Book: Soldier Silhouettes on our Front

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SOLDIER SILHOUETTES ON OUR FRONT

by

WILLIAM L. STIDGER

Y. M. C. A. Worker with the A. E. F.

Illustrated by Jessie Gillespie







[Frontispiece: "Traveller, hast thou ever seen so great a grief as
mine?"]




New York
Charles Scribner's Sons
1918
Copyright, 1918, by Charles Scribner's Sons
Published October, 1918




TO

DOCTOR ROBERT FREEMAN


PIONEER RELIGIOUS WORK DIRECTOR
OF THE Y. M. C. A.


AND THE HUNDREDS OF PREACHER-SECRETARIES
WHO ARE SERVING SO BRAVELY AND EFFICIENTLY
ON THE CRUSADE OF SERVICE IN FRANCE
AND TO THE CHURCHES THAT SENT THEM




FOREWORD

Some human experiences that one has in France stand out like the
silhouettes of mountain peaks against a crimson sunset. I have tried
in this book to set down some of those experiences. I have had but one
object in so doing, and that object has been to give the father and
mother, the brother and sister, the wife and child and friend of the
boys "Over There" an accurate heart-picture. I have not attempted the
too great task of showing the soul of the soldier, although I have
tried to picture him at some of his great moments when he forgets
himself and rises to glorious heights, just as he might do at home if
the opportunity called.

I have tried to show his experiences on the transports, when he lands
in France, his welcome there, the reactions of the trench life;
something of his self-sacrifice, his willingness to serve even unto the
end; his courage, his sunshine. I have also given some other pictures
of France that aim to show his heart-relations to his allies and to the
folks at home.

If I have done this, sufficient shall be my reward.




CONTENTS

I. SILHOUETTES OF SONG
II. SHIP SILHOUETTES
III. SILHOUETTES OF SACRIFICE
IV. SILHOUETTES SPIRITUAL
V. SILHOUETTES OF SACRILEGE
VI. SILHOUETTES OF SILENCE
VII. SILHOUETTES OF SERVICE
VIII. SILHOUETTES OF SORROW
IX. SILHOUETTES OF SUFFERING
X. SOLDIER SILHOUETTES
XI. SKY SILHOUETTES
XII. THE LIGHTS OF WAR
XIII. SILHOUETTES OF SUNSHINE




ILLUSTRATIONS


"_Traveller, hast thou ever seen so great a grief as
mine?_" . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

"_What are those dots on the sun?" Doctor Freeman
shouted to me_

_The upturned roots of an old tree were just in front_

"_The last seen of Dale he was gathering together a
crowd of little children_"

"_The boys call her 'The Woman with Sandwiches
and Sympathy'_"

_What was the difference? He had gotten a letter_

_One night I had the privilege of seeing a plane caught
by the search-light_

_The air-raid had not dampened her sense of humor_




I

SILHOUETTES OF SONG

The great transport was cutting its sturdy way through three dangers:
the submarine zone, a terrific storm beating from the west against its
prow, and a night as dark as Erebus because of the storm, with no
lights showing.

I had the midnight-to-four-o'clock-in-the-morning "watch" and on this
night I was on the "aft fire-control." Below me on the aft gun-deck,
as the rain pounded, the wind howled, and the ship lurched to and fro,
I could see the bulky forms of the boy gunners. There were two to each
gun, two standing by, with telephone pieces to their ears, and six
sleeping on the deck, ready for any emergency. The greatcoats made
them look like gaunt men of the sea as they huddled against their guns,
watching, waiting. I wondered what they could see in that impenetrable
darkness, if a U-boat could even survive in that storm; but Uncle Sam
never sleeps in these days, and this transport was especially worth
watching, for it carried a precious cargo of wounded officers and men
back to the homeland, west bound.

For an hour I had heard no sound from the boys on the gun-deck below
me. When I was on watch in the daylight I knew them to be just a great
crowd of fine, buoyant, happy American lads, full of pranks and play
and laughter, but they were strangely silent to-night as the ship
ploughed through the storm. The storm seemed to have made men of them.
They were just boys, but American boys in these days become men
overnight, and acquit themselves like men.

I watched their silent forms below me with a great feeling of
wonderment and pride. The ship lurched as it swung in its zigzag
course. Then suddenly I heard a sweet sound coming from one of the
boys below me. I think that it was big, raw-boned "Montana" who
started it. It was low at first and, with the storm and the vibrations
of the ship, I could not catch the words. The music was strangely
familiar to me. Then the boy on the port gun beside "Montana" took the
old hymn up, and then the two reserve gunners who were standing by, and
then the gunners on the starboard side, and I caught the old words of:

"Jesus, Saviour, pilot me
Over life's tempestuous sea;
Unknown waves before me roll
Hiding rock and treacherous shoal;
Chart and compass came from Thee;
Jesus, Saviour, pilot me."


Above the creaking and the vibrations of the great ship, above the
beating of the storm, the gunners on the deck below, all unconsciously,
in that storm-tossed night were singing the old hymn of their memories,
and I think that I never heard that wonderful hymn when it sounded
sweeter to me than it did then, as the second verse came sweetly from
the lips and hearts of those gunners:

"As a mother stills her child
Thou canst hush the ocean wild;
Boistrous waves obey Thy will
When Thou sayst to them, 'Be still.'
Wondrous Sovereign of the sea,
Jesus, Saviour, pilot me."


We hear a good deal of how our boys sing "Hail! Hail! The Gang's All
Here" and "Where Do We Go From Here, Boys?" as a ship is sinking. I
know American soldiers pretty well. I do not know what they sang when
the _Tuscania_ went down, but I am glad to add my picture to the other
and to say that I for one heard a crowd of American gunners singing
"Jesus, Saviour, Pilot Me Over Life's Tempestuous Sea." The mothers
and fathers of America must know that the average American boy will
have the lighter songs at the end of his lips, but buried down deep in
his heart there is a feeling of reverence for the old hymns, and
whether he sings them aloud or not they are there singing in his heart;
and sometimes, under circumstances such as I have described, he sings
them aloud in the darkness and the storm.

If you do not believe this because you have been told so often by
magazine correspondents, who see only the surface things, that all the
boys sing is ragtime, let Bishop McConnell, of the Methodist Episcopal
Church, tell you of that Sunday evening when, at the invitation of
General Byng, he addressed, under the auspices of the Y. M. C. A., a
great regiment of the Scottish Guards. That night, in a
shell-destroyed stone theatre, he spoke to them on "How Men Die." In a
week from that night more than two-thirds of them had been killed.
When Bishop McConnell asked them what they would like to sing, this
great crowd of sturdy, bare-kneed soldiers of democracy, who had borne
the brunt of battle for three years, asked for "O God, Our Help in Ages
Past."

Yes, I know that the boys sing the rag-time, but this must not be the
only side of the picture. They sing the old hymns, too, and memories
of nights "down the line," when I have heard them in small groups and
in great crowds singing the old, old hymns of the church, have burned
their silhouettes into my memory never to die.

One night I remember being stopped by a sentry at "Dead Man's Curve,"
because the Boche was shelling the curve that night, and we had to stop
until he "laid off," as the sentry told us. Between shells there was a
great stillness on the white road that lay like a silver thread under
the moonlight. The shattered stone buildings, with a great cathedral
tower standing like a gaunt ghost above the ruins, were tragically
beautiful under that mellow light. One almost forgot there was war
under the charm of that scene until "plunk! plunk! plunk!" the big
shells fell from time to time. But the thing that impressed me most
that waiting hour was not the beauty of the village under the
moonlight, but the fact that the lone sentry who had stopped us, and
who amid the shelling stood silently, was unconsciously singing an old
hymn of the church, "Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me." I got down from my
truck and walked over to where he was standing.

"Great old hymn, isn't it, lad?"

"I'll say so," was his laconic reply.

"Belong to some church back home?" I asked him.

"Folks do; Presbyterians," he replied.

"Like the old hymns?" I asked.

"Yes, it seems like home to sing 'em."

I didn't get to talk with him for a few minutes, for he had to stop
another truck. Then he came back.

"Folks at home, Sis and Bill and the kid, mother and father, used to
gather around the piano every Sunday evening and sing 'em. Didn't
think much of them then, but liked to sing. But they mean a lot to me
over here, especially when I'm on guard at nights on this 'Dead Man's
Curve.' Seems like they make me stronger." As I walked away I still
heard him humming "Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me."

One of the most vivid song silhouettes that I remember is that of a
great crowd of negroes singing in a Y. M. C. A. hut. There must have
been a thousand of them. I was to speak to them on "Lincoln Day." I
remember how their white teeth shone through the semidarkness of that
candle-lighted hut, and how their eyes gleamed, and how their bodies
swayed as they sang the old plantation melodies.

The first song startled me with the universality of its simple
expression. It was an adaptation of that old melody which the negroes
have sung for years, "It's the Old-Time Religion."

A boy down front led the singing. A curt "Sam, set up a tune," from
the Tuskegee colored secretary started it.

This boy sat with his back to the audience. He didn't even turn around
to face them. Low and sweetly he started singing. You could hardly
hear him at first. Then a few boys near him took up the music. Then a
few more. Then it gradually swept back over that crowd of men until
every single negro was swaying to that simple music, and then it was
that I caught the almost startlingly appropriate words:

"It is good for a world in trouble;
It is good for a world in trouble;
It is good for a world in trouble;
And it's good enough for me.

It's the old-time religion;
It's the old-time religion;
It's the old-time religion;
And it's good enough for me.

It was good for my old mother;
It was good for my old mother;
It was good for my old mother;
And it's good enough for me."


Then much to my astonishment they did something that I have since
learned is the very way that these songs grew from the beginning. They
extemporized a verse for the day, and they did it on the spot. I made
absolutely certain of that by careful investigation. They sang this
extra verse:

"It was good for ole Abe Lincoln;
It was good for ole Abe Lincoln;
It was good for ole Abe Lincoln;
And it's good enough for me."


"That first verse, 'It is good for a world in trouble,' is certainly a
most appropriate one for these times in France," I said aside to the
secretary.

"Yes," he replied; "if ever this pore ole worl' needed the sustainin'
power of the religion of the Christ, it does now; an' if ever this pore
ole worl' was in trouble, that time suttinly is right now," he added
with fervor.

And now I can never think of the world, nor of the folks back here at
home, nor of the millions of our boys over there that I do not hear the
sweet voices of that crowd of negroes singing reverently and fervently:

"It is good for a world in trouble;
It is good for a world in trouble;
It is good for a world in trouble;
And it's good enough for me."


Another Silhouette of Song that stands out against the background of
memory is that of a hymn that I heard in Doctor Charles Jefferson's
church just before I sailed for France. I was lonely. I walked into
that great city church a stranger, as thousands of boys who have sailed
from New York have done. I never remember to have been so unutterably
lonely and homesick. It was cold in the city, and I was alone. I
turned to a church. Thousands of boys have done the same, may the
mothers and fathers of America know, and they have found comfort. If
the parents of this great nation could know how well their boys are
guarded and cared for in New York City before they sail, they would
have a feeling of comfort.

I sat down in this great church. I was thinking more of other Sabbath
mornings at home, with my wife and baby, than anything else. A hymn
was announced. I stood up mechanically, but there was no song in my
throat. There was a great lump of loneliness only. But suddenly I
listened to the words they were singing. Had they selected that hymn
just for me? It seemed so. It so answered the loneliness in my heart
with comfort and quiet. That great congregation was singing:

"Peace, perfect peace;
With loved ones far away;
In Jesus' keeping, we are safe; and they."


A great sense of peace settled over my heart, and I have quoted that
old hymn all over France to the boys, and they have been comforted.
Many a boy has asked me to write him a copy of that verse to stick in
his note-book. It seemed to give a sense of comfort to the lads, for
their loved ones, too, were "far away," and since I have come home I
find that this, too, comes as a great comfort hymn to those who are
here lonely for their boys "over there."

And who shall forget the silhouette of approaching the shores of France
by night as they have sailed down along the coast, cautiously and
carefully, to find the opening of the submarine nets? Who shall forget
the sense of exhilaration that the news that land was near brought?
Who shall forget the crowding to the railings by all on board to scan
anxiously through the night for the first sight of land? Then who
shall forget seeing that first light from shore flash out through the
darkness of night? Who shall forget the red and green and white lights
that began to twinkle, and gleam, and flash, and signal, and call? How
beautiful those lights looked after the long, dangerous, eventful, and
dark voyage, without a single light showing on the ship! And who shall
forget the man along the railing who said, "I never knew before the
meaning of that old song, 'The Lights Along the Shore'"? And then, who
can forget the fact that suddenly somebody started to sing that old
hymn, "The Lights Along the Shore," and of how it swept along the lower
decks, and then to the upper decks, until a whole ship-load of people
was singing it? And then who shall forget how somebody else started
"Let the Lower Lights Be Burning"? Can such scenes ever be obliterated
from one's memory? No, not forever. That silhouette remains eternally!

Five great transports were in. They were lined up along the docks in
the locks. A Y. M. C. A. secretary was standing on the docks yelling
up a word of welcome to the crowded railings of the great transports.
The boats were not "cleared" as yet. It would take an hour, and the
secretary knew that something must be done, so he started to lead first
one ship and then another in singing.

"What shall we sing, boys?" he would shout up to them from the docks
below. Some fellow from the railing yelled, "Keep the Home Fires
Burning," and that fine song rang out from five thousand throats. I
have heard it sung in the camps at home, I have heard it sung in great
huts in France, but I never heard it when it sounded so significant and
so sweet in its mighty volume as it sounded coming from that great
khaki-lined transport, which had just landed an hour before in France.
I stood beside the song-leader there on the docks looking up at that
great mass of American humanity, a hundred feet above us, so far away
that we could not recognize individual faces, on the high decks of one
of the largest ships that sails the seas, and as that sweet song of war
swept out over the docks and across the white town, and back across the
Atlantic, I said to myself: "That volume sounds as if it could make
itself heard back home."

The man beside me said: "The folks back home hear it all right, for
they are eagerly listening for every sound that comes from that crowd
of boys. Yes, the folks back home hear it, and they'll 'keep the home
fires burning' all right. God bless them!"

The last Silhouette of Song stands out against a background of green
trees and spring, and the odor of a hospital, and Red Cross nurses
going and coming, and boys lying in white robes everywhere. My friend
the song-leader had gone with me to hold the vesper service in the
hospital. Then we visited in the wards in order to see those who were
so severely wounded that they could not get to the service.

There was a little group of men in one room. The first thing I knew my
friend had them singing. At first they took to it awkwardly. Then
more courageously. Then sweetly there rang through the hospital the
strains of "My Daddy Over There."

It melted my heart, for I have a baby girl at home who says to the
neighbors, "My daddy is the prettiest man in the world," and believes
it. I said to Cray: "Why did you sing that particular song?"

"Oh," he replied, "my baby's name is 'Betty,' and I found a guy whose
baby's name is 'Betty' too, and we had a sort of club formed; and
another guy had a baby boy, and then I just thought they'd like to sing
'My Daddy Over There.' But we ended up with 'Jesus, Lover of My Soul,'
so that ought to suit you."

"Suit me, man? Why I got a 'Betty' baby of my own, and that 'Daddy
Over There' song you sang is the sweetest thing I've heard in France,
and it will help those daddies more than a hymn would. I'm glad you
got them to singing."

And now I'm back home, and I thought the Silhouettes of Song were all
over, but I stepped into a church the other Sunday. Up high above the
sacred altars of that church fluttered a beautiful silk service flag.
It was starred in the shape of a letter "S." In the circle of each "S"
was a red cross. The church had two members in the Red Cross. Above
the "S" and below it were two red triangles. The church had men in the
service of the Y. M. C. A. Then grouped about the "S" were the stars
of boys in the service.

As I looked up at this cross a flood of memories swept over me. I
could not keep back the tears. All the love, all the loneliness, all
the heartache, all the pride, all the hope of the folks at home, their
reverence, their loyalty, was summed up in that flag. I stood to sing,
my eyes brimming with tears. The great congregation started that
beautifully sweet hymn that is being sung all over America in the
churches in loving memory of the boys over there:

"God save our splendid men,
Send them safe home again,
God save our men.
Make them victorious,
Patient and chivalrous,
They are so dear to us,
God save our men.

God keep our own dear men,
From every stain of sin,
God keep our men.
When Satan would allure,
When tempted, keep them pure,
Be their protection sure--
God keep our men.

God hold our precious men,
And love them to the end.
God hold our men.
Held in Thine arms so strong
To Thee they all belong.
This ever be our song:
God hold our men."

I stood the pressure until that great congregation came to that line
"They are so dear to us," and the voice of the mother beside me broke,
and she had to stop. Then I had to stop, too, and we looked at each
other through our tears and smiled and understood, so that when she
sweetly said, "I have a boy over there," her words were superfluous.
And so I have added another memory of song to the hours that will never
die.




II

SHIP SILHOUETTES

It was nearing the dawn, and flaming heralds gave promise of a
brilliant day coming up out of France to the east. Three of us stood
in the "crow's-nest" on an American transport, where we had been
standing our "watch" since four o'clock that morning.

Suddenly as we peered through our glasses off to the west we saw the
masts of a great cruiser creeping above the horizon of the sea. We
reported it to the "bridge," where it was confirmed. Then in a few
minutes we saw another mast, and then another, and another; four, five,
six, seven, eight, nine, ten, twenty--five, six--twenty-six ships
coming up over the western horizon, bound for France, bearing the most
precious burden that ever a caravan of the sea carried across the
waters of the deep; American boys! Your boys!

It was a marvellous sight. We had been so intently watching this that
we had forgotten about the dawn. Then we turned for a minute, and off
to the east a brilliant red dawn was splashing its way out of the sea.

"What are those dots on the sun?" Doctor Freeman shouted to me.

[Illustration: "What are those dots on the sun?" Doctor Freeman shouted
to me.]

"Why, I believe it's the convoy of destroyers coming out to meet those
transports," I replied.

Then before our eyes, up out of the eastern horizon, just as we had
watched the transports and the cruiser come up over the western
horizon, those slender guardians of the deep came toward us in
formation. There were ten of them, and they met the great American
convoy just abreast our transport. We saw the American flag fly to the
winds on each ship, and the flashing of signal-lights even in the
dawning.

"Those destroyers coming out of the east against that sunrise remind me
of the experiences one has in France in these vivid war days," I said
to my fellow watcher in the "crow's-nest."

"How is that?"

"They stand out like the Silhouettes of Mountain Peaks against a
crimson sunrise," I replied.

And so have many Silhouettes of the Sea stood out.

There was the afternoon that we stood on the deck of a ship bound for
France. The voyage had been full of dangers. Submarines had harassed
us for days. One night such a lurch came to the ship as threw
everybody about in their staterooms. We thought it was a storm until
the morning came, and we were informed that it was a sudden lurch to
avoid a submarine. The voyage had been full of uneasiness, and now we
were coming to the most dangerous part of it, the submarine zone.

Everybody was on deck. It was Sunday afternoon. Suddenly off to the
east several spots appeared on the horizon. What were they, friendly
craft or enemy ships?

Nobody knew, not even the captain. There was a wave of uneasiness over
the boat.

Speculation was rife.

Then we saw the signal boy go aft, and in a moment the tricolor of
France was fluttering in the winds, and we knew that the approaching
craft were friendly. Then through powerful glasses we could make them
out to be long, low-lying, lithe, swift destroyers coming out to meet
us. They were a welcome sight. Like "hounds of the sea" they came,
long and lean. Headed straight for us, they came like the winds. Then
suddenly a slight mist began to fall, but not enough to obscure either
the destroyers or the sun. Through this mist the sun burned its way,
and almost as if a miracle had been performed by some master artist, a
beautiful rainbow arched the sky to the east, and under the arch of
this rainbow fleetly sailed those approaching destroyers.

It was a beautiful sight, a Silhouette of the Sea never to be forgotten
while memory lasts. The French flag fluttered, the band started to
play the "Marseillaise," and a ship-load of happy people sang it.

A sense of peace settled down over us all. The rainbow, covenant of
old, promise of the eternal God to his people, seemed to have new
significance that memorable day.

Another Silhouette of the Sea! Troops are expected in at a certain
port of entry. The camp has been emptied of ten thousand men. That
means but one thing, that new troops are expected. The great
dirigibles sailed out a few hours ago. The sea-planes followed.
Thousands of American men and women lined the docks waiting, peering
with anxious eyes out toward the "point." Here at this point a great
cape jutted out into the ocean, and around this cape we were accustomed
to catch sight of the convoys first.

A sense of great expectancy was upon us. We had heard rumors of
submarines off the shore for several days. Then suddenly we heard a
terrific cannonading, and we knew that the transports and the convoys
were in a battle with the U-boats that had lain in wait for them. An
anxious hour passed. The sun was setting and the west was a great rose
blanket.

Then a shout went up far down the line of waiting Americans as the
first great transport swung around the cape. Then another, and a third
and a fourth, and finally a fifth; great gray bulks, two of them
camouflaged until you could not tell whether they were little
destroyers or a group of destroyers on one big ship. Then they got
near enough to see the American boys, thousands of them, lining the
railings. Through the glasses we could make out the names of the
transports. They were some of the largest that sail the Atlantic.
When as they came slowly in on the full tide, with that rose sunset
back of them, the bands on their decks playing across the waters, and
five thousand boys on the first boat singing "Keep the Home Fires
Burning," then the "Marseillaise," and finally "The Star-Spangled
Banner," in which the crowd on the shore joined, there was a Silhouette
of the Sea that burned its way into our souls.

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