SWEAR; If you can’t think of anything else to say, but do it softly—very, very softly, so no one else but yourself will hear you.

Thus reads the sign that hangs over the door of the Y. M. C. A. shack, at the end of our camp street. That’s what I call social work humanized. The Y. M. C. A. here is the most human institution in this big, rawly human community. It is the thing that puts the soul in soldier as one chap expresses it. And because it is that way, and because the men feel at home and have a real time, and can smoke and put their feet on the table, they think the red triangle is the best little symbol about the big camp. The “’Sociation” is making thousands of friends every day among these strapping big, two-fisted fellows who really never knew what the organization was. It’s bully. We all wander over there sometime during every evening, if it’s only to listen to a new record on the phonograph.

The shacks (I don’t know how many there are, but there must be at least a dozen of them) are the centres of amusement and entertainment for us all. And we have some corking concerts and other forms of entertainments there. I don’t think I’ll ever forget our $10,000 a year song writer as he appeared last night, for instance, standing on top of the piano, his hair all mussed up and his army shirt opened at the throat, singing a solo through a megaphone. And it was some solo! About fifteen hundred huskies in khaki stood around and listened to him and joined in on the choruses.

Then they have lectures: “Ten Years as a Lumber Jack,” “Farthest North,” by a certain well-known explorer; “My First Year of the Big War,” and similar subjects appear on the bulletin boards every other night. Nothing of the Sunday School variety about that sort of thing.

And our prize fights!

I’m all excited yet over the one I saw to-night. It was a whale of a battle; I mean the last one was, there being several on the program. The fellows fight for passes to go home on Sunday and the decision is left up to the onlookers. And if we don’t make the scrappers work for those passes, then no “pugs” ever did work.

Most of the boxers are former pugilists who have been gathered up in the draft net, and so long as they can get a chance to put on the gloves they are just as pleased to be here as anywhere else from all appearances. But sometimes the scrappers aren’t “pugs” at that; just plain citizens who possibly have been shadow boxing in the secrecy of their bedrooms for the past ten years and longing for courage enough to step into the ring with a real fighter and discover how good (or how bad) they are. They are getting the opportunity here all right, and some of them are uncovering a likely line of jabs and counters. One fair-haired youngster downed a mighty pugnacious-looking Italian a few nights ago.

But to-night’s final was a winner. Three scraps had been pulled off with real enthusiasm and after the final round, there was a call for more material, but no one in the crowd came forward to put on the gloves. There were calls and jeers and all that sort of thing, then suddenly out from the crowd stepped a soggy-looking, little red-haired fellow.

Yells of “Yah Redney!” “Hi Redney!” “Good boy Brick Top!”

Redney blushed considerably and held up his hand for silence. And when he got it he explained.

“I ain’t a-going to fight no one but our Mess Sergeant. That’s what I’m out here for, and I’ll stick here till he comes.”

Calls for Mess Sergeant. He wasn’t present. A speeding messenger from Red’s company hurried out through the night to find him. Ten minutes later, said Sergeant, a soggy-looking chap himself, was brought in and amid yells from the crowd he stepped inside the ring. He looked once at Brick Top, then spat on his hands and said:

“Where’s them gloves?”

Gloves were produced and laced on, then without the preliminary handshake they squared off and went to it. And what a battle! They didn’t stop for rounds, or time out, or anything. They just ducked and punched and whaled away at each other until the blood began to spatter all over and still they kept at it. I don’t know what the misunderstanding between them was and didn’t find out, but they sure meant to settle the thing once and for all.

And the spectators; they went wild.

For ten minutes steadily the fighters milled and I never saw a better slugging match. The Sergeant had had more experience in boxing, that was certain, but what Red lacked in skill he made up for in hitting power. Every time his glove met the Sergeant’s face it smacked as loud as a hand clap.

Then just when it seemed as if they must be tired out, there was a sudden clash and a whirl of fists and Redney ducked away and started one from the floor. It was an uppercut and it found a clean hole between the Sergeant’s two arms, and met him flush on the point of the jaw. He staggered, tried to fall into a clinch, missed the elusive Redney and went down with a thump.

“1-2-3-4-5-6-” counted the referee.

The Sergeant rolled over and tried to get up. “Don’t hold me down; lemme at him,” he said huskily. But no one was holding him down. It was his refractory nerves. They wouldn’t obey his will power.

“7-8-9-10,” tolled off the fateful numbers. Then what a yell went up for Redney, and Red, almost all in, himself, evidently had satisfied his grudge, for he went over and helped stand the groggy Sergeant on his feet.

And all agreed it was some battle.

But the Y.M. shacks aren’t dedicated to prize fights and swearing and concerts entirely. They are the nearest approach to home or club life that most of us come in contact with for weeks at a stretch. The big, open hearths with their crackling logs are mighty fine places to spend a pleasant hour or two. Then there are the writing tables, and the reading rooms with their books and magazines, and the phonographs.

The other night I saw a great big fellow, with burly fists and a stubbly beard on his chin (it must have been the night before his bi-weekly shave, which is as often as most of us can find time—or the inclination to use a razor) snuggled up close to the phonograph and listening attentively to the “Swanee River,” which he was playing as softly as the instrument would permit, and now and then he would blow his nose in a big handkerchief and wipe suspicious signs of moisture from the corners of his eyes. He was having a regular sad drunk and enjoying every moment of it. I’ll bet he thought he was the most homesick mortal in camp.

Then there are the telephone booths. Every night there is a line of at least fifty men waiting patiently for a chance in the booth. At a dollar a call they ring up the folks in the city and have five minutes’ chat with them, just by way of warding off an attack of homesickness. I’ve used the booth five dollars’ worth to date.

These army breeches I’m wearing, I noticed to-night, are very comfortable. I like the deep, straight pockets in them. I think I’ll have my civilian suit made with those kind of pockets hereafter. But I haven’t gotten over the habit of pulling them up each time I sit down so that they won’t get baggy at the knees.