at Sanzey, which
then became the Headquarters of the First Ammunition Train. Huts were
established at Menil-la-Tour and other points in the Toul Sector.

It took three days to erect the hut at Sanzey, but within an hour the
field range was set up, and a piece of tarpaulin stretched over it to keep
the rain off the girls and the doughnuts.

Hour after hour the girls stood there making doughnuts, and hour after
hour the line moved slowly along waiting patiently for doughnuts. The
Adjutant went away a little while and returned to find some of the same
boys standing in line as when he left. Some had been standing five hours!
It was the only pastime they had, just as soon as they were off duty, to
line up again for doughnuts.

The hut at Sanzey was used mostly by men of an Ammunition Train. As in
other places where the Salvation Army huts catered to the American troops,
an all-night service of hot coffee or chocolate and doughnuts or cookies
was provided for the men as they returned from their dangerous nightly
trips to the front. When men were killed their comrades usually brought
them back and laid them in this hut until they could be buried. One night
a man was killed and brought back in this fashion. The chaplain was
holding a service over his body in the hut. The Salvation Army man was
talking to the man who had been the dead lad's "buddie." "I wish it was me
instead of him, Cap," said this soldier, "he was his mother's oldest son
and she will take it hard."

The Salvation Army was told that Ansauville was too far front for any
women to be allowed to go. They felt, however, that it was advisable for
women to be there and determined to bring it about if possible. On
scouting the town there was found no suitable place in any of the
buildings except one that was occupied as the General's garage. The
Salvation Army was not permitted to erect any additional buildings as it
was feared they would attract the fire of the Germans, for Ansauville was
well within the range of the German guns.

After deciding that the General's garage was the only logical place for
them the Salvation Army representative called upon the General, who asked
him where he would propose establishing a hut. The Salvationist told him
the only suitable place in the town was that used by him as a garage. He
immediately gave most gracious and courteous consent and ordered his aide
to find another garage.

The place in question was an old frame barn with a lofty roof which had
already been partly shot away and was open to the sky. They were not
permitted to repair the roof because the German airplane observers would
notice it and know that some activity was going on there which would call
for renewed shell fire. However, the top of one of the circus tents was
easily run up in the barn so as to form a ceiling.

Ansauville was between Mandres and Menil-la-Tour, not far from advanced
positions in the Toul Sector. Five hundred French soldiers had been
severely gassed there the night before the Staff-Captain and his helper
arrived, and every day people were killed on the streets by falling
shells. There was not a house in the village that had not suffered in some
way from shell fire; very few had a door or a window left, and many were
utterly demolished.

Approaching the town the roads were camouflaged with burlap curtains
hanging on wires every little way, so that it was impossible to see down
the streets very far in either direction. There were signs here and there:
"ATTENTION! THE ENEMY SEES YOU!"

About midnight the Staff-Captain and his officer arrived and after some
difficulty found the old barn that the Colonel had told them was to be
their hut, but to their dismay there were half a dozen cars parked inside,
including the Commanding General's, and it looked as if it were being used
for the Staff Garage. Looking up they could see the stars peeping through
the shell holes in the tiled roof. It was the first time either of them
had been in a shelled town and the experience was somewhat awe-inspiring.
Moreover they were both hungry and sleepy and the situation was by no
means a cheerful one. They had a large tent and a load of supplies with
them and were at a loss where to bestow them.

In the midst of their perturbation a courier arrived with a side car and
dismounted. He stumbled in on them and peered at them through the
darkness.

"As I live, it's the Salvation Army!" he cried joyfully, shaking hands
with both of them at once. "All of the boys have been asking when you were
coming. Are you looking for a place to chow and sleep? There's no place in
town for a billet, but we have a kitchen down the street. We can give you
some chow, and it's warm there. You can roll up in your blankets and sleep
by the stove till morning. Come with me."

The cook awakened them in the morning with his clatter of pots and pans in
preparation for breakfast. They arose and began to roll up their blanket
packs.

"Don't worry about getting up yet," said the chief cook kindly. "Sleep a
little longer. You are not in my way." But the two men thanked him and
declined to rest longer.

"Where are you going to chow?" asked the chief cook.

The Salvationists allowed that they didn't know.

"Well, you boys line up with this outfit, see?" insisted the chief cook.
"We eat three times a day and you're welcome to everything we have!"

This settled the question of board, and after a good breakfast the two
started out to report to the General in command.

He greeted them most kindly and made them feel welcome at once.

When they asked about the barn he smiled pleasantly:

"That Colonel of yours is a fine fellow," he said. "He told me that there
was only one place in this town that would do for your hut and that was my
garage. He said he was afraid he would have to ask me to move my car. Just
as though my car were of more importance than the souls of my men!
Gentlemen, you can have anything you want that is mine to give. The barn
is yours! And if there's anything I can do, command me!"

It was a very dirty stable and needed a deal of cleaning, but the strong
workers bent to their task with willing hands, and soon had it in fine
order. There was no possibility of mending the roof, but they camouflaged
the old tent top and ran it up inside, and it kept the rain and snow off
beautifully. Of course, it was no protection against shells, but when they
commenced to arrive everybody departed in a hurry to the nearby dugouts,
returning quietly when the firing had ceased. The nights were so cold that
they had to sleep with all their clothes on, even their overcoats. Often
in the mornings their shoes were frozen too stiff to put on until they
were thawed over a candle. One soldier broke his shoe in two trying to
bend it one morning. Sometimes the men would sleep with their shoes inside
their shirts to keep the damp leather from freezing. Two yards from the
stove the milk froze!

A field range had been secured and the chimney extended up from the roof
for a distance of forty or fifty feet. It smoked terribly, but on this
range was cooked many a savory meal and tens of thousands of doughnuts.

Among the doughboys who loved to help around the Salvation Army hut was a
quiet fellow who never talked much about himself, yet everybody liked him
and trusted him. No one knew much about him, or where he came from, and he
never told about his folks at home as some did. But he used to come in
from the trenches during the day and do anything he could to be useful
around the hut, which was run by two sisters. Even when he had to stand
watch at night he would come back in the daytime and help. They could not
persuade him to sleep when he ought. Other fellows came and went, talked
about their troubles and their joys, got their bit of sympathy or cheer
and went their way, but this fellow came every day and worked silently,
always on the job. They made him their chief doughnut dipper and he seemed
to love the work and did it well.

Then one day his company moved, and he came no more. The girls often asked
if anyone knew anything about him, but no one did. Once in a while a brief
note would come from him up at the front in the trenches a few miles to
the north, but never more than a word of greeting.

One morning the girls were making doughnuts, hard at work, and suddenly
the former chief doughnut dipper stumbled into the hut. He looked tired
and dusty and it was evident by the way he walked that he was footsore.

"Gee! It's good to see you," he said, sinking down in his old place by the
stove.

They gave him a cup of steaming coffee and all the doughnuts he could eat
and waited for his story, but he did not begin.

"Well, how are you?" asked one of the girls, hoping to start him.

"Oh, all right, thanks," he said meekly.

"Where is your company?"

"Up the line in some woods."

"How far is it?"

"About ten miles."

The girls felt they were not getting on very fast in acquiring
information.

"Did you walk all that way in the dust and sun?"

"Most of it. Sometimes I was in the fields."

"Were you on watch last night?"

"Ye-ah."

"Then you didn't have any sleep?"

"No."

"Why did you come over here then?"

"I wanted to see you." There was a sound of a deep hunger in his voice.

"Well, we're awfully glad to see you, surely. Is there anything we can do
for you?"

"No, Just let me look at you"-there was frank honesty in his eyes, a deep
undertone of reverence in his voice, not even a hint of gallantry or
flattery, only a loyal homage.

"Just let me look at you--and----" he hesitated.

"And what?" "And cook some doughnuts."

"Why, of course!" said the girls cheerily, "but you must lie down and
sleep awhile first. We'll fix a place for you."

"I don't want to lie down," said the soldier determinedly, "I don't want
to waste the time."

"But it wouldn't be wasted. You need the sleep."

"No, that isn't what I need. I want to look at you," he reiterated. "I've
got a wife and a little baby at home, and I love them. I like to be here
because seeing you takes me back to them. This morning I knew I ought to
sleep, but I just couldn't go over the top tonight without seeing you
again. That's why I want to see you and fry a few doughnuts for you. It
takes me back to them."

He finished with a far-away look in his eyes. He was not thinking what
impression his words would make, his thoughts were with his wife and
little baby.

He worked around for a couple of hours, saying very little, but seeming
quite content. Then he looked at his watch and said it was time to go, as
it was quite a walk back to his company. Just so quietly he took his leave
and went out to take his chance with Death.

The two girls thought much about him that night as they went about their
work, and later lay down and tried to sleep, and their prayers went up for
the faithful soul who was doing his duty out there under fire, and for the
anxious wife and little one who waited to know the outcome. Sleep did not
come soon to their eyes, as they lay in the darkness and prayed.

"The next day about noon as the girls were dipping doughnuts the chief
doughnut dipper stumbled once more into the hut, tired, dirty, dusty and
worn, but with his eyes sparkling:

"Just thought I ought to come back and tell you I'm all right," he said.
"I was afraid you'd be worried. My wife and baby would, anyway."

The girls received him with exultant smiles. "You go out there under the
trees and go to sleep!" they ordered him.

"All right, I will," he said. "I feel like sleeping now. Say, you don't
think I'm crazy, do you? I just had to see you! It took me back to them!"

It was one of those chill rainy nights which have caused the winter of
1917-1918 to be remembered with shudders by the men of the earlier
American Expeditionary Forces. A large part of the American forces were
billeted in the weathered, age-old little villages of the Gondrecourt
area. They slept in barns, haylofts, cowsheds and even in pig sties. The
roads were mere ditches running knee deep in sticky, clogging mud. Shoes,
soaked through from the muddy road, froze as the men slept and in the
morning had to be thawed out over a candle before they could be drawn on.
Frequently men were late at roll-call simply because their shoes were
frozen so stiff that they were unable to don them, and their leggings so
icy that they could not be wound. After sundown there were no lights,
because lights invited air-raids and might well expose the position of
troops to the enemy observers. Only in towns where there were Salvation
Army or Y.M.C.A. huts could men find any artificial warmth, during the day
or night, and only in these places were there any lights after nightfall.
Such huts afforded absolutely the only available recreation facilities.
But in countless villages where Americans were billeted there was not even
this small comfort to be had.

On this particular night, in such a village, an eighteen-year-old boy sat
in the orderly room of a regimental headquarters, which was housed in a
once pretentious but now sadly decrepit house. Rain leaked through the
tiled roof and dribbled down into the room. Windows were long ago
shattered and through cracks in the rude board barricades which had
replaced the glass a rising wind was driving the rain. The boy sat at a
rough wooden table waiting orders. Two weeks previously a letter had come,
saying that his mother was seriously ill. Since that he had had no further
word. He was desperately homesick. There had been as yet none of the
danger and none of the thrill which seems to settle a man down, to the
serious business of war.

A passing soldier had just told him that in a village some twelve
kilometers distant two Salvation Army women were operating a hut. He
longed desperately for the comfort of a woman of his own people and,
sitting in the drafty, damp room, he wished that these two Salvationists
were not so far away--that he could talk with them and confide in them. At
last the wish grew so strong that he could no longer resist it.

He got up quietly, and silently slipped out into the rainy night. The
darkness was so thick that he could not see objects six feet away. Walking
through the mud was out of the question. He stumbled down, the street,
once falling headlong into a muddy puddle, finally reaching the horse-
lines, where, saying that he had an errand for the Colonel, he saddled a
horse and slopped off into the night.

For a while he kept to the road, his horse occasionally taking fright, as
a truck passed clanking slowly in the opposite direction, or a staff car
turned out to pass him like a fleeting, ghostly shadow. By following the
trees which lined the road at regular intervals he was fairly sure to keep
the road. He was very tired and soon began to feel sleepy, but the driving
storm, which by this time had assumed the proportions of a tempest, stung
him to wakefulness. Once, at a cross-roads a Military Police stopped and
questioned him and gave him directions upon his saying that he was
carrying dispatches.

He went on. He dozed, only to be sharply awakened by a truck which almost
ran him down. He must be more careful, he thought to himself, feeling
utterly alone and miserable. But in spite of his resolution his eyes soon
closed again. He was awakened, this time by his horse stumbling over some
unseen obstacle. He could see nothing in any direction. The blackness and
rain shut him in like a fog. He turned at right angles to find the trees
which lined the road, but there were no trees. He swung his horse around
and went in the other direction, but he found no trees--only an
impenetrable darkness which pressed in upon him with a heaviness which
might almost have been weighed. He was lost--utterly lost.

He guided his steed in futile circles, hoping to regain the road, but all
to no avail. Fear of the night fell upon him. He was wet to the skin and
chilled to the bone. He shivered with cold and with fright. Dropping from
his horse he pulled from his pocket an electric flashlight and began
throwing its slender beam in widening arcs over the ground. The light
revealed a stubble field. Surely there must be a path which would lead to
the road, thought the boy. Backward and forward over the field he waved
the light. His hands trembled so that he could not hold the switch steady,
and the lamp blinked on and off.

On the storm-swept, night-hidden hillside which overhung the field was
established an anti-aircraft battery.

The sound detectors had just registered the intermittent hum of an enemy
plane. It was unusual that an enemy aviator should fight his way over the
lines in the face of such a storm, but such things had occurred before and
the Captain in charge of the battery searched the tempestuous skies for
the intruder, waiting for the sound to grow until he should know that the
searchlights had at least a chance of locating the venturesome plane
instead of merely giving away their position.

Suddenly, cutting the night in the field below, a tiny ray of light cut
the darkness, sweeping back and forward, flashing on and off. For a moment
the officer watched it, then, with a muttered curse, he raced down the
hillside followed by one of his men. The noise of the storm hid their
approach. The boy collapsed into a trembling heap, as the officer grasped
him and wrested the flash-light from his chilled fingers. He made no
protest as they led him down into a dark, deserted village. He followed
his captors into a candle-lighted room where sat a staff officer.

Briefly the Captain explained the situation.

"Caught him in the act of signaling to an enemy plane, sir," he said.

The boy was too cold to venture a protest.

"Bring him to me again in the morning," said the Colonel, shrugging his
shoulders. "Hold on, though! What are you going to do with him? He will
die unless you get him warmed up."

"Don't know what to do with him, sir, unless I take him down to the
Salvation Army... they have a fire there."

"Very good, Captain, see that he is properly guarded and if they will have
him, leave him there for the night." And so it came to pass that the boy
reached his destination. It was past closing time--long past; but the
motherly Salvationist in charge knew just what to do. Within ten minutes,
wrapped in a warm blanket, the boy sat with his feet in a pan of hot
water, with the Salvation Army woman feeding him steaming lemonade.
Between gulps, he told his story and was comforted. Soon he was snugly
tucked into an army cot, and still grasping the Salvationist's hand, was
sleeping peacefully.

The next day a little investigation assured the Colonel that the boy's
story was a true one, and with a reprimand for leaving his post without
orders he was allowed to return. The delay, however, had absented him, of
course, from morning roll-call, and he was sentenced to thirty days
repairing wire on the front-line trenches, which was often equivalent to a
death sentence, for as many men were shot during the performance of this
duty as came in safely.

He had done fifteen days of his time at this sentence when the Salvation
Army woman from the Ansauville hut which the boy had visited that rainy
night happened over to his Officers' Headquarters, and by chance learned
of his unhappy fate. It took but a few words from her to his commanding
officer to set matters right; his sentence was revoked, and he was
pardoned.

Ansauville was a point of peculiar importance in that all the troops
passing into or out from the sector stopped there. It was here that cocoa
and coffee were first provided for the troops. Afterwards it came to be
the habit to serve them with the doughnuts and pie. It was when the
Twenty-sixth Division came into the line. They had marched for hours and
had been without any warm meal for a long time. Detachments of them
reached Ansauville at night, wet and cold, too late to secure supper that
night, and hearing they were coming, the lassies put on great boilers of
coffee and cocoa, and as the men arrived they were given to them freely.

A hut was established at Mandres. This was some distance in advance of
Ansauville and lay in the valley. At first a wooden building was secured.
It had nothing but a dirt floor but lumber was hauled from Newchateau by
truck--a distance of sixty miles, and the place was made comfortable.

For some little time the boys enjoyed this hut, but on one occasion the
Germans sent over a heavy barrage; they hit the hut, destroying one end of
it, scattering the supplies, ruining the victrola, and after that the
military authorities ordered that the men should not assemble in such
numbers.

When this order was given, the Salvation Army had no intention of
discontinuing work at Mandres and so found a cellar under a partially
destroyed building. This cellar was vaulted and had been used for storing
wine. It was wet and in bad condition, but with some labor it was made fit
to receive the men; and tables and benches were placed there, the canteen
established and a range set up. It was at this place that a very wonderful
work was carried on. The Salvation Army Ensign who had charge, for a time,
scoured the country for miles around to purchase eggs, which he
transferred to his hut in an old baby carriage. The eggs were supplied to
the men at cost and they fried them themselves on the range, which was
close at hand. This was considered by the military authorities too far
front for women to come and only men were allowed here.

The Ensign also mixed batter for pan cakes and established quite a
reputation as a pan-cake maker. Here was a place where the soldiers felt
at home. They could come in at any time and on the fire cook what they
pleased.

They could purchase at the canteen such articles as were for sale and it
was home to them. Very wonderful meetings were held in this spot and many
men found Christ at the penitent-form, which was an old bench placed in
front of the canteen.

On the wharf in New York when the soldiers were returning home some
soldiers were talking about the Salvation Army. "Did you ever go to one of
their meetings?" asked one. "I sure did!" answered a big fine fellow--a
college man, by the way, from one of the well known New England
universities. "I sure did!--and it was the most impressive service I ever
attended. It was down in an old wine cellar, and the house over it
_wasn't_ because it had been blown away. The meeting was led by a
little Swede, and he gave a very impressive address, and followed it by a
wonderful prayer. And it wasn't because it was so learned either, for the
man was no college chap, but it stirred me deeply. I used to be a good
deal of a barbarian before I went to France, but that meeting made a big
change in me. Things are going to be different now.

"The place was lit by a candle or two and the guns were roaring overhead,
but the room was packed and a great many men stood up for prayers. Oh,
I'll never forget that meeting!"

That meeting was in the old wine cellar in Mandres.

The town of Mandres was shelled daily and it was an exceptional day that
passed without from one to ten men being killed as a result of this
shelling.

Here are some extracts from letters written by the Ensign from the old
wine cellar in Mandres:

"Somewhere in France," May 15, 1918.

I am still busy in my old wine-cellar in France. I must give you an idea
of my daily routine: Get up early and, go to my cellar. Get wood and make
fire; go for some water to put on stove. Take my mess kit, helmet, gas
mask and cane, walk about one block to the part of the church standing by
the artillery kitchen and get my hand-out mess, go back to my cellar and
have my breakfast, see to the fire, fuel, clean and light the lamps, dip
and carry out some water and mud (but have now found a place to drain off
the water by cutting through the heavy stone wall and digging a ditch
underneath). I dig whenever I have time. Then the boys begin to come in-
some right from the trenches, others who are resting up after a siege in
the trenches. They are all covered with mud when they come in and have to
talk, stand and even sleep in mud. Then I must have the cocoa and coffee
ready and serve also the candy, figs, nuts, gum, chocolate, shaving-
sticks, razors, watches, knives, gun oil, paper, envelopes, etc. I mostly
wear my rubber boots and stand in a little boot "slouched" down so I can
stand straight. Almost every evening we have a little "sing-song" or
regular service, and on Sunday two or three services.

Our wine-cellar is supposed to be bomb-proof. First the roof, the ceiling,
the floor, then the three-feet stone and concrete under the floor and
along the wine-cellar. I am all alone for all this business. Sometimes the
boys help me to cut wood and keep the fire and carry water, but the
companies are changed so often that they go and come every five days, and
when they come from the trenches they are so tired and sleepy they need
all the rest they can get. Yesterday I had to change the stove and
stovepipes because it smoked so bad that it almost smoked us out. So I had
to run through the ruins and find old stovepipes. I could not find enough
elbows, so I had to make some with the help of an old knife. We ran the
pipes through the low window bars and up the side of the house to the top,
and plastered up poor joints with mud, but it burns better and does not
smoke. The boys claim I make the best coffee they have had in France, and
also cocoa. I am glad I know something of cooking. You see, they don't
permit girls so near the trenches and in the shell fire.

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