screamed by and took toll of their companions. George told me I was to
be billeted in a large room with a number of other officers. While he
was speaking, however, the billeting officer joined us to say that he
had a fine billet for me; it was a little hut outside in the grounds.
It had been reserved for the colonel, but as he wished to remain in
the chateau, the billeting officer, remembering that I preferred, when
possible, to have a billet alone, so that the men might the more easily
come to see me, had given me the little hut.

After dinner, which was late that evening, I went down through the
chateau grounds, crossed a bridge over a small river that ran through
them and followed the road until I came to a little burlap hut built
on the river bank under the willow trees, that had just hung out their
fresh green draperies. And as I stood surveying my billet, I became
aware that the shelling had ceased; the stars were coming out; just the
faintest rustle sounded among the tree-tops; there was a very pleasant
tinkle and gurgle from the running water; from all around the wide
green grounds came the low murmur of talking from groups of soldiers
bivouacked here and there under the trees. George came up presently
with four or five letters and a box of caramels that had come with the
Canadian mail. It was one of those strange interludes that came fairly
often during the campaign, when one actually forgot for a little while
war and its gruesomeness.

In the morning, after a very pleasant night’s sleep by the softly
running waters, I went down to the parish church to say Mass. The curé
was a large man and very kind; evidently the billeting officer had
tried to place me with him, for he took great pains to explain to me
that his house was extremely small, and already it was full on account
of the presence of some of his relations who had been evacuated from
the Arras area.

I told the curé how pleasantly I was situated, and that the softly
running water had sent me to sleep. He smiled, helped me to put
on my vestments and then served my Mass. After Mass, as I made my
thanksgiving before the altar, I noticed on the Gospel side a large
alcove. In it were five or six prie-dieux, and a communion rail ran the
width of it. It was somewhat similar to a box in a theatre. On the wall
in the alcove opposite to where I knelt was a large copper slab bearing
the inscription:

  To the Memory of
  M. Edward Mary Alexander
  Viscount of Brandt of Calometz
  Died in his castle of Ecoivres
  the 9th. October 1894
  R. I. P.

I concluded that this was the part of the church where the people
of the chateau came to assist at Mass in the old days before France
printed on her coins “Liberty, Equality and Fraternity.” I saw the
present owner of the estate a few days later, and I wondered if he sat
in the alcove to assist at Mass on Sundays. He was a tall, heavily
built man in old rough clothes, and looked more like a laborer one
would see sitting idly about the docks. He had a large, heavy red face
and a thick black mustache. When I saw him first he stood facing a
pointed bayonet--though he kept at least three feet from the point--and
an angry sentry at the entrance to the chateau was telling him in
English that he could not enter. The owner of the chateau, still more
angry than the guard, shouted in French that he would enter; that these
were his grounds, though his manner of putting in practice his words
resembled more the advancing of a horse on a treadmill. I was about
to offer my services as interpreter and general peace-maker when an
officer approached the angry guard and told him that it was the owner
of the chateau whom he was keeping from entering. The guard sprang to
attention, and as the angry owner entered his grounds looked after him
sheepishly. “Well, Holy Moses!” he exclaimed.

Chapter LXII

ECURIE WOOD

I had expected to stay at Ecoivres for Sunday, and I had arranged with
the curé for the soldiers’ Mass, but on Saturday orders came for us to
move to Ecurie Wood. It was not very far away, about three miles. My
billet here was a corrugated iron hut, barricaded without on all sides
with sand-bags piled about three feet high and two wide. There was
no floor other than the natural earth. The seat of a general service
wagon, that very likely had succumbed to Fritz’s shelling, had been
converted into a very serviceable chair; on a high bedding of mud and
rocks was placed horizontally an empty five-gallon gasoline tin, from
which pointed heavenwards, through the low roof, some homemade stove
pipe. There was no door on this improvised stove. When I entered the
hut a fire of charcoal and small pieces of wood glowed in the opening
of the tin, which the chair faced. There was no church near us, but
there was a large moving-picture hut just about two hundred yards away
where Mass was said on Sundays; and only fifty yards from this was a
small square tent, with the words “Catholic Chapel” painted in black on
it, where a priest was on duty every evening to hear confessions. As
there was no church near where the Blessed Sacrament was reserved, I
now began to carry Our Lord with me. On Monday I consecrated about two
hundred particles in my small military ciborium, and always, day and
night, in the pocket of my tunic was the little ciborium where Jesus
dwelt. And in the evenings I used to go down to the chapel-tent, place
the ciborium on a corporal spread out on the rough board table and,
saying a short prayer, sit on an empty box to hear the confessions of
the men who came. We were in a very exposed territory and shells were
continuously dropping into our area. Sometimes the shells would come
so near us that I would sit on my box, or kneel before the Blessed
Sacrament, trembling, expecting each moment to be my last.

A great number of men were assembling in the Ecurie Wood area, and I
began to meet many old friends. Some of the lads who had come overseas
with me were in battalions quartered nearby; and just over the hill, in
the military cemetery of Roclincourt, Lt. Lawlor, one of my Catholic
officers and a very gallant soldier, slept softly under his white cross.

The work at Ecurie Wood was very consoling: wonderful things happened
in that little white chapel-tent. One night a great giant of a man
stepped in, and without any introduction said, simply: “Father, I want
to be christened.” I could not help laughing, for in my mind always
associated with the word “christen” were thoughts of tiny, white-clad
helpless babies being carried to the baptismal font. But the big giant
did not laugh. It was a very serious matter for him.

I asked him to which religion he belonged. He said he belonged to none,
but that his people had been Presbyterians. I commenced instructions
and in a short time I had the great pleasure of baptizing him in the
little tent.

Sometimes men would come back to the sacraments after years of absence,
and it was wonderful to watch the effects of Divine Grace in their
souls. Often they would come back to the tent to have a chat and to
speak of some fellow with whom they were trying to share their own
great happiness. Frequently a returned prodigal would say to me: “Now,
Father, I have a lad outside who hasn’t been to his duties for many
years. I got him to come down tonight. I’m just telling you this,
Father, for he’s got the ‘wind up’ pretty bad, but I know you’ll take
him easy, Father.” Then perhaps a big, slow moving, puzzled figure
would step into the tent, looking around mystified, not knowing what to
do next. Then I would beckon him to come and kneel down, and then--I
would “take him easy.”

One night, when I was sitting on my box, a large one placed near me,
against which the men might kneel when telling their little story, a
man came rushing in and knelt so suddenly that he knocked over the
larger box, and then fell on it as it reached the ground.

I stood up quickly, taking off my purple stole as I did so, and as
the poor fellow got slowly up I said: “What’s the matter? What’s the
matter?”

He looked at me in a dazed sort of way, and then over his shoulder
towards the open flap of the tent. “I’m willing to go, Father,” he said.

“I think you’re a little too eager to go,” I said. “There’s no need,
you know, to knock over that box. I put that there for men to kneel
against.”

“Well,” he replied, “I’m willing to go, but I want a little time to get
ready. It’s a long time since I was here before, and I need a little
time to overhaul my mind.”

I could not help laughing, though I felt there was something wrong
somewhere. “Well,” I said, “what made you come in if you were not
prepared?”

Again he looked over his shoulder, and as he did the truth began to
dawn upon me. “Father,” he said, “I was pushed in.”

“Kneel down,” I said, “and take all the time you need, and when you are
ready just call me. I am going outside for a while.”

I went out and in a few minutes three figures came noiselessly over to
where I was standing. “Is he going to go, Father?” one of them asked.
“He is,” I replied, “but he needs a little time to prepare. Why did you
send--I should say push--him in before he was ready to go?”

They then told me that it was fifteen years since the man had been to
confession, and that he had been bragging about not having been there
for that length of time. One of the number had told him three days
before to prepare and on account of this they had thought him ready to
go.

I think, on the whole, these lay apostles did excellent work; still,
now and then, there was an example of perhaps too great zeal. Father
Miles Tompkins relates a story which perhaps showed a little overzeal.
He was walking with Father McGillvary one day up and down before a
little church of a village where troops were quartered when he noticed
three khaki-clad figures coming towards them. His first thought was
that some poor fellow had imbibed too freely of “vin blink”--the
soldiers’ name for the white wine--and that two charitable comrades
were escorting him to his billet. When, however, the soldiers drew
nearer, he saw that the man was not intoxicated, though somewhat
indignant at being hustled so unceremoniously by two comrades who
did not bear the insignia of military police. When they were within
speaking distance Father Tompkins asked one of the escort what was the
matter. “Father,” they said, as they looked at their struggling victim,
“this fellow wants to go to confession.”

“Well,” said Father Tompkins, “he does not look very much as if he
wanted to go!”

Chapter LXIII

THE DIFFERENT DISPENSERS

The Thirteenth and Fifteenth Battalions were at Anzin, a small village
about three kilometers distant from Ecurie Wood. There was a little
brick church here with a great hole through the base of its tower. I
used to go down there on my bicycle early Sunday mornings and hear
confessions while Father Pickett, of the First Divisional Artillery,
said Mass for my lads. Then I would ride back to Ecurie Wood and say
Mass at half-past ten for the Fourteenth and Sixteenth. There were
now three other priests quartered at Ecurie Wood and these would hear
confessions during my Mass. In the evenings the priests would assemble
in my hut--for, it seemed, I had the best billet in the area--and talk
over many things. It was not often so many chaplains were together,
and I, for one, enjoyed these pleasant evenings in the little hut
before the blazing fire. It was a very dangerous area, however; shells
were dropping all over the camp and there was great loss of life. One
morning on awakening from a very sound sleep a shell came shrieking
through the air, then the deafening explosion as it struck just outside
my hut. I waited, scarcely breathing, for the next, but no more came.
When I was dressed, I stepped off the distance from my hut to where the
shell had struck. It was just thirteen steps. They were beginning to
come very near!

Those gatherings of chaplains in my corrugated iron hut there on the
Western Front were unique. I often used to think of it in the evenings
as we talked, or when some chaplain read excerpts from a Canadian paper
that had come from home. It was this--that while we talked away so
casually about the ordinary daily affairs of the world, in the pocket
of every one present dwelt humbly Our Eucharistic Lord in his little
home, the ciborium.

One afternoon while I was sitting in my hut, alternately reading my
book and looking into the fire, a knock sounded on the door and a
young officer walked in, smiling broadly. He was a lieutenant in the
artillery. I had known him when he was a little boy and I was in senior
philosophy at college. I had not seen him for ten years till I met him
at the front. After we had talked for a while, he asked me if he could
go to confession.

I put on my purple stole and sat down on the large general service
wagon seat, while he knelt down on the earth floor--over which at times
I saw worms moving--and he began his little tale. Often, in our old
college days, when I was walking slowly on the track of the athletic
field he had come running up quickly behind me, given me a punch on
the back, and then had skipped ahead of me, smiling pleasantly as he
waited for me to catch up to him. Now he knelt humbly on the earth
and confessed his sins, and I, with all the powers of the priesthood,
absolved him!

It was with great joy in my heart that I arranged my little portable
altar on a box, spread out the clean white corporal and gave him Holy
Communion.

After I had closed the altar and the young lieutenant had finished his
thanksgiving, we sat on the seat. He was the first to speak. “Father,”
he said, “these are strange times we are living in.”

I agreed with him, and among other things thought of the shell that had
dropped just thirteen steps from where we sat; but he was not thinking
of shells.

“Three weeks ago,” he said, “I was in Rome on leave, and on Easter
Sunday all the Catholic officers in the city had permission to assist
at Mass in the Sistine Chapel and receive Holy Communion from the
hand of Pope Benedict XV, amidst great splendor and solemnity. Today,
kneeling on the earth, I received Our Lord in this little corrugated
iron hut on the Western Front!”

I did not speak for awhile; some strange emotion held me silent as I
visualized the two scenes. Easter in Rome, in one of the most beautiful
chapels in the world, the Pope in the richest vestments, assisted by
many priests, giving Holy Communion. Then, a small, dark hut, with not
even a window in it, and no covering over the clay floor, the priest in
a wrinkled khaki uniform and heavy trench boots, his only vestment a
small white stole worn over his tunic--yet, in each case Jesus had come
to the young officer!

Chapter LXIV

INCAPACITATED

The work at Ecurie Wood was most consoling, but the shelling was
incessant and we were having many funerals in the military cemetery
down the hill at Roclincourt. The Fourteenth Battalion suffered most.
Early one morning a shell burst in the headquarters hut, wounding the
colonel, killing the second in command and the adjutant, and disabling
other officers and privates. The whole camp was under observation and
Fritz was doing deadly work.

One Sunday morning, as I prepared for the Holy Sacrifice, I seemed to
feel much better than I had felt for some time; and as I preached,
the words came quickly and without any great effort. I wondered why I
should feel so well. But after Mass, as I walked back to my hut after
having seen so many of those wonderful lads receive Holy Communion,
I raised my hand to my forehead; it was very warm and the day was
cool--in fact, a fine mist of rain was falling. I now began to feel
slightly dizzy and more inclined to rest on my camp bed than to drink
my cup of tea.

George came in, looked at me once, placed the cup of tea beside me on
the seat, looked at me again, and then told me I didn’t look very well.
I told him I did not feel very well. Both agreed that I would be better
in bed, so I went.

The corporal of the stretcher-bearers came in, shook his little
thermometer, looked at it, shook it again, then told me to open my
mouth. He placed it under my tongue. Then, while I looked at the
ceiling of the hut, he waited.

“One hundred and two,” said the corporal.

“Is that high?” I asked, for I could not remember ever having my
temperature taken before.

“High enough,” he said. Then he told me I had a malady that was
becoming very prevalent in the army. He did not know what to call it.
Later, it was called the “flu.”

I remained in bed for nearly a week, and it was one of the finest weeks
I spent in the army; so many officers and men came into the little hut
to see me. I was just beginning to understand the charity of the army.

Just as I was getting about again the Fifty-first Division of Scotch
Highlanders came into our area. This was the division that had met
almost every advance of the enemy, so that even the Germans themselves
could not but admire them. A sergeant in one of the battalions of the
division possessed a paper for which he had refused six pounds: for the
paper had been dropped into their lines from a German airplane, and
this is what was written on it: “Good old Fifty-first still sticking
it! Cheerio!”

Chapter LXV

ANZIN AND MONCHY BRETON

The Fifty-first “took over” from us and we went to Anzin. Here it was
much quieter and the battalion prepared to rest. I took charge of the
village church, for I was the only chaplain in the area. The first
day I swept it out and dusted the altar and sanctuary rail. The next
morning I said Mass, and after Mass a little sanctuary lamp twinkled
softly before the altar. The Guest had come!

There was a beautiful statue of Our Lady in the church, and as it was
her month I decorated it as well as I could. A long walk by the Scarpe
River, which flowed its narrow though very pretty way through Anzin,
brought me to the grounds of what had once been a very fine country
residence, now terribly battered from shell-fire. The road that led to
it sloped up from the river, and as I walked along it, this beautiful
May day, from the dark recesses of the trees came the repeated solitary
call of the cuckoo. I stopped to listen. The whole countryside seemed
very quiet and peaceful, save for the faint rumble, from far away, of
our guns.

Though the grounds were pitted in different places with old
shell-holes, many flowers grew in the garden. I picked some white
lilacs, although the season for these was now growing late, and a large
bunch of Parma violets. It was very quiet and still there in the old
French garden, but I could hear German shells whining through the air
and dropping in a little village not very far away.

Somewhere along the line battles were being fought, and I supposed
the British were losing ground and that many men were being taken
prisoners. Up to this time we Canadians had not lost any men as
prisoners and had given no ground except a mile in depth near
Neuville-Vitasse when we found ourselves placed in a very dangerous
position by the general retreat of British troops, which in some places
was more than twenty miles in depth.

Towards the end of May good news came to us. We were going back to
rest. And it was to be a long rest, among green fields, far from the
sound of the guns and the sights of the battlefield.

It was Saturday when we arrived in our rest billets after a long march
through a peaceful countryside. My battalions were scattered in four
different villages and I was very busy Saturday afternoon arranging
for Masses. Up to this time our rest billets had been always in mining
towns or districts, but now we had come to one of the most beautiful
countrysides I had ever seen. Open, unfenced farmlands stretched before
us, while here and there clumps of ancient wide-spreading trees, almost
hiding from view the little white-walled, red-roofed houses beneath
them, rose as dark-green islands in a light-green sea. The memory of
that Saturday afternoon is very vivid with me yet. It had been a warm
day and the long, dusty march had been most fatiguing. I was finding
some difficulty in arranging hours for Masses, and towards three
o’clock I dismounted from my bicycle, sat by the roadside and wiped
my forehead. Everything was intensely quiet; a Sabbath-day stillness
was over all the land. It seemed more like a beautiful dream than a
reality. For months I had been in the gruesome atmosphere of war,
gazing on broken villages, torn roads and ruined farmlands, walking
always in danger and “in the shadow of death” through a country utterly
desolate, and foully marred by the ingenuity of men. Now my eye was
being filled with the beauty of all things around me, of the wonderful
things of God.

I picked a wild flower of a variety that grew in profusion along the
roadside. It was about one-third the size of a morning-glory and
somewhat similar in shape. It was white, and so delicate that it seemed
almost transparent. As I gazed on its wonderful formation, my mind
dwelt on God and all the beautiful things He had created; then my
thoughts were of the soul and then of my men. Presently the plan of my
sermon for the following day was mentally outlined.

It was twelve o’clock Saturday night when I finished my work.

Chapter LXVI

A NEW SHEEP

I awoke the next morning to the sweet sounds of singing birds; to the
glorious view of fresh green fields and peaceful lanes. I rode about
three miles on my bicycle to a hamlet called Bailleul-aux-Cornailles
where I said Mass at nine o’clock for the Thirteenth Battalion,
which was quartered here, and a great number of the French civilian
population. The curé of the parish was a soldier in the French army and
was on duty in a large military hospital at St. Paul, about fifteen
miles away. I made arrangements to be at the parish church certain
evenings in the week for confessions. After this Mass I rode four miles
further to Ostreville, where I said Mass for the Fourteenth, which
was quartered here. The men were all there when I arrived. I found
them sitting in the cemetery under century-old trees or along the low
stone fence. I preached the same sermon that I had preached for the
Thirteenth and it made a remarkable impression upon them. First I
spoke to them briefly of the awful scenes we had been witnessing for
some time; then I dwelt on the wonderful beauty and peace all around
us. God had made the whole world beautiful; we had seen how foully men
had marred it. But God’s masterpiece of beauty was our own soul, and
each one of us knew just how much we had marred that beauty. Then I
told those lads that perhaps there were some amongst us who had stained
greatly their immortal souls, who had done things for which certain of
their friends might despise them, might turn them down. But God, in His
infinite love, would not turn them down. God was ready to receive them,
to blot out all their iniquities, to cleanse them, to make their souls
beautiful again. As I continued, I saw a wonderful sight. I saw tears
in the eyes of big, strong men, I saw them bowing their heads as they
reached for their khaki handkerchiefs. It was one of the strangest and
sweetest experiences I had in the war.

After Mass, when I had got just beyond the village, I dismounted,
sat on the side of the road and began to eat the luncheon I had
brought--some sandwiches of cheese and jam and a water-bottle full
of cocoa. Rye was growing all about me, and it was yet dark green in
color. After I had finished my luncheon, I stood up to measure it, and
found that it was almost as tall as I. It must have been at least five
feet in height. Two or three weeks later I walked along a path through
a field of rye which was so high that I could see only the stalks on
either side of me and the heads just above me.

On Monday I learned that we were out for a long rest. Our program
included drilling in the mornings and games in the afternoon. From
the nature of the drilling it was clear to all of us that we were
training for an attack on Fritz. Part of the morning the men followed
the tanks that clanked their ungainly way through beautiful fields of
rye and wheat. We did not know till August why they were so ruthlessly
destroyed.

One evening while I was sitting in the very small room which was my
billet, a stout, red-faced soldier in a rather soiled uniform came in
to see me. He saluted and I waited for him to state his business.

“Father,” he said, “I should like to become a Catholic.”

“Going to be married?” I questioned.

An amused smile stole quietly over his face as he replied: “No, Father.
I am already married and have five children.”

Then it was my turn to smile. I had judged him to be about twenty-two
or twenty-three, but now I noticed that his hair was turning grey about
the temples. I asked him to sit down, which he did, after removing his
military cap. Then I saw that he was quite bald.

We commenced instructions, and as the days went by I found him very
quick to understand the different things I explained. Now and then he
would ask such intelligent questions that I would start involuntarily.
At last I asked him what he did in civil life.

“I am a solicitor, Father,” he said quietly. I was very much surprised.
It had never occurred to me that the soldier sitting before me in
his greasy uniform was a lawyer. On June 7th, in the little church of
Monchy Breton, I baptized him and received him into the church.

Chapter LXVII

NOTRE DAME D’ARDENNES

The soldiers greatly enjoyed the rest in this lovely district. It was
very pleasant to bicycle through the country lanes to quaint churches
where Catholic lads waited in the evening to go to confession.

When I heard confessions for the Thirteenth at Bailleul-aux-Cornailles,
I often stopped in the presbytery for tea. The mother and father of
the curé lived there. Perhaps I should not say tea, for it was always
milk and bread and honey that the kind old people gave me. They had
their own apiary in the beautiful garden. The priest’s old father was
very interesting and I enjoyed greatly the stories he told me while he
sipped his wine and I drank my milk from the large white cup. He had
lived in Arras before the war and was eager to hear what I had to tell
him of my experiences there. I recall how anxiously he inquired about
the church of Notre Dame d’Ardennes, whether it had been struck. I did
not know all the churches of Arras by name, but I was very sorry to
say that I thought nearly every one had been struck by the Germans. I
could recall but one, which I had passed frequently on my way to the
railway station (Gare du Nord), that had not been struck. I went on to
describe it--a large red-brick building.

“That’s it! That’s it!” he cried. “It’s the Church of Notre Dame
d’Ardennes.” The old man’s eyes brightened as he spoke.

“Well,” I said, “if that is the Church of Notre Dame d’Ardennes, you
need not worry, for it is still standing intact.”

The old lady, who sat near me, her hand near enough to the jug of milk
to replenish my cup almost as fast as I made room in it for more milk,
exchanged looks with her husband, and although neither spoke for a
while, there was such significance in their glances that I felt eager
to hear the history of Notre Dame d’Ardennes. I did not have to wait
long, for presently the old man began to speak. As I listened, I held
the palm of my hand spread wide over the top of my cup, for there was
still plenty of milk left, and the kind old mother of the priest was
beaming with hospitality; but I felt I could not drink all the milk in
the jug!

During the fourth century--to be exact, in the year 371--there had been
a severe famine in Arras. The people, being very pious, had recourse
to prayer and in answer to their supplications manna fell from heaven.
“The sacred Manna,” as it was called, was gathered by the people and
for a long time some of it was kept and venerated by the people of
Notre Dame d’Ardennes. Then there was “the holy candle,” kept in the
Church of Notre Dame d’Ardennes. During a severe epidemic in the year
1105 this wax candle had been sent from heaven to Bishop Lambert. After
it had burned for some time, the plague stopped.

I had seen many strange things on the Western Front, so that I wondered
not that Notre Dame d’Ardennes was unscathed.

During those beautiful June days from after Mass till three o’clock, p.
m., I had not much to do. I usually read books or wrote a little, while
I sat under the tall trees in the open field behind the house where I
was billeted. One afternoon while I was reading under the trees a young
officer in the tartan of the Sixteenth came up to see me. He was a fine
looking young fellow and had but lately returned to the battalion after
a long absence. He was very downhearted and, although not a Catholic,
had come to have a talk with me. (Non-Catholics often came to have a
talk with me.) He was a captain and had come back expecting to hold his
old position in the battalion. But, at times, promotion is rapid in the
army and he found that men who were his subordinates when he went away
were now of equal or superior rank. His position was now held by one
who had come through many conflicts. There was no work for him to do.
He felt a stranger among these new officers. He was returning to the
officers’ reserve.

I listened quietly till he had told me all his troubles. Sometimes
it is a relief to have some one listen when one’s heart is weighed
down, but I am afraid I did not say very much that could help him. Had
I possessed the gift of foresight, I could have told this anxious
young officer that before three months the officers’ ranks would be so
thinned that orders would come to him to report for duty immediately
at the front. But I did not know then that about the end of September
I was to meet him again, coming up a shell-swept road in a terribly
devastated countryside, with the eager smile of a boy on his fine young
face.

Just beyond where I was billeted stood a large wooden structure that
was being used by the Y. M. C. A. as a moving-picture theatre. In
the army the name given to these places of amusement was “cinema.”
During the day the concert party of the Sixteenth was practicing a
play, entitled “A Little Bit of Shamrock,” one of the chief characters
of which was a priest. George had spoken to me of the play, for he
had seen one or two practices. Now, I had seen a play staged by this
very cast some time before in which was portrayed a minister, a most
effeminate character, whose chief mission, it seemed, was to display a
very great ignorance of life in general. The amusement for the audience
was furnished by him as often as he was shocked or scandalized. The
actor who had taken the part of the minister was now to take the part
of the priest.

I went to the director of the company, who was an officer from the
Second Division, and told him quietly that I had seen the play his
company had put on before, and that I had not admired his clergyman,
though I thought the actor had done excellent work. I hoped the
character of the priest in the forthcoming play would not be like that.

The director looked at me, and I liked the bright smile that spread
over his pleasant face. “Don’t worry, Padre,” he said. “I think you
will like Father O’Flynn. I have a lot of friends who are priests. I
like them. I always like to talk to priests of your church, Padre. They
are--they are--oh,--so _human_, Padre.” And then he smiled a guileless
smile, so that I understood that by ‘human’ the young officer had meant
something complimentary.

Many days were to pass before I should see the play.

Chapter LXVIII

THE PROCESSION

Sunday within the octave of Corpus Christi was a beautiful day. Just
before I began Mass for the Thirteenth at Bailleul-aux-Cornailles the
father of M. le Curé came in to see me. The usual great procession
of the Blessed Sacrament had been planned, but word had come from
the parish priest that he could not be present for Mass, and that
very likely he would not be able to reach the church in time for the
procession, which was to start at half-past three in the afternoon. If
M. le Curé could not come, would M. l’Aumonier have the goodness, if
it would not inconvenience him too much, to carry _le Bon Dieu_ in the
procession?

I assured the good people that I would be only too pleased to have the
great honor of carrying the Blessed Sacrament in their procession. They
promised to send a messenger to let me know whether or not the curé
would come for the procession, as they would have definite word by
twelve o’clock.

At one o’clock, while I was taking lunch, a messenger arrived from
Bailleul-aux-Cornailles saying that M. le Curé could not come for the
procession, and that the whole parish respectfully requested me to
carry the Blessed Sacrament.

When I reached the village for a second time that day, I found all
along the way evidences of great preparations. On each side of the
road approaching the church, for a long distance, at intervals of
about twenty feet, saplings of different trees had been placed so
that they appeared to be growing there. Little girls, robed in
white, were flitting along the road, some carrying banners, others
holding decorated baskets of cut flowers. From one side of the road a
narrow lane, arched darkly by old trees, led to a brightly decorated
altar under a large Calvary. Just opposite the orderly room of the
Thirteenth, where the road turned down to the village church, a high
green arch had been erected, and on either side appeared in silver
letters the words, “Panis Angelicus.” Alongside the arch was built
another repository. While I was admiring this, for there was yet much
time, the adjutant of the Thirteenth came down from the orderly room
and asked me the meaning of all the great preparations.

When I explained as briefly as possible what was going to take place,
he seemed surprised that I was going to take part in the procession.
He wondered how it happened that I should know what to do among these
strange people.

The people were strange, but the religion was not.

At half-past three, sharp, the procession left the church. It was
led by a white-surpliced, red-cinctured sanctuary boy, carrying the
processional cross. Behind him walked about a dozen confrères similarly
clad; then came the young boys of the parish, with white ribbons on
their arms. A lad perhaps eleven years of age followed, clad in the
skins of animals and carrying a small cross on which were the words
“Ecce Agnus Dei.” The little girls, in snow-white dresses, came next,
and a few feet behind the column walked a young girl of perhaps
fifteen or sixteen, wearing a long cream-colored dress with white,
gold-bordered wings coming out from her shoulders; a band of gold
encircled her head, to which was attached a gold star which shone above
her forehead; her right hand was raised and the index finger pointed
always towards the sky. Then came four young girls in white carrying
on a pedestal the statue of Our Lady, and four others, bearing on high
the statue of the Sacred Heart. The women of the parish, most of them
wearing a kind of light-blue badge, were next, followed by the men of
the parish, with here and there the blue uniform of a French soldier
home on leave. A few khaki-clad lads also walked, but I think they were
strangers. (I wondered where my lads of the Thirteenth were.) Then came
the choir of middle-aged men singing hymns that today were being sung
over all the world, “Lauda Sion Salvatoris,” “Pange Lingua” and “Panis
Angelicus.” Behind these walked six little girls strewing flowers in
the way and two sanctuary boys swinging censers. Lastly, came four old
men, no caps on their venerable heads, bearing on high the white and
gold canopy over Jesus Host in the great gold monstrance, carried by a
Canadian priest in the beautiful Benediction vestments.

The vari-colored procession went slowly down the village street,
banners carried aloft and the beautiful old Eucharistic hymns sounding
on the summer air, while very old people and others who for one reason
or another could not take part in the procession knelt reverently in
the dust on the roadside, as Jesus passed.

Then something happened that had never before happened in that little
village during a procession of the Blessed Sacrament. Lining each side
of the road for quite a distance were men of the Thirteenth Battalion,
Catholic and Protestant, and as the procession moved slowly along in
all the sweet simplicity of the deep faith of these French peasants,
the soldiers stood reverently to attention.

I felt proud of these lads. We had met together in many strange places;
but I am sure I shall never forget those gay, light-hearted lads
standing so quietly and reverently as we passed--Jesus and I!

Chapter LXIX

ON LEAVE

I had now been in France about one year and had had no “leave.” During
this period of the war officers were entitled to leave every six
months. I had not applied when the first six months were up, as I was
too busy at the time. Now I had applied and daily I was awaiting my
warrant. The Sunday following the procession I had just returned home
after Mass when a runner from headquarters arrived to tell me that my
warrant had come from brigade headquarters and that if I would call
at the battalion orderly room and sign the necessary papers, I could
procure it.

I left a little place called Tinques at five o’clock and although
the distance was only fifty miles, it was six o’clock the following
morning when we arrived at Boulogne. The “Pullman” was of the side-door
variety; sometimes it held eight horses and at other times forty men.
It seemed to me, as we sat so closely packed on the floor of the car,
as if there were more than forty of us. I sat the whole night long with
my chin almost resting on my knees. It would not do to stand, for the
space thus made would be quickly filled, so that it would be almost
impossible to sit down again. Although many miles away from the sound
of the guns and cheered, furthermore, by the thought of fourteen days’
leave, I have always felt that that night-ride was one of the hardest
of the war, for sitting in that cramped position became actually
painful. I longed to stretch my limbs, but this was impossible. It
was cold in the car, for the doors were kept open so that we could
have air. It is almost incredible how that boxcar bumped us about. But
even through these hardships we were compelled to laugh from time to
time at some witty joke or at some incident that was funny, though not
meant to be so. Once quite an altercation arose between an officer and
a private; the officer was accusing the soldier of actually putting his
feet in the officer’s face. The soldier thus accused was protesting in
a very high-pitched voice: “They ain’t my feet! They ain’t my feet!”

Everybody was laughing. Then came the gruff voice of the officer,
demanding: “Well, whose feet are they?” But nobody seemed to know whose
feet they were.

Chapter LXX

ST. MICHAEL’S CLUB

St. Michael’s Club, 38 Grosvenor Gardens, London, was an ideal hostel
for priests, as it was open only to men in Holy Orders. Before the war
it had been the city residence of Lady Lovat. But shortly after the
commencement of hostilities it had been rented from her by the Duchess
of Norfolk and very kindly given over as a club for priests.

Though there were many chaplains in the building when I arrived, I was
lucky enough to secure an airy room. I actually felt like a boy as I
took off my haversack and flung it on the bed, after the hall porter
had left the room. It seemed so good to think that for fourteen days
the danger of being shot or blown up by shell was very remote. Then
there were many friends and brother priests in the house, and outside
the door was London, and in London there were lots of bookshops, and to
a booklover this meant bliss. The cathedral was but ten minutes’ walk
from the club, but we had our own little chapel in the building, and
the chaplains had the privilege of saying Mass there.

In the smoking-room, which was on the ground floor, there were many
large and deep-cushioned armchairs that were very comfortable. There
was a big open fire-place and whenever the weather was damp or gloomy
outside in the London streets a bright fire burned in it; one could
count on there being a fire very often. Sometimes in the evenings it
would be very quiet in the great wide room, as the priests sat around
reading the evening papers, the only sounds being the occasional
crackle of a newspaper, as it was turned, and the purring of the fire.
From outside could be heard faintly the dull roar of the city, made up
of a medley of sounds: the rumbling of great elephantine busses that
bumped along the streets; the whir of hundreds of taxis spinning along
over the pavement, the rattle of wagons and squeaking of innumerable
horns. Now and then the house would shake very slightly, though
perceptibly, as far below the basement the cars of the underground
railway whizzed through the tubes.

I stayed at the club for four or five days and enjoyed very much the
time spent there. Bishop Fallon, a Canadian prelate, whose diocese was
London, Ontario, was staying at the club. He had but recently returned
from a visit to the Canadian soldiers at the front and was soon to go
to Rome. I met there, also, the chaplain-general to the New York state
forces, Monsignor James N. Connolly. He was a most lovable man and I
enjoyed talking to him in the evening. He was vicar-general to the
Catholic chaplain-bishop. He gave me his address, Hotel Castiglione,
Paris, and told me to call on him if I ever visited that city.

Staying at the club were Irish, English, Scotch, American, Australian,
New Zealand and Canadian priests. And of all the chaplains I found the
Americans the finest. They were lovable, friendly, broad-minded men;
one needed only to be in the room a few seconds till he was on speaking
terms with the American priest. There was a certain friendliness about
him that was irresistible. “I’m Father Whalen, from Dubuque, Father,”
or, “I’m Father Joyce from naval headquarters in London, Father,” or,
“I’m Father Waring from New York City, Father,” would greet you on
meeting for the first time one of these priests. Whereas an English
priest would look at you coldly, and perhaps say in a chilly voice:
“Good-evening, Father.”

Father Knox came up from Bramshott and invited me down. He said he
had a surprise for me. I wondered what it was. Shortly after seeing
Father Knox I received an invitation to spend a few days at Anthony
Place, Hindhead, Surrey, the country home of Agnes and Egerton Castle,
co-authors of many books. Hindhead was only about three miles from
Bramshott. I had visited Anthony Place while there. I promised Father
Knox to visit Bramshott from Hindhead.

Chapter LXXI

PARKMINSTER AGAIN

Father Knox returned to Bramshott the following morning and in the
afternoon I left for Parkminster. The life at the front had been one
of such excitement and turmoil and frequent changes that I longed for
quiet and peace. The very day I left for Parkminster Bishop Fallon
and party left by auto for Oxford University. They had invited me
to accompany them, but I had already made arrangements to revisit
Parkminster and did not wish to change my program. I shall always
feel sorry, however, not only that I missed seeing Oxford University,
but also that I lost the opportunity of meeting a number of priests
whose names were then famous in the literary world, among them Fathers
Martindale, Plater and Ricaby.

It was a beautiful afternoon when I walked up the winding drive
that led to the gates of the monastery. This time I was greeted as
an old friend. But the aged monk who had been Retreat Master on my
former visit did not appear this time. He had been succeeded by an
alert young English priest who, I think, had but lately come to the
monastery. I missed greatly the dear old priest with whom I had made my
former retreat.

This time I did not settle down to the deep quiet of the monastery. The
year at the front had done its work too well, and I now experienced
the effects of that tension which all who have taken part in the World
War know so well. A strange restlessness possessed me, and I felt a
distinct relief when my time was up. But a little surprise was awaiting
me.

I was told, when about to leave, that the prior wished to see me, and
so I waited in the parlor till he came. He was a very tall man and I
think had he followed the routine of life that ordinary mortals follow
he would have been fat. But now he was slight. He was from France,
but had been at Parkminster a number of years. He enquired about my
work and I related some of my military experiences. He took a great
interest in all I told him, and agreed with me that the war, terrible
as it was, was bringing many souls back to God. When I told him of the
procession of the Blessed Sacrament at Bailleul-aux-Cornailles his eyes
opened wide and he looked at me strangely, so that for a second or two
I became just a little perturbed.

“Where,” he asked quickly, “did this procession take place?” as if he
felt he had not heard aright.

“At Bailleul-aux-Cornailles,” I repeated.

Then he sat back in his chair and the tense look went out of his face
and he regarded me smilingly. “Why,” he said, “that is my own parish.
It was there I was born!”

It was now my turn to be surprised, and I am afraid I did not pay very
much attention to his words as he continued speaking. I just sat there
quietly wondering at the strange things that take place up and down the
ways of the world.

Chapter LXXII

ANOTHER SURPRISE

From Parkminster I went to Hindhead and I was delighted with the
cordial reception given me by Mr. and Mrs. and Miss Castle. Their home,
almost hidden from the road, looked down into a valley, and then away
across a moor that stretched up and over a long, high hill.

I was not the only guest in the house. There was a private chapel
upstairs, and they had been given the rare privilege of having the
Blessed Sacrament reserved in the little tabernacle. Here I said Mass
each morning for the household, and nearly all went to Holy Communion.

The following morning I went up to Bramshott to see Father Knox. He had
now a beautiful chapel built near the C. W. L. hut, under the patronage
of St. Peter and St. Paul; so now the Catholics were no longer obliged
to use the garrison church hut. After I had talked with him for a
while, he told me to go alone to the hospital, which was just a few
hundred feet away. Somebody wished to see me in Ward 18, bed 20. “You
will see what you will see,” said Father Knox enigmatically, as he
followed me to the door.

This is what I saw after I had entered Ward 18 and had walked a few
steps down the aisle. A young fellow was sitting up in bed 20, his
finger marking the place in a little black book with red edges, his
eyes smiling a friendly greeting. But who was he? I approached still
nearer. Then I recognized him. It was the Spanish lad who had come to
Father Knox’s room about one year and a half before to tell him that he
had lost the faith and was no longer a Catholic.

He seemed glad to see me and held my hand after he had shaken it. I
also was very pleased to see him, for the strained look that I had
noticed when I first met him had gone from his eyes, and instead there
was a look of real joy there. The little book he held in his hand was
“The Imitation of Christ.”

“It is all right! It is all right!” he kept repeating, as he smiled up
into my face. “I have gone to communion. I have made peace. I am very
glad.”

I, too, was very glad. I had thought of him often and had asked other
priests to bring him back. And here he was now, safe in his Father’s
house! The strayed sheep had come back into the fold. Not for a long
time had I felt so happy! I remember now, as I returned to Anthony
Place that day, while walking along a secluded part of the way,
twirling my cane around my fingers as the drum major does at the head
of a procession.

Chapter LXXIII

BACK TO THE BATTALION

The men were never told on coming back from leave where they might
find their battalion; and when the troops were on the move often a
soldier was put to very great inconvenience trying to reach his unit.
I, however, was in great good luck, for just at the base of Mount
St. Eloi, while the train stopped, I noticed some of the soldiers of
the Sixteenth standing near by. I called one of them and asked the
whereabouts of the battalion.

“Just over here in Ecoivres, sir,” he said. I stepped out of the train
and in twenty minutes was sitting in the transport mess talking of my
leave.

I had found my friends in England somewhat downhearted, which was but
natural considering the great losses the British army had sustained
during the recent German advances. On all sides one heard only gloomy
forebodings as to future attacks. But back again among the gruesome
scenes of devastation and ruin, I was struck more than ever by the
buoyancy and light-heartedness of the troops. Here were no gloomy
forebodings, but on all sides were friendly faces and the air was merry
with sounds of whistling, singing, bugle calls, practicing bands, and
good-natured banter. Of one thing I felt sure--old “Major Gloom” did
not belong to the Third Canadian Brigade!

After I had talked awhile with the quartermaster and transport officer,
my mail was brought in. It was very large, the accumulation of two
weeks. It was a long while before I had finished reading all the
letters. The transport officer had gone outside, but the quartermaster
was in the room adjoining the mess, from which came now and then little
explosions of partly suppressed laughter. And whilst I read my letters
I wondered what was the cause of the mirth. In a little while the
quartermaster came out of the room and stopped in passing to ask me if
I had ever read “Seventeen” by Booth Tarkington. Indeed, I had, and I
wondered no longer why sounds of laughter had drifted out to me.

Among my letters were a few edged in black. One of these, heavily
crossed by a blue pencil, was registered, and when I opened it a
ten-dollar bill dropped to the table. I had been accustomed to
receiving many letters edged in black, answers to those I had written
to next of kin at home, telling them of the death of dear ones, and how
they had been prepared to meet God. It was not often, however, that
they came registered. But as I read the letter I forgot altogether that
a ten-dollar bill had dropped from it and was now lying on the table.

The letter was from the wife of Captain Waud, the young officer who had
fallen at the head of his men--he who had knelt so reverently with them
to receive Holy Communion that day in New Plymouth Cave. It was not
only a beautiful letter, with a deep note of Catholic faith sounding
throughout it, but it told me something of the young officer that I
had not known. He had not always been a Catholic. I learned from the
letter that he had been wounded previously. “You know, he did not have
to go back to France,” wrote Mrs. Waud, “but duty called, so I let him
go with as brave a heart as I could, and brought my little son home.
I had prayed so that my husband would be spared to me, but indeed God
knows best and He is helping me now. Everything of that last day is
comforting and very beautiful. And although the heartache and longing
will not leave, I feel that I have a great deal to be thankful for. I
am enclosing a little offering for whatever lies near your heart. It
is little and I wish it were more. I thank you for all you have done
for my husband, and indeed I will pray for your lads. Trusting that you
will remember me, and that God will give me the grace to do my duty as
worthily as my husband did his, I am, gratefully yours, Ruth Waud.”

For a long time I sat there thinking of the letter I held in my hand,
and then of other letters that had come to me from time to time. And
I thought how many women there must be over the world bearing great
sorrows, but the eyes of the world were not focused on these! They
were on the battalions that had marched away to the war while flags
fluttered and bands played and people cheered. They watched the papers
for accounts of great deeds of arms. But whenever I read such letters
my thoughts would go back to the roads over which the soldiers had
marched so bravely away, and I would see figures leaning over gates,
white handkerchiefs held to eyes that had strained down the white
dusty road over which their soldier sons or husbands had marched away.
They would go back into silent rooms where so many little things
would remind them of their men. Then, as the days would pass, to many
would come words to chill the heart and make homes desolate: “Killed
in Action.” Whenever I wrote to these poor mothers or wives, I would
see a great lonely hill, on which stood a cross whereon was nailed a
scourged, thorn-crowned Figure whose eyes rested with great pity on one
who stood below--the Mater Dolorosa. It was on her feast, the Feast of
the Seven Dolors, that the bishop had decided I should go to the war,
and perhaps it was she who helped me to write the letters of sympathy
that brought comfort to so many sorrowful hearts. With the ten-dollar
bill I bought comforts for the men.

Chapter LXXIV

NO MAN’S LAND AGAIN

I was billeted in a little hut with the billeting officer. It was a
very tiny hut, with two berths in it, one above the other. As I was on
leave when the battalion came to Ecoivres, no provision had been made
for me, so I was obliged to share the billeting officer’s hut which
he so kindly offered. He was a genial companion, but he used to sit up
very late at night puzzling over a chess-board. He was playing a game
of chess with a partner who was actually residing in England, and every
night, after great puzzling over the board, he was obliged to write the
result of his efforts to his partner in England. One evening--I suppose
it was his partner’s turn to play and it was for this reason that
his chess-board was idle--he took his Bible from his table and said,
naively: “Now, Padre, I won’t try to change your views, and you won’t
try to change mine, but just take your Bible, and I will read certain
passages from mine, and you will read the same passages from yours.”

I could not help smiling, as I reached for my Bible, at the thought of
the billeting officer not wishing to change my views, for these words
had just come to my mind: “Upon this rock I will build My Church.”

I can’t recall the texts he picked out and asked me to read from my
Bible, but I remember that each one seemed contrary to the teachings
of the Catholic Church on the subject treated. As every one familiar
with the Douai-Rheims version of the Bible knows, there are little
notes on texts that might be disputed, giving the true meaning and also
reference to other texts which would prove the teaching. Glancing at
the footnote, I would give the true interpretation and then refer the
amateur exegete to the other texts. In a little while he closed his
Bible. “Why, Padre,” he exclaimed, “you know the whole Bible by heart!”

“Well,” I said modestly, as I suppressed a desire to smile, “I don’t
think I know it by heart, but you know it is my business to teach the
truths that are in it,”--but I did not mention the foot-notes!

The following morning the billeting officer came hurriedly into the
room. “Padre,” he said, “we are leaving here tomorrow night for the
trenches. We’re taking over the line in front of Monchy.”

For just a second or two a peculiar numbness seemed to spread through
every nerve in my body: it was nothing new, however, for years before,
when a boy at the public school, after the teacher had opened the
drawer in her desk and removed a black, snakelike piece of leather, and
had said quietly: “Bennie Murdoch, come up here,” this strange numbness
had come over me together with a slight contraction of the muscles of
the throat.

But it quickly passed, and after I had swallowed once or twice to make
sure of my throat, I said the obvious thing: “Well, that means another
move!”

Going into the trenches was not the only hard piece of work I had to
do. A very difficult task was before me, though I did not know it till
I went up to the mess for lunch. Three or four letters were lying near
my plate. One envelope was much larger than the others and bore in the
upper left-hand corner the words “Assembly Chamber, State of New York,
Albany” and beneath, was the address of Joseph V. McKee, 890 East 176th
St., New York City, the brother of one of my “Canadians” who was an
American by birth, and had lived all his life in the United States.
There were many such, in the Third Brigade--Private McKee was in the
Fifteenth Battalion. I knew him well and he was one of my very best
Catholics.

I opened the letter and began to read it, and as I did I felt that I
was turning sick. The letter contained a request that I please notify
Private McKee that his mother had departed this life.

After lunch I left on foot for Anzin, for I had learned that the
Fifteenth Battalion was quartered there. It was a distance of only
three miles, yet it was one of the hardest journeys I ever made in
France. Life at the front was very hard for these lads, but it was
always brightened by the hope of finally seeing the dear ones at home.
It had not been very long before, that Private McKee had spoken to me
of his mother. One of the loveliest things in this world is the love of
a good man for his mother. Every step was bringing me nearer the lad,
and I so dreaded the thought of telling him! My head began to pain,
and I went back in memory to the first time I was called on to break
sorrowful news. I had been a priest just a little over a year when one
night the telephone bell rang, and a trembling voice told me one of my
men had been killed by a falling log. There were fifteen men in the
small railway station where the voice was coming from; they were only
about two hundred yards from the house where lived the widow of the man
that was killed, and I was six miles away. Yet not one would break the
terrible news. I was implored to come.

I shall never forget that night. A full moon was throwing its light
over all the white land, darkened here and there by a clump of green,
white-patched trees, but the thought of what I had to do had numbed me
to all sense of beauty. And as I drove along even the horse seemed to
feel what terrible work had to be done, for once he actually stopped
in the road and I had difficulty in starting him; yet I could see no
reason for his having stopped.

As I walked along, dreading all the time what was before me, I noticed
that the soldiers who were quartered along the road wore the purple
patch of the Fifth Division. They were artillerymen. Then a sign on a
door of a shell-torn house told me that an R. C. chaplain dwelt within.
I inferred that it was Father McPherson, the Fifth Divisional Artillery
chaplain, one of the holiest priests in France; often I had seen him
kneeling down in a dugout or some poor billet reading his Breviary.

I knocked on the door and was shown up to Father McPherson’s room, and
the sight of his pleasant kindly face did me good. I told him of the
task I had to perform. He spoke sympathetically and invited me to call
in on my return and have tea with him.

After leaving Father McPherson, the thought of what I had to do did not
weigh so heavily. Perhaps it was that the prayers of the good priest I
had just left followed me.

They told me at the Fifteenth Battalion orderly room that Private McKee
was quarantined,--the “flu” was now becoming quite prevalent among the
men. I found him sitting in a bell tent, one of a group pitched in a
large garden of a chateau. I called him, and when he came we walked up
and down a long garden path under the trees while I broke as gently as
I could the terrible news I had for him.

He took it well--took it bravely and quietly like the good soldier
he was, with great submission to the holy will of God, like the good
Catholic his dear mother had brought him up to be. I talked with him a
little while, and when I left I asked Our Lady of the Seven Dolors to
stay with the lad and to comfort him.

Chapter LXXV

NO MAN’S LAND

The following day we took over the line just before Monchy. The
quartermaster, transport officer and I had a nice little mess at
Berneville, near Arras. I was billeted with the curé of Berneville and
he proved a friendly old man. His old sister was housekeeper for him.
She was very kind, and George received many cups of hot coffee.

It did not happen very often that battalion headquarters were in the
front line trench; yet it so happened when we were at Monchy. Indeed,
the first night, on going up to the trenches, I actually walked through
No Man’s Land in order to reach headquarters’ dugout. It was a part of
the line that we had retaken from the Germans, and for this reason the
opening of the shaft leading down to the dugout faced the German front
instead of our own back area.

The second night I spent in the line at Monchy I was awakened suddenly
by a terrific bombardment by the Germans. The dugout was shaking from
the concussion of the shells bursting on the ground above us. I had
been sleeping fully dressed and with my trench coat on; for although
it was July it was very cold underground. My bed was a berth of
meshed wire stretched between rough scantling--nothing else, not even
a blanket; my pillow was my haversack. When I awoke I was trembling
violently, I was not sure whether through cold or fear. Yet after I
stood up and walked up and down a little while talking to the officers,
I ceased to tremble.

The Germans were putting on a box barrage, that is, they were
bombarding us in such a way that the shells were dropping behind us,
and to our left and right, so that we could not retreat and no troops
could come to our aid. The only way open to approach us was from the
German trenches opposite, by way of No Man’s Land. This was the way the
Germans would be coming presently, either to order us up or to throw
bombs or tubes of amenol down to blow us into minutest fragments. We
talked quietly as we waited there at bay; but we were all a little
nervous. I shall never forget those minutes we spent there, caught like
rats in a trap.

We waited and waited; the very atmosphere of the dugout seemed heavy
and sickening. Then suddenly the bombarding ceased. Surely, Fritz
had not changed his mind; yet it was always under cover of his own
artillery fire that he made his advances or raids. We became a little
cheerful. Finally, after half an hour of quiet we concluded that for
some unknown reason Fritz had decided not to come. Then, our hearts
filled with relief, we sat about the candle-lit dugout chatting like
happy boys on their way home for vacation.

The following morning, with God’s beautiful sunlight over all the land,
I stepped out into No Man’s Land with Colonel Peck and we took a little
walk. Beautiful red flowers resembling in size and shape the sweet pea,
only they were short-stemmed and in clusters, grew near an old pile of
stones. It was the first time I had ever seen flowers growing in “No
Man’s Land,” and I began to pick a few. The colonel, however, told me
to hurry. Indeed, it was no place to loiter, for although No Man’s Land
was very wide here, one could see the parapets of the German trenches.

Chapter LXXVI

CAMBLIGNEUL

Here we came for a week’s rest after our turn in the line. We little
knew then what strenuous days were before us, nor what terrible toll
was to be taken of our ranks before we would rest again. It was a very
pretty countryside, though not so open as the area we had occupied in
June.

It was now the end of July, and although my troops were scattered over
very wide areas I managed to do good work with the Thirteenth and
Fourteenth. Indeed, one evening I found one hundred and twenty-five
lads of the Fourteenth waiting for me in a quaint little church at a
place called Chelers, or Villers-Chatel. This was indeed extraordinary
for an evening during the week, when there was no hint of our soon
leaving for the front line. The Fifteenth and Sixteenth had not been
having a very good chance of late to go to confession. Whenever the
four battalions were separated, I always gave the Thirteenth and
Fourteenth the preference for Masses, as there were more Catholics in
either one of these than in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth together. These
two latter battalions were often obliged to attend the village Mass
said by the curé of the parish in which they happened to be.

August came, and the rich promise that was over all the land in June
was now being fulfilled: great brown stacks of hay, like dark hillocks,
stood over all the green land, and here and there were large golden
patches of rye, weighed and bent low with the full kernels, so that now
they were not much higher than my waist. In fields and gardens were low
bivouacs, about three feet in height, where soldiers slept at night.

Cambligneul was a very small village and had no resident priest but was
served from Camblain L’Abbey, which was only about a mile and a half
distant. I was billeted in a farmhouse not far from the church. The
old lady of the house resembled very much the wife of the captain in
the “Katzenjammer Kids.”

One rainy afternoon the old lady made bread, and as I had never seen
bread made in France, I was very interested in the process. It was a
different one than that employed in country houses at home. The old
lady mixed the dough in a large trough-like affair that resembled a
half-barrel that had been cut horizontally on a wood-horse. Into this
was poured a great quantity of flour and water which the capable arms
of “mamma Katzenjammer” worked quickly into dough. When it was kneaded
sufficiently, an iron door was opened in a large brick oven, and from
it a few embers were quickly drawn. This part of the process surprised
me very much as I did not know that a wood fire had actually been made
in the oven. Then the old lady took a long-handled flat wooden shovel
that stood near the kneaded dough, which had not been set to rise,
but had been placed on paper in flat wicker baskets. She picked up
each basket and upset the dough on the shovel; each basket contained
just enough dough to cover the shovel and still be about two inches
in thickness. The shovel was pushed far into the oven and then with a
quick jerk by the experienced hands of old Madame, was drawn out empty.
When all the dough in the baskets had been put in the oven the door was
closed and, if I remember rightly, it was two hours before the oven was
opened again. It was George who came to tell me that Madame was going
to open the oven. I went out just in time to see the old lady pull to
the front of the oven, by means of a long-handled hook, the great flat
loaves of dark-brown bread: there were fifteen loaves in all, about
one foot and a half in diameter and two inches deep. It was very good
bread, as I discovered when I tasted some the following day.

Before the following Sunday orders came to march. First we went to
Berneville, and on Saturday, after I had arranged for church service
for Sunday, we were moved to Lattre-St. Quentin. The other battalions
were quartered in the same area. It was late Saturday night when I
finished organizing for Sunday; but the services were not to be. More
marching orders came. We were to leave in the morning at five o’clock
for Avesnes-le-Compte, where we were to entrain, destination not given.
The hour had struck; big things were before us.

Chapter LXXVII

A NEW FRONT

It was half-past three Sunday morning when I awoke. I dressed quickly,
went down to the little church and said Mass. When I left the church
the road was filled with soldiers moving in different directions,
carrying mess tins of steaming porridge, across the top of which was
placed some bread and butter with a strip of fried bacon; in the other
hand was the cover of the mess tin filled with hot tea. They were all
joking and in excellent spirits; yet before the following Sunday--

We entrained between eight and nine o’clock and all day long there was
great speculation as to our destination. Some thought that the division
was returning to the Ypres salient; others guessed that we were on our
way up to the North Sea coast. Later in the day it was rumored that we
were going to Etaples, where there was to be more drilling. For awhile
it seemed that we were returning to the area about Etaples. But towards
evening we knew the truth; we were coming into the area on the Somme.

It was late in the evening when we detrained, and to this day I do not
know the name of the place. We took supper and then began to march.
We crossed the Somme River and then in the darkness went through what
seemed to be a very pretty country, one more wooded than I had yet seen
in France. And as we went on and on under ancient wide-spreading trees,
I began to wish it had been daylight, for surely it must have been some
famous forest of France.

There had either been some confusion of orders or else our guides did
not know the way, for we spent the whole night marching over dark
roads, through quiet villages and dense forests. One little scene
stands out in my memory quite vividly. We had been marching for a long
time when the order came ringing through the darkness: “Fall out!” The
men fell out and immediately began to sit around on the damp earth; a
fine mist of rain had been falling for some time. Permission was given
to smoke, and presently hundreds of tiny red circles glowed in the
darkness of the forest.

“Where are we now?” some one asked. Of course he was bombarded with
replies, but none of them proved correct; indeed, many went very wide
of the mark as they meant to do, for they were names of Canadian towns
or countries.

Presently I noticed the white circle of light from a flash-lamp
move over a field map spread out on the ground, and in the relative
silence that had now ensued I listened intently, as the low murmur of
the voices of the officers regarding the map came to my ears. They
mentioned the name of some place but I did not catch it; then one
officer spoke louder, so that I heard quite distinctly: “It’s Picardy
we are now in, Picardy.”

He stopped speaking, and from the opposite side of the glade came the
sound of a murmured conversation. It ceased, and in the silence a
wonderful clear voice began to sing softly, yet not so low but that all
could hear, the song “Roses are Blooming in Picardy.” I had never heard
the song before. It seemed fitting for that young soldier to be singing
there in the damp forest while his companions listened and joined in
the chorus. I suppose for many of those brave young lads who sang the
words had a special significance.

We kept marching slowly, and resting; five o’clock showed on our wrist
watches. Then we came to our halting-place.

It was a strange little village to which we came. Perhaps I should not
say that it was “strange,” for it was built like all other farming
villages of France, but the people were strange: they had never seen
Canadian soldiers before, and only rarely since the beginning of the
war had they seen the soldiers of their own country. All the people
turned out to see us as if a circus had come to town. The soldiers were
treated with very much more consideration than they had been accustomed
to, and the prices in the village stores were extremely low.

I slept a few hours and then took my bicycle and went out to try to
find the Fifteenth Battalion. I could get no information from the
orderly room. Everything was being done with the utmost secrecy; we
might move at any time. But George, ever-faithful George, told me he
had seen the Fifteenth transport officer going to a little village said
to be only three miles distant. I started, but found progress very
difficult once I had left the village. The gentle mist of rain that had
been falling through the night had increased towards morning and caused
the wet, oily clay to adhere to the tires of my bicycle; sometimes the
wheels skidded, and sometimes I was obliged to dismount and remove the
clay that clung so tenaciously to the fork above the front wheel. Once
I saw a number of the Thirteenth going towards a village on my right.
After I had passed them I became worried. I was not sure of finding the
Fifteenth but I felt that I could reach the billets of the Thirteenth
by following the lads I had just seen. I continued a little farther on
my way, still thinking of the Thirteenth. I dismounted, turned, and
began to ride in the direction the Thirteenth soldiers had gone. I
had not gone far, however, when I began to think that after all the
Fifteenth had much greater need of my services than the Thirteenth; for
all I knew then, we might be in the line that very night. I stopped
again in the road and stood by my bicycle. Never in my life had I
felt such indecision, but it was serious work I had to do--perhaps by
tomorrow many of the lads would be killed. And here was I standing in
the road almost in a panic--doing nothing!

I now began to pray to the Little Flower. I had never prayed to her
before; the Blessed Virgin had always looked after all my wants. I
remounted and presently I was going down a long hill very swiftly,
finding great difficulty in managing my wheel. Just when I was half-way
down I met a runner of the Sixteenth. He had passed me before I could
stop, so I turned my head a little to call to him. The next thing I
knew I had shot completely over my machine and was on my hands and
knees on the road, a severe pain in one of my knees. The runner turned
quickly, a look of concern in his eyes; but I had twisted my face into
a smile and his face brightened.

He pointed out a clump of trees on the opposite hill and told me I
would find the Fifteenth there. I did, and gave some of them Communion.

Chapter LXXVIII

BOVES

I returned to the Sixteenth and succeeded in giving Holy Communion to
a few soldiers, among whom was the solicitor whom I had baptized at
Monchy Breton. But I was by no means pleased with my day’s work, for I
had not gotten all the Catholics in each battalion.

At six o’clock we left this area, and towards morning, after marching
continuously, were met by a long line of busses that brought us through
the city of Amiens to within three or four miles of Boves. We marched
for nearly two hours and about ten o’clock came into the city of Boves,
from which all the inhabitants had gone.

I was very tired and hungry, but I had not broken my fast, for I wished
to say Mass, if I could find time, in order that I might offer it for
the success of my work among the soldiers.

I easily found the church of Boves, and just as I entered, met a
chaplain of the French army coming out. I saluted and told him who I
was. He was a friendly priest and had one of the kindest faces I have
ever seen. We talked for a little while, then, as there was no parish
priest at Boves, he came back to the sacristy to show me where to find
things. Then he served my Mass.

I had lunch in the mess of the French chaplain, after which I went out
into the highways and byways seeking my men. I had excellent news. The
whole Third Brigade was billeted in the city. This was the first time
since March 28th that I could remember having all my units together.
Not content with announcing confessions at the orderly rooms of the
different battalions, fearing there might be some miscarriage of orders
and that some of the men might not be notified, I went all over the
city visiting them. It had not been very long since the majority had
gone to confession, yet I wished to give every one an opportunity. I
had learned at brigade headquarters that the battalions would not go
into the trenches till ten o’clock that night.

At five o’clock, when I entered the church of Boves, I was somewhat
nervous. At Mass that morning I had forgotten to look in the ciborium
to see how many consecrated Hosts there were. I went straight to the
altar, opened the tabernacle door, took out the ciborium and opened
it. As I feared, there would not be enough Particles for one-tenth the
number I expected! I closed the door softly, saying a little prayer
as I did so, and walked back to the confessional in the rear of the
church, for the men were beginning to arrive.

I had not reached the confessional when I noticed the French chaplain
coming into the church. I went to him quietly and made known to him
what I had learned from my visit to the tabernacle. He was sympathetic
and immediately began to think what we could do. First, he thought of
saying Mass, although it was then five o’clock in the afternoon and he
had broken his fast; it seemed, however, to each of us that he would
be quite justified in so doing. Then suddenly he remembered a convent
chapel, about seven kilometers distant, where he felt sure there would
be a ciborium with a sufficient number of consecrated Hosts. He said he
would go on horse-back. Seldom have I felt more grateful than I did to
him that night.

I began to hear confessions and the lads came in great numbers. Soon
the light became dim in the great church and lads who had come first
began to be a little restless: they wondered why I did not give them
Holy Communion.

It was now becoming so dark that I could just distinguish the crowds
of kneeling soldiers. I was hearing confessions very quickly. Once a
fellow knocked on the confessional door and told me he hoped I would
soon give communion, as he had some things to do before going into the
line. He had now been waiting a long time, he said. I asked him if
he could wait a few minutes longer, as time was so precious and such
crowds of men were coming that I did not wish to leave my confessional
for a minute. I was praying between the drawing of slides for the
appearance of the French chaplain. No soldier had yet left the church,
yet I feared they might. Then away up in the sanctuary I noticed a
little flame flash out in the darkness and then move quickly to one
side of the tabernacle, where it touched the responsive wick of a
candle and another gleam of light shot up, then, on the other side of
the tabernacle, the other candle flashed. As I heard the slow moving of
many feet towards the altar-rail, I thanked God.

For a long while the priest, after placing two lighted candles on the
sanctuary railing, moved up and down between them dispensing the Bread
of the Strong to those Canadian soldiers. When all who were ready had
received, he put the ciborium in the tabernacle and knelt to pray till
I had prepared more lads for him.

I did not move from my confessional till after ten o’clock, and it was
after this hour before I left, for still men came. They were now coming
fully equipped for battle, hoping to catch up with their companions,
who must have already left.

When the last man had been shriven, the chaplain came down to have a
little talk with me. I was almost overcome as I thanked him for what he
had done, for I was now beginning to be very tired.

“Well,” he said, with a beaming face, “are you happy? Are you happy?”

“Happy?” I repeated. “Indeed, I am, for wonderful things have been done
tonight for God!”

As I walked down to my billet that night I was swaying, as I went, from
sheer exhaustion; I tried to recall when it was that I had a night’s
sleep. It seemed months, yet it was but a few days. My billet was
upstairs in a house that had not been struck by enemy fire.

George met me at the door and told me to go to my room, that he would
bring my dinner. I stumbled upstairs, for I was weak with hunger and
fatigue. I sat in a chair and was almost falling asleep when George
came in with a large granite plate filled with roast beef, mashed
potatoes and green peas. He had kept it hot for me. I picked up the
knife and fork and they seemed heavy. George began to arrange my bed.
New strength came as I ate the excellent food--we were always well
fed before a battle; in fact, the men could always foretell a battle
by the quantities of strawberry jam they received two or three days
preceding action. I had not finished the meat and vegetables when the
cook himself came up with some strawberry jam, little cakes and a huge
granite mug of hot cocoa. When I had finished the cocoa, I can just
remember George saying: “Hadn’t you better take off your boots, sir?”
And the next thing I knew it was broad daylight, and as I looked at my
wrist-watch the hands pointed to half-past ten a. m. I had slept about
ten and one-half hours.

I had learned the preceding night that the battle would not begin till
very early in the morning of August 8th. It had taken, I supposed, the
whole night for the troops to assemble. Very likely they would sleep or
rest today. There was no need for me to go up till evening.

I looked about the room. The dinner dishes had been removed and so had
my boots, but with the exception of boots and leggings I was completely
dressed. It did not take me very long to put on my boots and shave, yet
it was twelve o’clock when I came out of the church of Boves after I
had said Mass.

That evening, August 7th, I went up to Gentelles Wood.

Chapter LXXIX

THE BATTLE OF AMIENS

It was a wonderful sight that met the eye as George and I left Boves
that evening and turned our steps towards the battle-ground. The
artillery had assembled, and on all sides were great guns in cuttings
of embankments or hidden in woods, or camouflaged in the open. At
times the roads were blocked with the heavy lines of traffic, but as
we drew nearer the line the movement was not so great; yet coming
through fields and woods were the huge, clanking tanks. There must
have been at least one hundred of them careening along up hill and
down dale. Nothing seemed to be able to stop their unwieldly bulk.
I learned afterwards that great bombing planes had swooped low over
Fritz’s trenches, making a great noise so as to deaden the sounds of
the assembling tanks.

I did not sleep at all that night. Indeed, very few slept, for during
the night the troops were taking their place for the assault and it was
not till 2:10 a. m. that the assembly was complete.

At 4:10 a. m., August 8th, a terrific crash of heavy and light guns
broke the silence of the dawn on a twenty-mile front. I had never
before been in a great battle and was not prepared for action on such
a stupendous scale. The earth seemed to be rocking. The full-leaved
tree-tops of Gentelles Wood behind us twisted and broke, as shells from
our back areas shrieked their way towards Fritz’s line.

I stood for awhile waiting for Fritz’s “come back,” but the Germans had
been so completely surprised by the unexpected bombardment that their
artillery gave but a very faint-hearted reply. On seeing this we felt
that victory was assured. I did not have long to watch the tide of
battle, for presently a long line of stretcher-bearers, their burdens
raised shoulder high, told me my work was to begin.

All day long I walked up and down among the wounded, hearing
confessions, giving Holy Communion, anointing those mortally wounded,
and taking messages for dear ones at home. Among the dying were many
Germans, and a number of these were Catholics. I knew only one sentence
in German: “Sind sie Katholisch?” “Are you a Catholic?” but it was
sufficient, for I understood when the reply was “Yes,” or “No.” When
a German would say he was a Catholic, I would put on my stole, open
my little ciborium, hold up the Sacred Host, and then I would look at
him. Always his two hands would fold, and I would wait kneeling by his
side till he had finished his act of contrition; then I would give him
Holy Communion. It was a beautiful sight to see the tears of gratitude
come into the eyes of those dying Germans after they had received their
Lord; and after I had anointed them, invariably they reached out and
gripped my hand before passing out. Many lads were ushered up to the
gates of heaven that day.

The following morning George and I went up to Caix. My own brigade was
now out of the fight for a while, but I was following with the Second
Field Ambulance. For a long time we waited on the side of the road, as
the place we intended to hold for an advanced dressing station had not
yet been taken. About 1:10 p. m. I stood on a hill and watched the men
of the First Brigade come up into action. An Irish chaplain whom I had
once met at St. Michael’s Club was riding behind them. He told me that
he had just given them a general absolution.

All that afternoon, and late into the evening, I worked with the Second
Field Ambulance. A great number of wounded passed through. Once some
enemy airplanes swooped low and dropped bombs amongst us, but they
failed to kill any one. We were now in open warfare, and for the first
time I saw the cavalry in action. They came cantering across an open
field, their spears, held at their sides, pointing heavenwards, ribbons
fluttered from the long handles, and the burnished points flashed in
the sunlight.

That evening I was relieved by Father Locharay and I found a small
dugout where I got a few hours of sleep.

Chapter LXXX

AT THE WAYSIDE

Early in the morning George and I left to find the Sixteenth which
had passed through in the evening. We anticipated some trouble, for
to find one’s battalion after an attack is not the easiest thing in
the world. However, we saw the Sixteenth Battalion water cart in the
great procession that filled the road before us, so, keeping our eyes
on it, we slipped in behind a transport wagon and followed along on
the right side of the road. We went slowly, and at times halted for
five and sometimes ten minutes. Now and again some of the horses in the
procession, as we passed dead horses on the side of the road, would
begin side-stepping in their fear, and this would interfere somewhat
with the progress of the line.

We had been walking with many halts for over an hour, and I remember
how surprised I was that our soldiers had advanced so far. All the
marks of the advance were along the way: broken war-wagons of every
description, dead Germans and dead Canadians, deep shell-holes,
shattered buildings, and always in the air mingled with the dust that
rose from the busy road were the odors of gas and sulphur.

We had been walking on the right of the procession, and to this day I
cannot say why I decided to change my place. For no reason that I can
remember I stepped in front of a team of mules hitched to a general
service wagon and crossed to the left of the road. Then I noticed two
soldiers approaching carrying a wounded comrade on a stretcher. I am
certain that if I had not crossed to the left of the road I would not
have noticed them.

Just as the lads came alongside me they halted and I heard one say: “He
ain’t dead yet.” Then gently they lowered their burden to the road in
order to take a short rest.

I stepped over to the wounded lad and a glance told me that he had not
much longer to live. I knelt quickly on one knee and pulled out the
little round identification disc attached to the string around his
neck. I looked at it and saw the letters “R. C.”

I remember throwing off my shrapnel helmet (“tin lid,” the lads called
it) and it rattled on the hard road, though the noise was deadened by
the rumble of the passing traffic. Then I spoke to the lad, telling
him I was a Catholic priest. Finding him conscious, I told him to make
a good act of contrition for all the sins of his past life and that I
would give him absolution. Then, as the great procession went lumbering
by I pronounced the words of absolution, and anointed him there on the
roadside. In a little while he passed away peacefully.

I copied from the little leather disc his name, number and battalion:
Private W. J. Daze, No. 788567, Third Canadian Infantry Battalion. A
few days later I got his mother’s address from the Third Battalion
orderly room and wrote her, telling how grace had come to the lad.

Chapter LXXXI

IN AN APPLE ORCHARD

We remained on the Amiens front nearly three weeks, and we were lucky
enough not to have much rain, for we were in trenches where there were
no dugouts.

The transport mess was in an apple orchard, one of the great old
orchards of Picardy where in days before the war, happy peasants picked
the apples to make the golden cider.

There were many troops quartered in this orchard, as the trees offered
shade and screened us fairly well from the ever baleful eye of enemy
airplanes. Yet almost every evening we were bombed. We would hear
the signal of his approach long before the whir of his motor became
audible. We would be sitting in groups, sometimes around little fires
of wood or charcoal, talking in low voices, when suddenly there would
come three shrill blows of a whistle, the kind used by referees of
football matches. Instantly water would be poured on fires, or a few
shovelfuls of earth would be thrown over the bright embers, and then
a hurrying and scurrying to trenches; the sounds of laughter and
pleasant talk would die away with the hissing of the expiring fires.
Then profound silence, save for the champing of horses tethered at one
end of the orchard under the trees. Presently from far up in the sky,
coming nearer and nearer, would sound that peculiar err-rum, err-rum,
err-rum, which left no uncertainty in our minds as to whose airplanes
were approaching.

Sometimes they would go far beyond us and we would hear the terrific
crash and explosion as their bombs dropped in our back areas; sometimes
they would drop near our own lines and we would lie there waiting.

From a certain point in the orchard we had a very good view of many of
our observation balloons, far in our rear. I remember one day, while
a group of us were sitting talking, suddenly hearing from high in the
air near one of our balloons the quick rat-tat-tat of machine-gun fire.
Immediately all eyes were raised in time to see a German airplane swoop
down from a bank of clouds perilously near our observation balloon. The
enemy was firing from his machine-gun, for every three or four seconds
we could see the flash of phosphorous as the tracer bullet sped through
the sky. If one of those touched the great silk bag of gas--it did, and
almost simultaneously there was a burst of dark-red flame, fringed with
black, waving out from the balloon. There was a cry of consternation
from many voices in the orchard as two figures were seen to jump from
the aerial car of the balloon. We held our breath. Then with a spring,
one after the other, the white parachutes opened, and we breathed a
sigh of great relief as they came gracefully to the earth.

Our observation balloons must have been doing excellent work, for after
this Fritz was very busy bringing them down. One afternoon the same
airplane actually brought down, one after the other, five balloons.
Then, as it started on its return flight, it seemed to be flying very
low. Immediately every machine-gun in the area began firing on him.
There must have been thousands of bullets soaring towards the speeding
’plane; but it is very difficult to judge, from the ground, distances
in the air.

Suddenly the machine stopped in its course and came spiralling
slowly downwards. A great cheer burst from hundreds of throats and
simultaneously the machine-guns ceased to fire. There was complete
silence in the camp as we watched the falling airplane. But we had
reckoned without our host; for suddenly it ceased to fall, then like
a lark shot gracefully up, up, till it reached a safe distance. Then
with admirable audacity it looped the loop, and finally winged its way
towards home.

What did we do, gentle reader? For a few seconds, overcome with
amazement, we stood there gazing skywards, then from all over the area
there were sounds of clapping hands as we good-humoredly applauded “Old
Fritz.”

Chapter LXXXII

A STRANGE INTERRUPTION

Every morning I said Mass in the part of the trench where I slept,
which was covered overhead with a piece of camouflaged burlap, spread
across pieces of scantling. The trench was so low that I was obliged
to dig a hole in the ground, so that I could stand upright at my
little portable altar. One morning while I was saying Mass, a little
fox-terrier, belonging to George and the transport cook, began walking
on the burlap above my head. As the burlap was taut, the small paws
made a kind of drumming sound above me. Both George and the cook,
although they were non-Catholics, wished to show every respect to the
chaplain; knowing I was saying Mass, they began to call off the dog.
The little fellow, however, was stubborn and wished to remain on the
burlap. I think that the cook and George then got sticks and tried to
poke him off, for I could hear him dancing up and down as the points
of the sticks tapped the burlap roof. It was a long time before he
was captured, and it was at the cost of so much extra noise that I
think it would have been better had they left him to follow his own
inclinations--but the lads’ intentions were good.

New drafts now began coming to the battalions to reinforce the ranks,
broken in the Battle of Amiens. One afternoon the adjutant told me that
a draft of seventy men had come and that they were going into the front
line that night. The senior chaplain of the division, Canon Scott, an
Anglican clergyman, was going to address them first, after which, he
said, if I wished I might say a few words to them.

I went to the orderly room, where I learned that thirteen out of the
seventy soldiers were Catholics. I waited a long time that evening
for the Canon to finish. When, at last, he had ceased speaking and
had invited those who wished to attend the communion service to step
over to the side of the lines, I spoke to the men. My talk did not
take very long. I first asked the Catholics to fall out. Immediately,
from different sections in the ranks, thirteen men stepped out before
me. I told them that as they were going into the front line and did
not know what might be before them, perhaps they would wish to go to
Holy Communion. I told all who wished to do so, to follow me down into
the trench where I would hear their confessions and give them Holy
Communion. I turned and proceeded towards the trench. Thirteen men
followed me.

That night, after I had wrapped myself in the blankets of my bed-roll,
a lieutenant, a middle-aged man who was sharing part of the trench
with me, came down to retire for the evening. As he lay smoking a last
pipe before drawing the curtains of sleep, I was surprised to hear him
give utterance to this monologue: “Self-esteem! Self-esteem! Too much
self-esteem. That’s what’s the matter!”

I wondered to whom he referred, and after waiting a few seconds to see
if he had any more to say, I asked him if he were speaking to me. “No,
no, Padre,” he exclaimed. “I’m thinking of those fellows this evening.
Did you see them when Canon Scott invited them out to the communion?
Only about half a dozen went, out of all the crowd. Self-esteem,
self-esteem--that’s it!”

“Well,” I replied, “I didn’t notice. I asked my men--I had only
thirteen in the draft--if they wished to go to the sacraments of their
church, and immediately the thirteen followed me down to the trench.”

He looked at me keenly and there was not the slightest rancor in his
voice as he spoke again: “That’s it, Padre! That’s it! Of course your
men would go! That’s to be expected.” A kind of musing note came into
his voice, as he continued: “What is the secret? What is the secret?
They don’t fear you. Indeed, they love you.”

I told him as clearly as I could the secret, and as he continued
smoking quietly, I felt how truly he had spoken of our Catholic lads.
How they loved the priest, how on battlefield or muddy trench their
eyes lighted with love as the priest drew near. No wonder thirteen men
followed me down to the trench: they knew what I could do for them.
They knew in a few minutes they would be friends with Christ; that He
would visit them, abide in their souls. They were so absorbed in the
sublimity of what was to take place that no thought of what others
might say flashed across their minds. There was no human respect there.

Chapter LXXXIII

BOVES AGAIN

The first Sunday on the Amiens front we had no church parade. But the
second Sunday we managed to have one for the lads out of the trenches.
We had Mass on a wooded hill that had been heavily shelled during the
week by the Germans, though they left us quiet on Sunday.

There was a huge crippled tank on the hill, and workmen were busy
repairing it. I found a rough table placed against the tank, and on the
table a portable altar already set up for Mass; grouped about this
were some men from other brigades and a few of my own men, with a draft
that had come for the Thirteenth. Father MacDonnell had just finished
Mass. He and Father Fallon heard confessions, and the workmen repaired
the tank, while I offered up the Holy Sacrifice for the men.

The following Friday evening, after a long, weary march, we came back
into Boves. It was a different looking city from the one we had entered
almost three weeks before. On the outskirts, high on a hill, dozens of
great marquee tents rose in the darkening twilight, and from a large
flag-staff waved, on a white background, the red cross: it was one
of our Canadian clearing stations that had moved up. We came around
a turn in the road and there, standing in a group, were the nurses,
orderlies, and many patients from the tents on the hill. They cheered
and cheered as the lads marched by and the nurses fluttered their white
handkerchiefs, while the band played a merry march. Down the street of
the city the merry pipers piped our way, while house after house opened
its doors wide and the good French people who had returned, whole
families of them, came out and cheered us as we passed up the street. I
had a fine billet in the class-room of a school just next door to the
church; yet it seemed somewhat stuffy and closed in after having lived
for almost three weeks in an apple orchard.

The following morning, after I came in from Mass, I noticed the cook
standing on the outer sill of the window, looking closely at the
grape-vines which grew up the sides of the building; many bunches of
white grapes grew among the thick green leaves. A few minutes later,
as I sat down to breakfast, George walked in with a great cluster,
almost as large as a pineapple, on a dish and placed them near my plate.

All day long I was hoping to have the opportunity of having my men to
confession before leaving Boves, for it was being rumored about the
city that we were on our way back to the Arras front where we were to
take part in other big battles. I could not learn from headquarters at
what time we were to leave, but I surmised it would be early Sunday
morning. I was praying the Blessed Virgin to let me have the men, but
at seven o’clock p. m. it seemed certain that we were to move early in
the morning.

At eight o’clock the quartermaster came to me, saying: “The move’s off,
Padre. We don’t leave here till tomorrow evening.”

I called George, and soon he and I were out organizing a church
parade of all the troops in the city. I called at the C. C. S. on the
hill, thinking there might be a chaplain there who could help me with
confessions. I learned that there was a Catholic chaplain attached to
the unit, but that at present he was absent on leave.

I heard confessions for about an hour before Mass, but as the time
for Mass drew near it became evident that I would not be able to hear
one-quarter of the great throng of khaki-clad lads that filled the
church; all the pews were filled and many were standing. When the hour
for Mass had come, even the large sanctuary was filled with soldiers,
some of them wearing the blue uniform of France.

I was just about to leave the confessional to say Mass when I heard
some one knocking on the door. I looked up quickly: there stood Father
MacDonnell in his Scotch uniform. I was so overjoyed that I stepped out
quickly and cried: “The Blessed Virgin sent you here!”

He looked at me with his shrewd, kind eyes, and there was not the
shadow of a smile in them as he said: “Never mind, now, who sent me
here. What can I do for you?”

I asked him which he preferred, to say Mass or to hear confessions. He
said he had already said Mass and had taken his breakfast. So I asked
him if he would kindly hear confessions.

I walked up the aisle towards the altar, past row and row of those
great-hearted Catholic lads, and as I went I thanked the Blessed Virgin
for what she had done. But it was a little too early: she had not yet
finished answering my prayers, for just as I entered the sanctuary
I noticed one of the French soldiers sitting on a bench reading his
Breviary. I touched him on the shoulder and asked him if he were a
priest.

He was.

Then I asked him if he would hear the French confessions, for more than
half the men of the Fourteenth Battalion were French. He closed his
Breviary, after he had marked the place with a colored ribbon. Then he
bowed and said he would.

About two years after the Armistice had been signed I was travelling
in New Brunswick when a young man came down the car to shake hands
with me. He had been one of the officers of the Fourteenth Battalion
assisting at Mass in the church at Boves that Sunday. After we had
talked a little while, he remarked: “Father, I have often thought of
that Sunday at Boves. It seemed to me a beautiful thing to see officers
of high rank going over and kneeling down at the feet of one clad
in the uniform of a French private of the ranks to have their sins
absolved.”

Just before Mass I announced that during the celebration of the Holy
Sacrifice Father MacDonnell would hear confessions in English while
the French Father would hear the French confessions, and that after
Mass, if there were still some who had not gone to confession, the two
priests would continue to hear and I would help them. I added that
confessions would be heard and communion given again that afternoon.

I said my Mass slowly and preached about twenty minutes. During
my sermon I saw something that gratified me very much. Among the
officers of one of the battalions was one whom I had never seen at the
sacraments. I had approached him some time before, and had met the
greatest rebuff I had ever received from a Catholic: he told me quite
gruffly that he had no time for that kind of thing. His words had
actually struck me dumb for a few seconds, so that I walked away from
him without saying anything further. But as I preached that Sunday at
Boves, looking out over that sea of reverent faces, I saw the officer
stand up and walk reverently to the confessional, and when I gave Holy
Communion I saw him at the rails.

As I write these words there stands on the little table before me a
tiny plaster statue of the Immaculate Conception. Since I began writing
this story it has been always present on the table. It was given to
me by a soldier of the Fourteenth Battalion just after the Battle of
Amiens. Cut into the base of the statue is the one word “Boves,” and
the dents made by the letters are filled with the red clay of France.
I will keep this statue always, for it brings back memories of a town
where great things were done for God among my Canadian soldiers, and of
her who brought these things about.

That evening, as I entered the class-room that was my billet, two
figures looked up quickly: one was George, who had a right to be there;
the other was one of the assistants in the veterinary section. There
was a very strong odor of iodoform in the room. On a bench between
the two soldiers was my wash-basin filled with some solution, and
the little dog, who had broken his paw, was having it washed in the
solution.

I said nothing. I was not even cross, for I knew how difficult it was
to procure a vessel in which to wash dogs’ broken paws.

Chapter LXXXIV

THE BATTLE OF ARRAS

Our journey was uneventful, save that we were derailed at St. Paul; no
one, however, was killed. All along our journey we spoke of the Battle
of Amiens, “the greatest isolated victory to the credit of Canadian
arms.” It had taken but five days to free Amiens and its railway.
The allied troops engaged in the battle were one American division,
five Australian divisions, four Canadian divisions and four English
divisions. There were also four hundred tanks and three British cavalry
divisions. These troops had met and routed twenty German divisions, and
taken twenty-two thousand prisoners and over four hundred guns. The
line was advanced twelve miles from points held at the hour of attack
on August 8th.

Of these totals the Canadians claimed ten thousand prisoners, nearly
one hundred and seventy guns, one thousand machine-guns, over one
hundred trench mortars, and great quantities of other materials. They
had freed over sixty miles of territory. They had been the apex of the
wedge that attacked. It was, indeed, a great victory! Later, I read in
Hindenburg’s account of the war, entitled “Out of My Life” (Harper &
Brothers, New York), the following:

“I had no illusions about the political effects of our defeat on August
8th. Our battles from July 15th to August 4th could be regarded, both
abroad and at home, as the consequence of an unsuccessful but bold
stroke, such as may happen in any war. On the other hand, the failure
of August 8th was revealed to all eyes as the consequences of an open
weakness. To fail in an attack was a very different matter from being
vanquished on the defense. The amount of booty which our enemy could
publish to the world, spoke a clear language. Both the public at home
and our allies could only listen in great anxiety. All the more urgent
was it that we should keep our presence of mind and face the situation
without illusions, but also without exaggerated pessimism.

“The military situation had certainly become serious. Of course the
position on the part of our front which had been attacked could be
restored, the lost war material made good, and fresh reserves brought
up. But all this did not exhaust the effects of our defeat. We could
only expect that, encouraged by his great victory, our enemy would now
open similar attacks at other points.” (Vol. II, pp. 217 and 218.)

This is just what we did. On August 26th the Second Canadian Division
had opened the Battle of Arras and, as we hastened towards them, were
in the thick of the fight.

We detrained at Aubigny and were taken from there to Arras in busses.

During the night of August 28th we moved up from the ruins of Arras
to relieve the Second Division. We had been waiting in reserve at
Arras. Already the Second Division had been gaining victories. Before
September 1st we had gained a minor engagement or two.

On the morning of September 1st I received word that we were preparing
for a great attack; we were to break the Drocourt Quéant line. The line
had been accounted impregnable, for the whole system was the result of
years of patient toil on the part of the Germans. In the attack, the
Canadian Corps was to be the battering ram of the advance.

The night of September 1st was very dark, and rain fell as the men
assembled for the attack. Zero hour was to be 5 a. m. Captain Shea,
one of the medical officers of the First Field Ambulance, with whom I
was going to work the following day, found a square hole in the ground
about two feet deep, and he and I rolled ourselves in our blankets
and tried to sleep. The Germans were shelling this area very hard and
shells were dropping all about us, and the rain upon us. Every little
while I could hear the doctor, who was a very devout Catholic, give
voice to the following soliloquy: “Think of a priest lying out in the
mud a night like this! What awful times we are living in! I wonder
what his people at home would say if they could see him now. A priest
sleeping in a mud-hole!”

Then, perhaps, a shell would drop very near us and I could hear him
say, optimistically: “Well, the worst we can expect is to be buried
alive!”

I could not help laughing as the doctor continued. Everything seemed so
strange to him, for he had but lately come to the front. And I had now
been long enough in the army to take things as they came.

At five o’clock a. m. the earth began to thunder and rock as the
terrible barrage began that was to sound the death-knell of the
Drocourt Quéant line. We watched the men advance, then we were busy
with the wounded. A great number passed through our hands, including
some Irish lads from the Naval Division on our right. It took but
an hour or two for the Canadians to break the Drocourt Quéant line
which had been considered impregnable. Passing through the trenches
and over the battlefield that day, I marvelled at the system of deep
trenches from which led great dugouts lighted with electricity. We
encountered many wounded Germans lying in shell-holes, and dispatched
German prisoners to bring them to the Field Ambulance that had now been
established near Cagnicourt.

We had not been shelled very much that day, but two or three days
before, in one of the minor engagements, the shelling had been
terrific. George and I had run the gauntlet of shell-fire known as a
“creeping barrage.” Wall after wall of bursting shells had swept over
us, killing nearly all our companions. George and two privates and I
were the only ones out of fourteen who were not casualties.

Towards evening, as I was anointing some German wounded, one of our
prisoners, an officer, stepped over and began to speak to the lad
to whom I was administering. The officer told me in French that he
would interpret, as he was a Catholic. I asked him to try to dispose
the dying soldier for absolution. He did, and then helped me while I
anointed the lad.

When I was through I thanked the officer for his aid and remarked
that he seemed well grounded in his religion. He smiled a little at
this, as he said: “I should be, for I am an ordained deacon.” I was
still talking to this young ecclesiastic when I heard a friendly call
from a stretcher, and, looking in that direction, I saw it was Lt.
Maxwell-Scott--he who had first served my Mass at Fosse-dix. It seemed
years ago. He was wounded, though not seriously.

The following day I waited, with an Anglican chaplain from the Third
Brigade, till all the dead were brought in from the battlefield. Among
the officers of the Sixteenth were two or three of my dear friends. One
was the gentle officer who had slept in my billet at Carency, months
before--the one who had been called “Wild Bill;” even in death there
was a gentle expression on his kind face. We buried one hundred and
twenty-five that day, and called the place “Dominion Cemetery.”

  Few and short were the prayers we said,
  And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
  But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead
  And bitterly thought of the morrow.

We remained in this area till September 4th, and each night we were
bombed almost continuously. It was terrible and there were many
casualties. One could scarcely count the airplanes. We could hear them
coming from a great distance and each moment drawing nearer and nearer.
We would lie on the ground unprotected--nothing between us and the
airplanes but the thin sheets of our bivouacs. When they would arrive
over our camping ground, great lights resembling arc light would drop
slowly down, lighting up the entire area. Then would come in quick
succession the awful crash of bursting bombs. Often I have gripped the
grass beside me with both hands, as I lay there waiting to be blown
into a thousand fragments. Then, one fleet of ’planes having exhausted
its supply of bombs there would be relative silence till the next was
heard approaching. During the interim, slowly, silently, and anxiously,
our searchlights swept the sky, the great long shafts of light crossing
and recrossing each other.

Chapter LXXXV

BERNEVILLE AGAIN

“When they had a day or two of good sleep, regular meals and rest,
they seemed quickly to forget all they had suffered, even their mental
torture. Of course, for this purpose the rest had to be real rest,
undisturbed by enemy shells and bombs, and, if possible, somewhere
where the thunder of the guns could not be heard.”

I quote these words from the second volume of “Out of My Life” by Von
Hindenburg, for they apply to all soldiers. The Germans had retreated
to the opposite bank of the Canal du Nord, where they were prepared to
defend themselves stoutly. To carry a position like the Canal du Nord,
careful plans must first be made. Our troops were tired, and they
needed a rest; therefore, on being relieved we came out to the areas
about Arras and the Sixteenth came to Berneville.

“The operations which broke the Drocourt Quéant Line closed with the
departure of the victors. These men had accomplished great deeds. They
had won a great moral victory, which had far-reaching effects. They
had conquered a trench system of which the world had spoken with bated
breath in one triumphant rush. Many material things had passed from the
enemy’s possession into theirs. Among these should be numbered eight
thousand prisoners, sixty-five guns and four hundred and seventy-five
machine-guns. Their line was only seven miles from Cambrai.” (From “The
Canadians in France,” by Captain Harwood Steel--Copp Clark Co.)

The above quotation was written of us. So we came out to Berneville
to rest. Those days of September were very pleasant at Berneville.
Roses still bloomed in the garden of the old curé, with whom I was
again billeted; grapes were plentiful all over the countryside. They
grew in the garden of the old house where we had our mess and often
they were served at our meals. Every morning when I came back from
breakfast to my billet I found on the table a large yellow, red-cheeked
pear. These little acts of kindness of the old curé’s sister used to
affect me almost to tears. I think the awful strain of battle was
beginning to affect us all. I said Mass every morning in the church
and a young fellow from the Fifteenth--which was also quartered in
Berneville--used to serve it. Every morning he went to Holy Communion.

The old sister of the curé seemed very much interested in the young
man, for she also attended my Mass and received Holy Communion daily.
She used to talk to me about him and say he must be a brother from some
religious community. So one morning I asked the lad his name. He was
James Diamond, and his home was in Philadelphia--another of my Canadian
lads who hailed from the United States. He was not a member of any
religious community though he had two brothers who were priests. I told
the old lady this, and although she was somewhat disappointed to learn
that the young man was not a religious, still she was delighted to know
that he had two brothers who were priests.

I visited my battalions every day and we had confessions every evening.
The men came in great numbers. Although we were in rest, the lads knew
by the training they were undergoing that another attack was imminent.

During the day I often walked up and down the old rose garden of the
curé. It was a beautiful old garden with high stone walls, against
which pear trees and peach trees had been trained to grow so that
the branches spread out against the wall. There were roses here of
almost every variety. Often, as I walked up and down the paths of the
garden reading my Breviary, I stopped and gazed for a long time on the
wonderful beauty before me. Soon we would be into the war again!

Chapter LXXXVI

LETTERS OF SYMPATHY

During these days of rest I devoted a large portion of every morning to
writing letters of sympathy to relatives of those who had fallen in the
recent attacks. I had many of these letters to write, and I always went
to work with a heavy heart; but it was always very consoling to receive
the wonderful replies that came. I quote from a few that I managed to
keep, although the reader will learn later that I lost nearly all my
possessions before the end of the campaign.

This one comes from Morningside Avenue, New York:

  Reverend dear Father:

  Your comforting letter has just been received. Father, words would be
  useless to try to express what relief and consolation your message
  brought, for naturally my heart ached, wondering whether my poor son
  had an opportunity to offer up his repentance before God took him.

  The cross is indeed a heavy one to bear, but with the knowledge
  contained in your letter and the fact that his sacrifice was made for
  so glorious a cause, I shall reconcile myself to the will of Almighty
  God, and pray for the repose of his soul.

  My daily prayers shall indeed be offered for you, Father, who brought
  such happiness to my heart, and for your many soldier boys.

                                      Very sincerely yours,

The next is from Frontenac Street, Montreal:

  Reverend and dear Father:

  Words fail to convey how soothing was the intelligence that previous
  to his last attack my son had had the happiness of receiving our
  dear Lord, and that after he had paid the “Supreme Sacrifice” he
  had one of God’s representatives near him. In life he was devoted to
  religion, in death he must assuredly be happy with God. But to us
  who are left it has been a crushing blow, and especially to me, his
  mother, to whom a kinder and more dutiful son never was given.

  Our Lady of Sorrows is certainly the one to turn to in this hour
  of trial, for she likewise gave up her son. So, like her, I shall
  endeavor to carry my cross, but I fear it shall not be carried so
  well.

  And now, dear Father, allow me to extend to you my most sincere
  thanks. You will always be remembered in the prayers of his sorrowing
  mother.

The next is from Grimsary, England:

  Dear Father Murdoch:

  I should feel I was neglecting a great duty if I did not write a line
  to thank you for your kindness in informing us of my dear brother’s
  death. R. I. P. It was indeed a great consolation to know that he
  received Holy Communion before going into battle, also to know that
  he was buried in a cemetery. We shall be ever grateful to you for
  your kindness and for your prayers.

  With every best wish for your safety, I am,

                                           Yours sincerely,

The next is from Gilford P. O. Co. Down, Ireland:

  Dear Rev. Father:

  It is with a sad heart I write to thank you for your consoling letter
  to my mother concerning the death of my poor brother. Your letter
  gives us all strength to bear our heavy burden of sorrow. It is hard
  to think that he has really gone from us. But God’s will be done! We
  all lift our hearts in thanksgiving to know that he was prepared to
  die. He was a good boy, and his youngest sister will miss him. My
  mother is in great sorrow at the loss of her only son. She has had
  great trouble, as my father died when we were very young. But God
  will give her strength to bear and persevere until we shall all meet
  never to part.

  Dear Rev. Father, I will close this letter now and I wish you to know
  that all of us will never forget you in our prayers. And I earnestly
  implore of God to reward you for all you have done for my poor
  brother and for us, and that our Most Holy Mother will intercede for
  your safety through this suffering you are enduring.

  I am going to confession and Communion Sunday for your intentions.
  Always remember that there are three hearts raised to God night and
  morning imploring His blessings and mercy for you.

  Thanking you again, Father, I wish to remain your grateful friend who
  will never forget you.

This one from a non-Catholic:

  Rev. B. J. Murdoch,

  Dear Sir:

  I received your very kind letter today. Thank you so much for
  writing. Although I am not of the Catholic faith, I know just how
  much he would value your services before going into battle.

  God sends us a cross to bear, no matter what faith we own. I will
  remember you and the other soldiers who are fighting in my prayers
  just the same. I will write and tell his father of your kindness, and
  ask him to thank you.

  I forgot to say that I belong to the Church of England, but that does
  not make any difference, for God hears all prayers. I shall pray for
  you and your boys and teach our little girl to do the same.

  Kindly pardon any mistakes, and believe me to remain very grateful to
  you for your sympathy.

                                         Yours sincerely,

These are but samples of letters from different countries that I
received during the campaign. The people seemed most grateful to me for
writing. True, the censor prevented me from saying much that I should
like to have said; but always I was free to write what I had done for
the lads in my ministry. Sometimes I have written many letters at a
time, and for this reason the message sent was brief. I shall try to
give the reader a sample of the simple letter that evoked such grateful
replies:

  Dear Mrs. ----

  No doubt you have already received from the War Office the sad
  news of your son’s death. I am writing these words to let you know
  that just before the battle of ---- I gave all the soldiers of his
  unit Holy Communion in a little shell-torn church on the Western
  Front.--If I had anointed him I would add this, and if it were I
  who had laid him to rest I would say--I buried him in a peaceful
  military cemetery behind the lines, far from the sound of the guns.
  This knowledge should give you some consolation in carrying the heavy
  cross that God has sent you to bear.

  I shall remember your son’s soul in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass,
  and I shall ask Our Lady of Sorrows to pray for you that you may be
  comforted.

  Asking you to pray for my lads and for me, I am

                     Yours sincerely in Christ,
                          B. J. Murdoch,
                                R. C. Chaplain 16th. Can.

Chapter LXXXVII

A LITTLE BIT OF SHAMROCK

Although I had many letters to write, this did not keep me from having
a little enjoyment. We had not been very long in rest billets when it
was announced that the Sixteenth Canadian Battalion concert party was
to put on soon the play entitled “A Little Bit of Shamrock.” This was
the play the soldiers were practising while we were at Monchy Breton,
and because of the fact that one of the characters was a priest I was
very anxious to see the play.

The concert party was to be with us three nights, so I hoped to be
able to attend at least one performance. The company had been playing
for the large base hospitals while we were taking part in the recent
heavy fighting. I had met a Presbyterian chaplain in Arras who told me
that he had seen the play and that it was one of the finest in France.
They had been furnished with hundreds of dollars’ worth of scenery and
costumes. So we looked forward with pleasure to seeing it.

I noticed as I worked among the men that the rest was doing them very
much good. The village streets used to ring with laughter and merry
jokes, especially in the evening. It was wonderful how much like boys
those soldiers would become, given a few days’ rest.

I remember one day, while sitting in the mess waiting for lunch to be
served, listening to an animated conversation going on among a group
of soldiers, of which George was the dominating spirit. George held in
his hand a pair of German field-glasses which evidently he wished to
barter for something some other soldier had. The other soldier thought
George had placed a too high valuation on the glasses, and their voices
rose and fell in debate. Finally, all the voices were silent; then the
voice of George sounded clear and distinct, as he said impressively:
“Gentlemen, I tell you, these glasses are so powerful that they will
bring a church, miles distant, so near that you can actually hear the
church bells ringing in the tower!”

Although a few derisive groans greeted this statement, the great bursts
of merry laughter that accompanied them did my heart good and showed me
how light-hearted were the troops.

A day or two following the episode of the field-glasses, I was again
sitting in the mess waiting for lunch to be served. The transport
officer and quartermaster were with me. Suddenly the lieutenant who
had been billeting officer when we were at Ecoivres walked in and sat
down. He had a little business with the quartermaster, and as he stated
it his eyes turned towards the table, which was set for lunch, and
rested longingly on a dish of cold bread-pudding with raisins in it.
The pudding was cut in pieces resembling in size and shape an ordinary
helping of Washington pie; there were three slices in all. Now, I never
liked bread-pudding, not even in war time; neither did the other two
officers of the mess. So when the billeting officer made known to us
his weakness for bread-pudding we gave him a most pressing invitation
to have a piece. He took one piece, and as he ate it with great relish
we could not help smiling. He stopped for a second or two and looked
around on us. “My,” he said, “I like this! Our cook never thinks of
giving us anything like this.” Then he continued earnestly to devote
his attention to the pudding.

We offered him another piece, and with boyish delight he accepted it.
When he had finished this, I offered him the remaining slice. The other
two officers were now laughing.

“Ah, Padre!” he said reproachfully, but his eye wavered and his hand
without any apparent reluctance reached out and took the third piece.

He stayed for a little while longer, and I wondered if he could be
quite well after eating so great a quantity of such soggy food. I
began, indeed, to feel a slight twinge of conscience. Perhaps I should
not have offered him that last thick slice of heavy bread-pudding. He
was now quiet, and for a second or two a far-away look came into his
eyes. Then, suddenly, he seemed to recollect something. He stood up
quickly.

“Well,” he said, “I think it is about time for me to be going home to
lunch.”

“Will he be all right?” I asked the other officers, as he disappeared
on his way.

“Sure,” they both said, and then the quartermaster Continued: “Why,
Padre, that’s just a little _hors d’oeuvres_ for him, just a little
appetizer, just enough to convince him that it’s time to take a little
substantial food.” Then, as we lunched, they told me such wonderful
stories of this officer’s capacity for food that I laughed and laughed
all through the meal.

I could not attend the play till the third evening; George, who had
gone both nights, seemed very anxious that I should see it. I had tea
with the concert party the afternoon of the third day and in the
evening I went to the play, and was given a very good seat.

I shall never forget that play given by those splendid boys on the
Western Front. Even as I write these words the tears come to my
eyes as they did that night, but they are tears of joy. It was a
wonderful play--wonderful in its presentation, wonderful, especially,
in its beautiful interpretation of the character of the Catholic
priest--bubbling with gaiety and gladness, and spotless humor. I was
transported with joy and amazement.

The curtain rose, disclosing the library of an Irish priest’s house,
through the open window of which came in excellent harmony the sound of
male voices singing:

      “Och, Father O’Flynn, you’ve a wonderful way wid you.
  All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,
  All the young children are wild for to play wid you,
  You’ve such a way wid you, Father avick!
  Still for all you’ve so gentle a soul,
  Gad, you’ve your flock in the grandest control: