“Y.S.C.” stands for Young Soldiers’ Club, an institution which had a short, but, I think, really useful existence in the large camp where I was first stationed.  There were in that camp large numbers of boys ­at one time nearly a thousand of them ­all enlisted under age in the early days of the recruiting movement, all of them found by actual trial or judged beforehand to be unfit for the hardship of life in the trenches.  They were either sent down from their battalions to the base or were stopped on the way up.  For some time their number steadily increased.  Like the children of Israel in Egypt, who also multiplied rapidly, they became a nuisance to the authorities.

Their existence in the camp was a standing menace to discipline.  Officially they were men to be trained, fed, lodged, if necessary punished according to the scheme designed for and in the main suitable to men.  In reality they were boys, growing boys, some of them not sixteen years of age, a few ­the thing seems almost incredible ­not fifteen.  How the recruiting authorities at home ever managed to send a child of less than fifteen out to France as a fighting man remains mysterious.  But they did.

These were besides boys of a certain particularly difficult kind.  It is not your “good” boy who rushes to the recruiting office and tells a lie about his age.  It is not the gentle, amiable, well-mannered boy who is so enthusiastic for adventure that he will leave his home and endure the hardships of a soldier’s life for the sake of seeing fighting.  These boys were for the most part young scamps, and some of them had all the qualities of the guttersnipe, but they had the makings of men in them if properly treated.

The difficulty was to know how to treat them.  No humane C.O. wants to condemn a mischievous brat of a boy to Field Punishment N.  Most C.O.’s., even most sergeants, know that punishment of that kind, however necessary for a hardened evildoer of mature years, is totally unsuitable for a boy.  At the same time if any sort of discipline is to be preserved, a boy, who must officially be regarded as a man, cannot be allowed to cheek a sergeant or flatly to refuse to obey orders.  That was the military difficulty.

The social and moral difficulty was, if anything, worse.  Those boys were totally useless to the army where they were, stuck in a large camp.  They were learning all sorts of evil and very little good.  They were a nuisance to the N.C.O.’s and men, among whom they lived, and were bullied accordingly.  They were getting no education and no suitable physical training.  They were in a straight way to be ruined instead of made.

It was an Irish surgeon who realised the necessity for doing something for these boys and set about the task.  I do not suppose that he wants his name published or his good deeds advertised.  I shall call him J. He was a typical Irishman ­in looks, manner, and character one of the most Irishmen I have ever met.  He had a wonderful talent for dealing with young animals.  The very first time I met him he took me to see a puppy, a large, rather savage-looking creature which he kept in a stable outside the camp.  One of the creature’s four grandparents had been a wolf.  J. hoped to make the puppy a useful member of society.

“I am never happy,” he said, “unless I have some young thing to train ­dog, horse, anything.  That’s the reason I’m so keen on doing something for these boys.”

J. had no easy job when he took up the cause of the boys.  It was not that he had to struggle against active opposition.  There was no active opposition.  Every one wanted to help.  The authorities realised that something ought to be done.  What J. was up against was system, the fact that he and the boys and the authorities and every one of us were parts of a machine and the wheels of the thing would only go round one way.

Trying to get anything of an exceptional kind done in the army is like floundering in a trench full of sticky mud ­one is inclined sometimes to say sticky muddle ­surrounded by dense entanglements of barbed red-tape.  You track authority from place to place, finding always that the man you want, the ultimate person who can actually give the permission you require, lies just beyond.  If you are enormously persevering, and, nose to scent, you hunt on for years, you find yourself at last back with the man from whom you started, having made a full circle of all the authorities there are.  Then, if you like, you can start again.

I do not know how J. managed the early stages of the business.  He had made a good start long before I joined him.  But only an Irishman, I think, could have done the thing at all.  Only an Irishman is profane enough to mock at the great god System, the golden image before which we are all bidden to fall down and worship “what time we hear the sound of” military music.  Only an Irishman will venture light-heartedly to take short cuts through regulations.  It is our capacity for doing things the wrong way which makes us valuable to the Empire, and they ought to decorate us oftener than they do for our insubordination.

There was an Irishman, so I am told, in the very early days of the war who created hospital trains for our wounded by going about the French railways at night with an engine and seizing waggons, one at this station, one at that.  He bribed the French station masters who happened to be awake.  It was a lawless proceeding, but, thanks to him, there were hospital trains.  An Englishman would have written letters about the pressing need and there would not have been hospital trains for a long time.  J. did nothing like that.  There was no need for such violence.  Both he and the boys had good friends.  Every one wanted to help, and in the end something got done.

A scheme of physical training was arranged for the boys and they were placed under the charge of special sergeants.  Their names were registered.  I think they were “plotted” into a diagram and exhibited in curves, which was not much use to them, but helped to soothe the nerves of authorities.  To the official mind anything is hallowed when it is reduced to curves.  The boys underwent special medical examinations, were weighed and tested at regular intervals.  Finally a club was established for them.

At that point the Y.M.C.A. came to our aid.  It gave us the use of one of the best buildings in the camp, originally meant for an officers’ club.  It was generous beyond hope.  The house was lighted, heated, furnished, in many ways transformed, at the expense of the Y.M.C.A.  We were supplied with a magic-lantern, books, games, boxing gloves, a piano, writing-paper, everything we dared to ask for.  Without the help of the Y.M.C.A. that club could never have come into existence.  And the association deserves credit not only for generosity in material things, but for its liberal spirit.  The club was not run according to Y.M.C.A. rules, and was an embarrassing changeling child in their nursery, just as it was a suspicious innovation under the military system.

We held an opening meeting, and the colonel ­one of our most helpful friends ­agreed to give the boys an address.  I wonder if any other club opened quite as that one.  In our eagerness to get to work we took possession of our club house before it was ready for us.  There was no light.  There was almost no furniture.  There was no organisation.  We had very little in the way of settled plan.  But we had boys, eight or nine hundred of them, about double as many as the largest room in the building would hold.

They were marched down from their various camps by sergeants.  For the most part they arrived about an hour before the proper time.  The sergeants, quite reasonably, considered that their responsibility ended when the boys passed through the doors of the club.  The boys took the view that at that moment their opportunity began.

They rioted.  Every window in the place was shattered.  Everything else breakable ­fortunately there was not much ­was smashed into small bits.  A Y.M.C.A. worker, a young man lent to us for the occasion, and recommended as experienced with boys’ clubs in London, fled to a small room and locked himself in.  The tumult became so terrific that an officer of high standing and importance, whose office was in the neighbourhood, sent an orderly to us with threats.  It was one of the occasions on which it is good to be an Irishman.  We have been accustomed to riots all our lives, and mind them less than most other people.  We know ­this is a fact which Englishmen find it difficult to grasp ­that cheerful rioters seldom mean to do any serious mischief.

Yet, I think, even J.’s heart must have failed him a little.  Very soon the colonel, who was to open the club with his address, would arrive.  He was the best and staunchest of friends.  He had fought battles for the club and patiently combated the objections in high quarters.  But he did like order and discipline.

It was one of our fixed principles, about the only fixed principle we had at first, that the club was to be run by moral influence, not by means of orders and threats.  Our loyalty to principle was never more highly tried.  It seems almost impossible to bring moral influence to bear effectively when you cannot make yourself heard and cannot move about.  Yet, somehow, a kind of order was restored; and there was no uncertainty about the cheers with which the colonel was greeted when he entered the room.  The boys in the other rooms who could not see him cheered frantically.  The boys on the balcony, the boys standing in the window frames, all cheered.  They asked nothing better than to be allowed to go on cheering.

With the colonel were one or two other officers, our benefactor, the local head of the Y.M.C.A., and a solitary lady, Miss N. I do not know even now how she got there or why she came, but she was not half an hour in the room before we realised that she was the woman, the one woman in the whole world, for our job.  Miss N. was born to deal with wild boys.  The fiercer they are the more she loves them, and the wickeder they are the more they love her.  We had a struggle to get Miss N. Oddly enough she did not at first want to come to the club, being at the time deeply attached to some dock labourers among whom she worked in a slum near the quay.  The Y.M.C.A. ­she belonged to them ­did not want to part with her.  But we got her in the end, and she became mistress, mother, queen of the club.

The colonel’s speech was a success, a thing which seemed beforehand almost beyond hope.  He told those boys the naked truth about themselves, what they were, what they had been, and what they might be.  They listened to him.  I found out later on that those boys would listen to straight talk on almost any subject, even themselves.  Also that they would not listen to speech-making of the ordinary kind.  I sometimes wonder what will happen when they become grown men and acquire votes.  How will they deal with the ordinary politician?

I cherish vivid recollections of the early days of the club.  I think of J., patient and smiling, surrounded by a surging crowd of boys all clamouring to talk to him about this or that matter of deep interest to them.  J. had an extraordinary faculty for winning the confidence of boys.

There were evenings, before the electric light was installed and before we had any chairs, when Miss N. sat on the floor and played draughts with boys by the light of a candle standing in its own grease.  I have seen her towed by the skirt through the rooms of the club by a boy whom the others called “Darkie,” an almost perfect specimen of the London gutter snipe.  There was a day when her purse was stolen.  But I think the rest of the club would have lynched the thief if they could have caught him.

There were wild boxing bouts which went on in pitch darkness, after the combatants had trampled on the candle.  There was one evening when I came on a boy lying flat on his back on the floor hammering the keys of the piano, our new piano, with the heels of his boots.  The tuner told me afterwards that he broke seventeen strings.

But we settled down by degrees.  We had lectures every afternoon which were supposed to be ­I think actually were ­of an educative kind.  Attendance at these lectures was compulsory.  The boys were paraded and marched to the club.  As we had not space in our lecture room for more than half our members, we had one set of boys on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, another on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.  Each lecturer delivered himself twice.

The business of keeping up a supply of lectures was not so difficult as we expected.  Officers were very kind and offered us the most amazing collection of subjects.  The secretary of many a literary society at home would be envious of our list.  We accepted every offer we got, no matter how inappropriate the subject seemed to be.

It was impossible to tell beforehand which lectures would be popular and which would fail.  Military subjects were of course common.  We had “The Navy” with lantern slides.  M. gave that lecture, but all his best slides were banned by the censor, for fear, I suppose, that we might have a German spy among us and that he would telegraph to Berlin a description of a light cruiser if M. exhibited one upon the screen.  We had “Men who have won the V.C.” with lantern slides.  That was, as was expected, a success.  But we also had “Napoleon’s Campaigns” by a Cambridge professor of history, illustrated by nothing better than a few maps drawn on a blackboard.  To our amazement that was immensely popular.  We had “How an Army is fed,” by an A.S.C. officer, the only lecture which produced a vigorous discussion afterwards.

But we did not confine ourselves to military subjects.  We had lectures on morals, which were sometimes a little confusing.  One lecturer, I remember, starting from the fact that the boys had misstated their ages to the recruiting officers when they enlisted, hammered home the fact that all lies are disgraceful, and therefore our boys ought to be thoroughly ashamed of themselves.  Another lecturer, a month later, starting from the same fact, took the line that it was possible to be splendide mendax, and that we had good reason to be extremely proud all our lives of the lie told in the recruiting office.

Manners are more or less connected with morals, and we had lectures on manners; that is to say, on saluting, which is the beginning and ending of good manners in the army.  A good many civilians, especially those of the intellectual “conchie” kind, are inclined to smile at the importance soldiers attach to saluting.  Our lecturer convinced me ­I hope he convinced the rest of his audience ­that saluting is something more than a piece of tiresome ritual, that it is the external expression of certain very great ideas.

Occasionally, but not often, we were in difficulties about our lectures.  Some one at home sent us a present of a beautiful set of lantern slides, illustrating a tour in Egypt.  They were such fine slides that it seemed a pity to waste them.  But for a long time we could not find any one who knew enough about Egypt to attempt a verbal accompaniment of the slides.

At last we got a volunteer.  He said frankly that he did not know half the places we had pictures of, but offered to do his best.  He did exceedingly well with the places he did know, making the tombs of the ancient Pharaohs quite interesting to the boys.  But he was a conscientious man.  He refused to invent history to suit strange pictures.  When anything he did not recognise was thrown on the screen he dismissed it rapidly.  “This,” he would say, “is another tomb, probably of another king,” or “This is a camel standing beside a ruined archway.”  Every one was thoroughly satisfied.

We had another set of slides which gave us some trouble, a series of pictures of racing yachts under sail.  I had to take those on myself, and I was rather nervous.  I need not have been.  The boys in that club were capable of taking an interest in any subject under the sun.  Before I got to the last slide the audience was ready to shout the name of every sail on a racing cutter, and could tell without hesitation whether a yacht on a run was carrying her spinnaker on the port or starboard hand.  They say that all knowledge is useful.  I hope that it is.

Once or twice a lecturer failed us at the last moment without giving us notice.  Then J. and I had to run an entertainment of an instructive kind extempore.  J. was strong on personal hygiene.  He might start with saluting or the theft of Miss N.’s purse, our great club scandal, but he worked round in the end to soap and tooth brushes.  My own business, if we were utterly driven against the wall, was to tell stories.

The most remarkable and interesting lecture we ever had was given on one of those emergency occasions by one of our members.  He volunteered an account of his experiences in the trenches.  He cannot have been much more than seventeen years old, and ought never to have been in the trenches.  He was undersized and, I should say, of poor physique.  If the proper use of the letter “h” in conversation is any test of education, this boy must have been very little educated.  His vocabulary was limited, and many of the words he did use are not to be found in dictionaries.  But he stood on the platform and for half an hour told us what he had seen, endured, and felt, with a straightforward simplicity which was far more effective than any art.  He disappeared from our midst soon afterwards, and I have never seen him since.  I would give a good deal now to have a verbatim report of that lecture of his.

When the lecture of the afternoon was over, the club amused itself.  Attendance was no longer compulsory.  Boys came and went as they chose.  Order was maintained and enforced by a committee of the boys themselves.  It met once a week, and of all the committees I have ever known that one was the most rigidly businesslike.  I cannot imagine where the secretary gained his experience of the conduct of public business; but his appeals to the chair when any one wandered from the subject under discussion were always made with reason, and he understood the difference between an amendment and a substantive resolution.

The only difficulty we ever had with that committee arose from its passion for making rules.  Our idea for the management of the club was to have as few rules as possible.  The committee, if unchecked, would have out-Heroded the War Office itself in multiplying regulations.  I am inclined to think that it is a mistake to run institutions on purely democratic lines, not because reasonable liberty would degenerate into licence, but because there would be no liberty at all.  If democracy ever comes to its own, and the will of the people actually prevails, we may all find ourselves so tied up with laws regulating our conduct that we will wish ourselves back under the control of a tyrant.

It was during those hours of recreation that Miss N. reigned over the club.  She ran a canteen for the boys, boiling eggs, serving tea, cocoa, malted milk, bread-and-butter, and biscuits.  She played games.  She started and inspired sing-songs.  She listened with sympathy which was quite unaffected to long tales of wrongs suffered, of woes and of joys.  She was never without a crowd of boys round her, often clinging to her, and the offers of help she received must have been embarrassing to her.

Miss N. had a little room of her own in the club.  She furnished it very prettily, and we used to pretend to admire the view from the windows.  Once we tried to persuade an artist who happened to be in camp to make a sketch from that window.  The artist shrank from the task.  The far background was well enough, trees on the side of a hill; but the objects in the middle distance were a railway line and a ditch full of muddy water.  In the foreground there were two incinerators, a dump of old tins, and a Salvation Army hut.  I dare say the artist was right in shrinking from the subject.

In that little room of hers, Miss N. had tea parties every day before the afternoon lecture.  I was often there.  Sometimes I brought M. with me.  Always there were boys, as many as the room would hold, often more than it held comfortably. Pain d’epice is not my favourite food in ordinary life, but I ate it with delight in that company.  No one, on this side of the grave, will ever know how much Miss N. did for those boys in a hundred ways.  I feebly guess, because I know what her friendship meant to me.  I was, I know, a trial to her.  My lax churchmanship must have shocked her.  My want of energy must have annoyed her.  But she remained the most loyal of fellow-workers.

There were breakfast-parties, as well as tea-parties, in Miss N.’s room on Sunday mornings.  We had a celebration of the Holy Communion at 6 o’clock and afterwards we breakfasted with Miss N. The memory of one Sunday in particular remains with me.  On Easter Sunday in 1915 I celebrated on board the Lusitania, a little way outside the harbour of New York, the congregation kneeling among the arm-chairs and card-tables of the great smoke-room on the upper deck.  In 1916 I read the same office in the class-room of the Y.S.C., with a rough wooden table for an altar, a cross made by the camp carpenter and two candles for furniture, and boys, confirmed ten days before, they and Miss N., for congregation.  Afterwards, in her little room, we had the happiest of all our parties.  Surely our Easter eggs were good to eat.

I have written of the members of the Y.S.C. as boys.  They were boys, but every now and then one or another turned out to be very much a man in experience.  There was one whom I came to know particularly well.  He had been “up the line” and fought.  He had been sent down because at the age of eighteen he could not stand the strain.

I was present in our little military church when he was baptized, and on the same afternoon confirmed by Bishop Bury.  I gave him his confirmation card and advised him to send it home to his mother for safety.  “I think, sir,” he said, “that I would rather send it to my wife.”  He was a fellow-citizen of mine, born and bred in Belfast.  We Ulstermen are a forward and progressive people.