I knew many recreation huts, Y.M.C.A. huts, Church Army huts, E.F. canteens, while I was in France.  I was in and out of them at all sorts of hours.  I lectured in them, preached in them, told stories, played games, and spent in the aggregate many hours listening to other people singing, reciting, lecturing.  It was always a pleasure to be in these huts and I liked every one of them.  But I cherish specially tender recollections of Woodbine Hut.  It was the first I knew, the first I ever entered, my earliest love among huts.  Also its name was singularly attractive.  It is not every hut which has a name.  Many are known simply by the number of the camp they belong to, and even those which have names make, as a rule, little appeal to the imagination.  It is nice and loyal to call a hut after a princess, for instance, or by the name of the donor, or after some province or district at home, whose inhabitants paid for the hut.  One is no way moved by such names.

But Woodbine!  The name had nothing whatever to do with the soldier’s favourite cigarette, though that hut, or any other, might very well be called after tobacco.  I, a hardened smoker, have choked in the atmosphere of these huts worse than anywhere else, even in the cabins of small yachts anchored at night.  But cigarettes were not in the mind of the ladies who built and named that hut.  Afterwards when their hair and clothes reeked of a particularly offensive kind of tobacco, it may have occurred to them that they were wiser than they knew in choosing the name Woodbine.

But at first they were not thinking of tobacco.  They meant to make a little pun on their own name like the pun of the herald who gave “Ver non semper viret” to the Vernons for a motto; associating themselves thus modestly and shyly with the building they had given, in which they served.  Also they meant the name to call up in the minds of the soldiers who used the hut all sorts of thoughts of home, of English gardens, of old-fashioned flowers, of mothers’ smiles and kisses ­the kisses perhaps not always mother’s.  The idea is a pretty one, and the English soldier, like most cheerful people, is a sentimentalist, yet I doubt if ten of the many thousands of men who used that hut ever associated it with honeysuckle.

When I first saw “Woodbine” over the door of that hut, the name filled me with astonishment.  I knew of a Paradise Court in a grimy city slum, and a dilapidated whitewashed house on the edge of a Connaught bog which has somehow got itself called Monte Carlo.  But these misfits of names moved me only to mirth mingled with a certain sadness.  “Woodbine” is a sheer astonishment.  I hear the word and think of the rustic arches in cottage gardens, of old tree trunks climbed over by delightful flowers.  I think of open lattice windows, of sweet summer air.  Nothing in the whole long train of thought prepares me for or tends in any way to suggest this Woodbine.

It is a building.  In the language of the army ­the official language ­it is a hut; but hardly more like the hut of civil life than it is like the flower from which it takes its name.  The walls are thin wood.  The roof is corrugated iron.  It contains two long, low halls.  Glaring electric lights hang from the rafters.  They must glare if they are to shine at all, for the air is thick with tobacco smoke.

Inside the halls are gathered hundreds of soldiers.  In one corner, that which we enter first, the men are sitting, packed close together at small tables.  They turn over the pages of illustrated papers.  They drink tea, cocoa, and hot milk.  They eat buns and slices of bread-and-butter.  They write those letters home which express so little, and to those who understand mean so much.  Of the letters written home from camp, half at least are on paper which bear the stamp of the Y.M.C.A. ­paper given to all who ask in this hut and scores of others.  Reading, eating, drinking, writing, chatting, or playing draughts, everybody smokes.  Everybody, such is the climate, reeks with damp.  Everybody is hot.  The last thing that the air suggests to the nose of one who enters is the smell of woodbine.

In the other, the inner hall, there are more men, still more closely packed together, smoking more persistently, and the air is even denser.  Here no one is eating, no one reading.  Few attempt to write.  The evening entertainment is about to begin.  On a narrow platform at one end of the hall is the piano.  A pianist has taken possession of it.  He has been selected by no one in authority, elected by no committee.  He has occurred, emerged from the mass of men; by virtue of some energy within him has made good his position in front of the instrument.  He flogs the keys, and above the babel of talk sounds some rag-time melody, once popular, now forgotten or despised at home.  Here or there a voice takes up the tune and sings or chants it.

The audience begin to catch the spirit of the entertainment.  Some one calls the name of Corporal Smith.  A man struggles to his feet and leaps on to the platform.  He is greeted with applauding cheers.  There is a short consultation between him and the pianist.  A tentative chord is struck.  Corporal Smith nods approval and turns to the audience.  His song begins.  If it is the kind of song that has a chorus the audience shouts it and Corporal Smith conducts the singing with waving of his arms.

Corporal Smith is a popular favourite.  We know his worth as a singer, demand and applaud him.  But there are other candidates for favour.  Before the applause has died away, while still acknowledgments are being bowed, another man takes his place on the platform.  He is a stranger and no one knows what he will sing.  But the pianist is a man of genius.  Whisper to him the name of the song, give even a hint of its nature, let him guess at the kind of voice, bass, baritone, tenor, and he will vamp an accompaniment.  He has his difficulties.  A singer will start at the wrong time, will for a whole verse, perhaps, make noises in a different key; the pianist never fails.  Somehow, before very long, instrument and singer get together ­more or less.

There is no dearth of singers, no bashful hanging back, no waiting for polite pressure.  Every one who can sing, or thinks he can, is eager to display his talent.  There is no monotony.  A boisterous comic song is succeeded by one about summer roses, autumn leaves, and the kiss of a maiden at a stile.  The vagaries of a ventriloquist are a matter for roars of laughter.  A song about the beauties of the rising moon pleases us all equally well.  An original genius sings a song of his own composition, rough-hewn verses set to a familiar tune, about the difficulty of obtaining leave and the longing that is in all our hearts for a return to “Blighty, dear old Blighty.”  Did ever men before fix such a name on the country for which they fight?

Now and again some one comes forward with a long narrative song, a kind of ballad chanted to a tune very difficult to catch.  It is about as hard to keep track with the story as to pick up the tune.  Words ­better singers fail in the same way ­are not easily distinguished, though the man does his best, clears his throat carefully between each verse and spits over the edge of the platform to improve his enunciation.  No one objects to that.

About manners and dress the audience is very little critical.  But about the merits of the songs and the singers the men express their opinions with the utmost frankness.  The applause is genuine, and the singer who wins it is under no doubt about its reality.  The song which makes no appeal is simply drowned by loud talk, and the unfortunate singer will crack his voice in vain in an endeavour to regain the attention he has lost.

Encores are rare, and the men are slow to take them.  There is a man towards the end of the evening who wins one unmistakably with an inimitable burlesque of “Alice, where art thou?” The pianist fails to keep in touch with the astonishing vagaries of this performance, and the singer, unabashed, finishes without accompaniment.  The audience yells with delight, and continues to yell till the singer comes forward again.  This time he gives us a song about leaving home, a thing of heart-rending pathos, and we wail the chorus: 

     “It’s sad to give the last hand-shake,
     It’s sad the last long kiss to take,
       It’s sad to say farewell.”

The entertainment draws to its close about 8 o’clock.  Men go to bed betimes who know that a bugle will sound the reveille at 5.30 in the morning.  The end of the entertainment is planned to allow time for a final cup of tea or a glass of Horlick’s Malted Milk before we go out to flounder through the mud to our tents.

This last half-hour is a busy one for the ladies behind the counter in the outer hall.  Long queues of men stand waiting to be served.  Dripping cups and sticky buns are passed to them with inconceivable rapidity.  The work is done at high pressure, but with the tea and the food the men receive something else, something they pay no penny for, something the value of which to them is above all measuring with pennies ­the friendly smile, the kindly word of a woman.  We can partly guess at what these ladies have given up at home to do this work ­servile, sticky, dull work ­for men who are neither kith nor kin to them.  No one will ever know the amount of good they do; without praise, pay, or hope of honour, often without thanks.  If “the actions of the just smell sweet and blossom,” surely these deeds of love and kindness have a fragrance of surpassing sweetness.

Perhaps, after all, the hut is well named “Woodbine,” and others might be called “Rose,” “Violet,” “Lily.”  The discerning eye sees the flowers through the mist of steaming tea.  We catch the perfume while we choke in the reek of tobacco smoke, damp clothes, and heated bodies.

The British part of the war area in France is dotted over with huts more or less like the “Woodbine.”  They are owned, I suppose, certainly run, by half a dozen different organisations.  I understand that the Church Army is now very energetic in building huts, but when I first went to France by far the greater part of the work was done by the Y.M.C.A.

The idea ­the red triangle is supposed to be symbolical ­is to minister to the needs of the three parts of man ­body, mind, and soul.  At the bar which stands at one end of the hut men buy food, drink (strictly non-alcoholic), and tobacco.  In the body of the room men play draughts, chess, anything except cards, read papers and write letters.  Often there are concerts and lectures.  Sometimes there are classes which very few men attend.  So the mind is cared for.

The atmosphere is supposed to be religious, and the men recognise the fact by refraining from the use of their favourite words even when no lady worker is within earshot.  The talk in a Y.M.C.A. hut is sometimes loud.  The laughter is frequent.  But a young girl might walk about invisible among the men without hearing an expression which would shock her, so long as she remained inside the four walls.

There are also supposed to be prayers every night and there is a voluntary service, of a very free and easy kind, on Sunday evenings.  Those evening prayers, theoretically a beautiful and moving ending to the day’s labour, were practically a very difficult business.  I have been in huts when the first hint of prayers, the production of a bundle of hymn-books, was the signal for a stampede of men.  By the time the pianist was ready to play the hut was empty, save for two or three unwilling victims who had been cornered by an energetic lady.

In the early days the “leader” of the hut was generally a young man of the kind who would join a Christian Association in the days before the war, and the lady workers, sometimes, but not always, were of the same way of thinking.  They were desperately in earnest about prayers and determined, though I think unfair ways were adopted, to secure congregations.  A concert drew a crowded audience, and it seemed desirable to attach prayers to the last item of the performance so closely that there was no time to escape.

I remember scenes, not without an element of comedy in them, but singularly unedifying.  A young lady, prettily dressed and pleasant to look at, recited a poem about a certain “nursie” who in the course of her professional duties tended one “Percy.”  In the second verse nursie fell in love with Percy, and, very properly, Percy with her.  In the third verse they were married.  In the fourth verse we came on nursie nursing (business here by the reciter as if holding a baby) “another little Percy.”  The audience shouts with laughter, yells applause, and wants to encore.  The hut leader seizes his opportunity, announces prayers, and the men, choking down their giggles over nursie, find themselves singing “When I survey the wondrous cross.”

My own impression is that prayers cannot with decency follow hard on a Y.M.C.A. concert.  The mind and soul sides of the red triangle seem to join at an angle which is particularly aggressive.  The body side, on the other hand, works in comparatively comfortably with both.  Tea and cake have long had a semi-sacramental value in some religious circles, and the steam of cocoa or hot malted milk blends easily with the hot air of a “Nursie-Percy” concert or the serener atmosphere of “Abide with Me.”

Yet I am convinced that the evening-prayers idea is a good one and it can be worked successfully for the benefit of many men.  I have seen the large hall of one of those Y.M.C.A. huts well filled night after night for evening prayers, and those were not only men who remained in the hall drinking tea or playing games, but many others who came in specially for prayers.  A choir gathered round the piano, eager to sing the evening hymn.  The hush during the saying of a few simple prayers was unmistakably devotional.  It was impossible to doubt that when the benediction fell upon those bowed heads there did abide something of the peace which passeth all understanding and that hearts were lifted up unto the Lord.

There was, unfortunately, a certain amount of jealousy at one time between the Y.M.C.A. workers and the recognised army chaplains.  I think that this is passing away.  But when I first went to France the relations between the two organisations in no way suggested the ointment which ran down Aaron’s beard to the skirts of his garment, the Psalmist’s symbol of the unity in which brethren dwelt together.

The Y.M.C.A. workers were perhaps a little prickly.  The men among them, often Free Church ministers, seemed on the lookout for the sort of snubs which Nonconformists often receive from the Anglican clergy at home.  The chaplains, especially the Church of England chaplains, appeared to think that they ought to conduct all religious services in the Y.M.C.A. huts.  This was unreasonable.  If the Church of England had been awake to her opportunity in the early days of the war she could have built church huts all over northern France and run them on her own lines.  She missed her chance, not having among her leaders any man of the energy and foresight of Sir A. Yapp.

The Church Army has done much during the last years; but it has been the making up of leeway.  The Church once might have occupied the position held by the Y.M.C.A.  She failed to rise to the occasion.  Her officers, the military chaplains, had no fair cause of complaint when they found that they could not straightway enter into the fruits of other men’s labour.

But the little jealousy which existed between the chaplains and the Y.M.C.A. was passing away while I was in France, has now, perhaps, entirely disappeared.  The war has done little good, that I ever could discover, to any one, but it has delivered the souls of the Church of England clergy who went out to France from the worst form of ecclesiastical snobbery.  There are few of those who tried to work in the army who preserve the spirit of social superiority which has had a good deal to do with the dislike of the Church, which has been I imagine, a much more effective cause of “our unhappy divisions” than any of the doctrines men have professed to quarrel about.

And the Y.M.C.A. workers are less aggressively prickly than they used to be.  The army authorities have weeded out a good many of the original men workers, young students from Free Church theological colleges, and put them into khaki.  Their places have been taken by older men, of much larger experience of life, less keen on making good the position of a particular religious denomination.  They are often glad to hand over their strictly religious duties to any chaplain who will do them efficiently.

The women workers, a far more numerous class, never were so difficult, from the Church of England chaplain’s point of view, as the men.  They are, in the fullest sense, voluntary workers.  They even pay all their own expense, lodging, board, and travelling.  They must be women of independent means.  I do not know why it is, but well-off people are seldom as eager about emphasising sectarian differences as those who have to work for small incomes.  Perhaps they have more chance of getting interested in other things.

It is, I fear, true that the decay of the sectarian ­that is to say undenominational ­spirit in the Y.M.C.A. has resulted in a certain blurring of the “soul” side of the red triangle.  This has been a cause of uneasiness to the society’s authorities at home, and various efforts have been made to stimulate the spiritual work of the huts and to inquire into the causes of its failure.  I am inclined to think that the matter is quite easily understood.  There is less aggressive religiosity in Y.M.C.A. huts than there used to be, because the society is more and more drawing its workers from a class which instinctively shrinks from slapping a strange man heartily on the back and greeting him with the inquiry ­“Tommy, how’s your soul?” There is no need for anxiety about the really religious work of the huts.  That in most places is being done.