Trench and camp. [volume] (Augusta, Ga.) 1917-1919, 1918-02-13
THE YOUNG MEMS CHRIST
IAN ASSOCIATION HUT
editorial from Christian Science
Monitorl

MOnlIOr.j
The long, low hut, with the four ia
miliar letters painted upon it, some
what desolate looking, by reason of it's
inevitable starkness and newness by
day, but comfortable beyond words to
look upon by night, with every window
agloW, like a Christmas ornament lit
by a. taper, has become, in ese days,
CHEEKY landmark in a score of eoun-
tries. 1t is to be found in all the great
camps between the Rio Grande and the
st. Lawrence, the prairies and the for
eSts stretch towards the polar seas.
Three thousand miles to the east, it's
doors open behind the ratings along
which the lecturers on all the uhcon-
ventional "isms'' draw their little knots
of curious listeners from the crowds
crossing the Park from Oxford street
to Piceadilly. And then. farther east
again, behind the long, serpentine line
of the trenches, where the great guns
thunder, thunder, thunder, vomiting
their hail of steel and death across mo
Mans Land" and beyond
Unquestionably, then. the Young
Mems Christian Ass collation. hut has
filled a great void, 1t is true that the
lack of vision in certain government
quarters has done not a little to create
that void But the necessity Of the
hour has fortunately been realized
more clearly by the people, and so gem
erous contributions have flowed in
upon the Young Mems Christian AS
ISOLATION, and as a result the Young
Mems Christian Association huts have
blossomed out of the dreary desolate-
ness Of the camp, and in the rear of
the storm beaten trenches, from Sea
View" by the Northern ocean, to
Temptation Square," under the swell
tering eastern sun. Here all day, every
day. from early morning along into the
night, men pass in and pass out, read
ing, writing and talking necessarily
whilst they remain, The most won
derful phenomenon almost OF the war
may be seen here. 1t is the letter writ
ers There are miles of them, millions
of them, writing, writing. writing, from
Dunkirk to Bagdad, their pens scratch
ing across the paper, with the red tri-
angle known now to half a world. They
come in from the trenches on their way
to the rest camps in the rear; and they
come out from the rest camps on their
way to the blasted region Of the mine
craters and the dug-outs. But they all
stop to write, and the incessant
scratching of the pens keeps time as it
were to the distant thunder of the
guns. If the huts had done no more
than make possible these army corps of
letter writer's thy would at least have
brought happiness ana consolation TO
millions of homes.
Sunday night is a great night Tt is
the fete day of the fountain pen, On
Sunday, whole armies become st. ST.
mons or Horace Walpoles. Whether it
is men resting from battle or men Just
resting between drills, it is all the
same. Sunday, indeed has been de-
scribed as the Sabbath Bridge" be-
cause, on the evening of that day, men
stride in their imagination, across this
Galata Bridge of paper which joins
continents together, and reunites. for
the moment, the home circle. OF course,
the opportunity of letter writing does
not constitute the he-all and the end
all of the hut at the front. There the
men go for relaxation and such amuse-
ment as may be found in an impromp-
tn club. How, some one has said, the
letter writer's manage to survive the
clamor and laughter Of the surround