Chapter XXIII: The American Y. M. C. a

An honest confession is said to be good for what ails you, mentally and physically, so here goes with reference to my erstwhile ignorance concerning that great and growing organization known to all the world as the Young Men’s Christian Association. I’ll admit my prejudice. It goes back to the days when I invented every possible excuse to keep from going to Sunday-school, and so when I arrived at maturity I found myself shying toward the outer curbing every time. I used to pass quickly these quiet, orderly buildings, fearful that someone would rush out and thrust a lesson leaflet into my hand.

Once I had a friend who, when in earnest conversation, would halt occasionally to point his long forefinger and say, “Listen to the truth!”—and that’s the kind of a gesture and the exact words that I would use now if I should find it necessary to raise my voice in defense of the Y. M. C. A.

I’ll never forget the first one I visited. I was in Paris on leave of absence, along with another young man in the same service as myself. He suggested a visit to the Y. M. C. A., and, so far as my pleasure was concerned, he might just as well have suggested the morgue. The motion was carried, however, and I found myself being jostled along, speechless with disgust for having come all the way from the front-line trenches to waste my time at such a tame sort of a place. Visions of being met at the door with a bundle of “tracts” and a pocket Bible came into my mind’s eye, but, on the theory that it never pays to be a joy-killer, I said nothing. In less time than it takes to tell it I found myself the worst fooled mortal of my age and weight among all my numerous friends and acquaintances.

Our taxicab drew up in front of a palatial building, which I recognized as our destination, for I did know the triangular flag of the Y. M. C. A. We entered a large open court, where were several small tables and chairs, reasons for which we learned afterwards. Ascending a grand stairway we arrived at the second floor, or Club Room. At once two gentlemen stepped forward with a cheerful “Hello, Boys,” and invited us to make ourselves “quite at home.” Almost immediately thereafter we were taken in tow and escorted around the place.

At this moment I glanced at the peculiar expression on my friend’s face. We had been there five minutes, and no one had handed either of us a Bible—which seemed most surprising to me. There were spacious lounging rooms, with big easy chairs, and tables heaped with books and magazines, also writing rooms, smoking rooms, victrolas, pianos, billiard and pool tables, just as you find them in a genuine American club. It reminded me of good old New York with all its comforts and ease. The atmosphere was that of wholesome refinement with a welcome in every face that beamed our way.

Our escorts informed us that things were not exactly in shape as yet, but would be in full running order very shortly. For a place that was not in working trim I wondered what could be done to make it more complete. I was soon to learn that its growth since the war began had been phenomenal. It had become the principal rendezvous for the army boys, a home, indeed, to which they could come at any time, day or night, and get good hot baths and clean up. I was completely surprised, for in Paris, at the finest hotels, such a thing was impossible, except on Saturdays and Sundays, because of the conservation of fuel.

Then, too, the Y. M. C. A. had established a Bureau of Tobacco, where the boys could obtain American cigarettes and cigars at a cost which was much less than they could be bought even at home. The French Government would not allow cigarettes to be sent to the boys in service, unless the duty, which was prohibitive, was paid on them. One has to have but a single experience with “army issue,” the name applied by the boys to the tobacco passed out to soldiers, to know what a big satisfaction it is to be able to walk up to the counter of the Y. M. C. A. with the feeling of ease one feels in going into one’s home-town favorite cigar store or club.

After showing us everything about the premises, our escort finally capped the climax by announcing, “It’s four o’clock. Ice cream is ready to be served.”

Now, say, gentle reader, suppose you had been driving an ambulance for several months, practically day and night for weeks at a time, and that all you had known in the way of “eats” was the same old stuff day in and day out? And, I ask you again, what would you say if suddenly you were invited to sit down beside a daintily covered table in a delightful courtyard and found yourself confronted with a heaping big dish of real ice cream. Never mind your answer. You’d be found “a-hanging around” the place at four o’clock every afternoon of your stay in Paris. That’s what we did, and we were welcomed each time in that same cordial way.

In the colder season, when it becomes too chilly for ice cream, the Volunteer Canteen Workers of the Y. M. C. A. established a tea room, where at four p. m. hot coffee, chocolate and such things as home-made doughnuts, cakes and pies were served. This place did not go a-begging for popularity, as may well be surmised, for it was filled to capacity every day.

It would be unjust to create the impression that the popularity of the American Y. M. C. A. is due to the fact that it serves good ice cream. That was only one of the many things that hit the right spot.

The biggest attraction, to my mind, was the spirit of sterling good fellowship which permeated the institution. The welcome was sincere. There was no snobbishness, no attitude of “look what we’re doing for these fellows—shouldn’t they be most awfully thankful.” There wasn’t a bit of that. On the other hand there was plenty of “there’s nothing too good for you boys who are doing the job out there; we’re going to serve you!” That is the attitude of the big-minded business men who have thrown open the doors of this institution in order that the boys from “out there” might have comfort when on furlough in Paris. It was a big thought and it has kept many a youngster from going to the devil in that same big city.

Before I left France, the Y. M. C. A. was making big strides in the establishment of Huts and Canteens along the front; also around the villages where the divisions of the army go for rest. Here the men at the front can have an opportunity to purchase food and supplies. This in itself is a wonderful blessing for, in the devastated towns along the front, it is impossible to buy anything.

Imagine the undying impression a man will retain of this wonderful organization when he recalls the day he was sent to the rear, drilled by a Boche bullet and dragging one foot after the other through the mud and water of the trenches, chilled to the bone, as he turned a corner and found tucked away in a hole in a wall a man who handed him a cup of steaming hot coffee; or, when that same man lies on a hospital cot in the rear, recovering, there comes a representative of this same wonderful institution with words of cheer and consolation. Such is the work that these men are doing and such the wonderful contribution to humanity it has proved to be!

While in London I spent most of my time at the Y. M. C. A. huts. There they serve regular meals at a maximum cost of fourteen cents, which consist of soup, meat, potatoes, vegetables, bread, butter, dessert and coffee. It is open to any of the men of the Allied armies. I was particularly attracted one day to a group of boys sitting around a piano in the recreation room, singing and playing. An American soldier played the piano, an American sailor played a violin, a Canadian a banjo, and an Englishman a mandolin.

The “choir” was composed of a Belgian, a Scotch Highlander, an Irishman, a New Zealander, an Australian and a Frenchman—with a dozen Americans thrown in. I inquired of one of our sailors how he liked London? He replied, “Well, as much as I have seen of it, it’s fine, but we boys spend most of the time right here at this piano.”

I found this to be true, for, no matter what time I would go there, the same crowd was always present, and the room filled with blue smoke thick enough to choke a Chinaman.

The facts set forth are my only experiences with the Y. M. C. A., but let me commend to everyone the wonderful work that this organization is doing, for if anything can hearten a man when he is away from all that is near and dear to him it is the attention paid him by big-minded, big-hearted men who carry on the field work of the Y. M. C. A. No one preaches to you when you are under its roof, but there creeps into one’s heart a new feeling that one longs to hold on to. I’m for the Y. M. C. A. strong.