Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 245, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 October 1918 — JUST ROWING DOWN HIS JOB [ARTICLE]

JUST ROWING DOWN HIS JOB

That’s What Y. M. C. A. Man Says of His Work, but See « How He Does It. ** W .<■• ... \ 5 \ . jF STILL “DELIYERSTHE GOODS” "..St.. ’ ■ ——■" ■ -Xw< J Former Salesman, Now Canteen Worker at Front, Tqtea-Pack With Chocolate, Cigarettes and Candy Through First* Line Trenches. By A. H. GURNEY. . Faria. —Tom Barber says he isn’t doing anything but holding down his , job. He was a salesman for twenty years, back in Utica, N. Y M before he -went into this war game, and he always “delivered the goods.” That’s what he’s doing now. He “delivers the goods” under a Y. M. C. A. sign that is deftted and pierced by shrapneL Sometimes he “delivers the goods” by carrying his stock up and down the crooked line of the trenches, themselves. The shells may whistle over Jris head, but Tom Barber is perfectly matter-of-fact, as he doles out sweet chocolate, and Paris papers, and friendly grins to •the men who are so glad to see him. He’s just holding down his job. The Y. M. C. A. hut that is his job is right up near the line of action. The soldiers in it- wear their gas masks always at alert. Gas alarms are frequent, and shells explode nightly in the ruins of the village. Within an hour’s walk are the trenches that stretch across France. There are many graves, both French and German, along the road that leads to the hut Some of the crosses are already gray and weather-beaten. By ■day you may not pass along the road; for the enemy might see, and then there would only be another grave to dig. .. Village in Ruins. For four years the village has been in ruins, only one family remaining of Its former population. The church spire, once a landmark for miles, fell long ago, and the rain pours in upon the altar. Rats Infest the half-de-stroyed houses. Over Tom Barber’s door Is a notice forbidding entrance by it in the daytime. Across the road in the shadow ■of a sentry box, an armed soldier stands to see that the sign is obeyed. If you want to get into the b ut D®* tween sunup and sunset yob walk through an orchard, go in a small back-'door, and feel your way along « tiny, black corridor. Suddenly there is a turn to the right, and you come Into the sunshine of Tom Barber’s -canteen. , . . It’s as cozy as the home kitchen, ■and as tidy <8 if a New England housewife had It in charge. Next to

the door is a counter shut In by a frame just large enough for a soldier ,td stick his head and shoulders throngh camfortably. Next to the counter are rows of shelves, divided into compartments, and reaching to the .racers.. Here Tom Barber displays his wares, which, range from canned peaches to the latest masnzlnes that he has been able to get, weeks old, most of them. On the side of the room where the light is best, are empty packing boxes, which serve as chairs, where the boys sit, while they eat their cakes of chocolate, and read the latest news from home. Upstairs is a little room, dim of light, but austerely where the men gather for Sunday services—when there’s a preacher to be had—and for whatever entertainment Tom Barber has been able to get for them. It’s a pa-t of his job 'to keep the soldiers entertained, he thinks. "Delivers the Goods."’ Tom Barber has a striker, Joe, by name, a big upstanding chap, a fine specimen of the draft army, from New York. Sometimes Joe is the whole show in the canteen. For every few days Tom Barber takes his musette (that’s French for haversack) and a stout canvas bag, fills both with chocolate, cigarettes, biscuits, soap, smoking tobacco, and a bundle of papers from Paris, and sets off for the trenches. • He walks across Adds, through the

woods, and arrives at the trenches. "Hello, Dad!” call the men when they see him coming, and they jump to help him with his supplies. Who is going to appraise the worth of an orange or of a cake of chocolate when it comes ,in the middle of a long day; in the trenches? Tom Barber grins at the men, and deals out his store* as casually as if he were back In Utica, N. Y. After all, this is only his job. He turns away regretfully when the things are all gone. "Good-by, Dad I” call the men after him. “When you cornin’ again? - Make it soon. Dad!” “Sure!” answers Tom Barber comfortably.. And then —because he has “delivered the goods”—he gets out of the trenches, goes through the wood, across the field, crosses the road that Ht Is not well to travel in the daytime, comes safely at last to the orchard, enters the tiny black corridor, and hurries through to his work in the canteen.