THE RED
VINEYARD

Rev. B. J. Murdoch

THE RED VINEYARD

BY
REV. B. J. MURDOCH
LATE CHAPLAIN TO CANADIAN EXPEDITIONARY
FORCES

THE TORCH PRESS
CEDAR RAPIDS IOWA
1923

Copyright 1923 by
Flora Warren Seymour
DONE BY
THE BOOKFELLOWS
AT
THE TORCH PRESS
CEDAR RAPIDS
IOWA

THE RED VINEYARD

To the memory of all those men

With whom I walked up and down

The ways of The Red Vineyard;

But especially to the memory of those

Who stopped in the journey, and now

Rest softly in their little green bivouacs

In the shadow of the small white crosses,

This book is affectionately dedicated by their

Friend and Comrade

The Author

CONTENTS

THE RED VINEYARD

Chapter I
A Little Speculation

“I’ll give you just three nights in the front line trench before your hair will turn grey,” said a brown haired priest, looking at me with a slightly aggressive air.

I remained quiet.

“You’ll not be very long in the army till you’ll wish yourself out of it again,” was the not very encouraging assertion of a tall, thin priest who suffered intermittently from dyspeptic troubles.

Still I did not speak.

Another priest, whose work was oftener among old tomes than among men, said slowly and, as was his wont, somewhat seriously, that it surprised him very much to note my eagerness to go to war. He did not consider it in keeping with the dignity of the priest to be so belligerently inclined. Did I not recall that I was an ambassador of the meek and lowly Christ—the Prince of Peace?

Had I obeyed the first impulse, I think my reply would have been colored with a little asperity; but as I was weighing my words, a gentle white-haired old priest, stout and with red cheeks, said to me as he smiled kindly; “Ah, Father, you are to be envied. Think of all the good you will be able to do for our poor boys! Think of the souls you will usher up to the gates of heaven!”

He shook his head slowly from side to side two or three times, and the smile on his kind old face gave place to a look of longing as he continued, somewhat regretfully: “Ah, if I were a younger man I’d be with you, Father. All we older men can do now is to pray, and you may rest assured I shall remember you often—you and your men.”

I looked at the old priest gratefully. “Thank you, Father,” I said, and I thought of Moses of old, with arms outstretched.

None of the other priests spoke for a while, and I gazed into the fire of dry hardwood that murmured and purred so comfortably in the large open fire-place, built of small field stones. I was thinking earnestly and when the conversation was again resumed I took no part in it. In fact, I did not follow it at all, for I was wondering, among other things, if my hair would really turn grey after a few nights in the front line trenches. However, I did not worry; for I concluded it would be wiser to wait until I should arrive at the trenches, where I might have the evidence of my senses.

I gave but a passing thought to the words of the good priest who was a little dyspeptic. He had never been in the Army, and where was his reason for assuming that I should not like the life? Of course, I did not mind what the old priest, whose work was so often among old books, had said about my being an ambassador of the Prince of Peace. I felt that this priest had got his ideas a little mixed. Not very long before I had heard him vent his outraged feelings when the French government had called the priests of France to fight for the Colors. He had been horrified. So I surmised that he imagined I had voluntarily offered my services as a combatant. I had not.

The conversation continued, but I heeded it not. I was busy meditating on the words of the saintly old priest with the red cheeks. How well he understood, I thought. And the flames of the fire shot in and out among the wood, purring pleasantly the while.

Chapter II
The Bishop Writes

Up to this time I did not have the Bishop’s consent. In fact, I cannot remember having mentioned in his presence my desire to go to the front with the soldiers as chaplain; but I had talked it over frequently with priests, and it never occurred to me that the Bishop had not heard of my wish, nor that he would not be in accord with it. But one morning I received a letter from the Bishop telling me plainly and firmly that he wished me to keep quiet, and not to talk so much about going to the front until I should know whether or not I would be permitted to go. He mentioned a recruiting meeting of a few nights previous, at which I had offered my services as chaplain to the battalion that was then being recruited in the diocese.

Perhaps I had been a little too outspoken at the meeting, but I had considered myself quite justified in breaking silence, since it had already come to pass that three ministers of different Protestant denominations had offered themselves as chaplains to the battalion which, though still in rather an embryonic state, gave promise of being complete in a few months. I foresaw that it would be more than half Catholic, as the population of the district from which it was being recruited was three-fourths Catholic. So I offered myself generously, not wishing to be outdone by the ministers, and then had sat down feeling that I had done well.

The following morning, however, I was not quite so sure, for when I read my words printed in the daily paper I felt just a little perturbed. What would the Bishop think? I wondered. I had not long to wait before I knew exactly what His Lordship thought. His letter told me quite plainly.

I kept quiet. Keeping quiet, however, did not prevent me from following with interest the activities of others. Almost every evening recruiting meetings were held in different places throughout the diocese, at which old men spoke and orchestras played, and sometimes a young boy would step dance. But, most important of all, many young men enlisted. They came in great numbers, the Catholics far in the majority. Then, one morning early in the spring, the paper announced that the battalion had been recruited to full strength. The different companies would stay in the town till the following June, when the battalion would go into camp to train as a unit.

That evening a letter came from the officer in command, saying that as eighty per cent of his men were Catholics he had decided to take a Roman Catholic chaplain, and that he intended going to see the Bishop that evening.

A few days later another letter came from the Bishop saying that he had been asked for a Catholic chaplain, and as he remembered that I had seemed very eager to go with the men, he was glad to say that he was giving me permission to go. He had decided this, he added, on the Feast of the Seven Dolors of Our Lady.

“The Seven Dolors,” I said to myself quietly, two or three times. Then I fell to wishing that the Bishop had made his decision on some other feast of Our Lady. I remember now, as I stood in the quiet little room with the letter in my hand, recalling the words of the priest—that he would not give me three nights in the front line trenches before my hair would turn grey. But this thought did not bother me very long, for I began to think of something else, and as I did the letter trembled a little with the hand that held it. “Perhaps I am not coming back,” I said to myself. Then I repeated: “The Feast of the Seven Dolors! The Feast of the Seven Dolors!”

Chapter III
A Little Adjusting

During the next seven or eight days from all sides I heard one question asked by young and old: “When are you going to put on the uniform, Father?” Little children to whom I had taught catechism rushed around corners or panted up narrow streets of the little town where I was stationed and smilingly asked me. Their fathers and mothers, after saying good-morning, remarked pleasantly, as an afterthought: “I suppose we’ll soon be seeing you in the khaki, Father?” They seemed to anticipate real pleasure in seeing me decked in full regimentals. But the more I had evidence of this seemingly pleasant anticipation, the less inclined I felt to appear publicly in my chaplain’s uniform. When the time came for a last fitting at the tailor’s, I found other duties to claim my attention, until a polite little note from the proprietor of the establishment informed me that my presence was requested for a last fitting of my uniform.

Then one morning, when the spring birds that had returned were singing merrily among the trees with not the slightest thought as to their raiment, and when bursting buds were making the trees beautiful in their eagerness to drape them with bright green robes, I appeared on the public streets of the quiet little town clad in full regimentals.

I had chosen an early hour for my public appearance, thinking that my ordeal would not be so trying.

Since that morning I have had many exciting experiences, up and down the ways of war; I have witnessed many impressive scenes, beautiful, terrible, and horrible, but these events have by no means obliterated from the tablets of my memory the events of that morning. Nothing particular happened until I had descended the hill and turned the first corner to the right in the direction of the town post-office. A horse was coming at a leisurely gait down the quiet street, driven by a young fellow of about sixteen, who sat on the seat of a high express wagon with a friend. Both lads seemed to see me at once, and started perceptibly. In his excitement, the driver pulled on the lines and the startled horse jerked his head quickly, as if he, too, was struck by my unwonted appearance. On the opposite side of the road a barber, who was operating on an early customer, stopped suddenly and came to the window, the razor still in his hand, while his patient, almost enveloped in the great white apron that was tucked about his neck, sat up quickly in the chair and turned a face half-covered with thick, creamy lather towards the window. All along the way people stopped, looked, smiled pleasantly, and then passed on. I had almost entered the post-office when the rattling of an express wagon, that must have passed the winter uncovered, as every spoke in the wheels seemed loose, came noisily to my ears. The horse was reined up opposite me, and as I turned my head side-wise I was greeted by the two young fellows who had passed me but a few minutes before, only this time three other lads, with smiling faces, were standing behind them in the wagon, holding to the seat.

After I got my mail from the box, I decided not to return by the same route along which I had come. There was a more secluded way. It was with a feeling of great relief that I found no one coming in my direction. I took out my new khaki handkerchief, unfolded it and wiped my brow. But, alas, for my relief! I had not gone very far till I crossed a street running at right angles to my course. A number of school children were coming along this. I quickened my pace. They saw me, and immediately a great bubbling of excited talk was borne to my ears. Then, as I disappeared from their view, I heard the sound of many eager feet pattering up the sidewalk. It ceased suddenly and I knew that again they were regarding me intently. There was a complete silence for a second or two, then I heard quite clearly the voice of a little girl, who in the last year’s confirmation class had given me more trouble than any other of the candidates, call almost louder than was necessary for her companions to hear: “Oh! doesn’t he look lovely?” A man just coming from his house on his way to his office smiled pleasantly and interestedly as he heard the small voice. Then he raised his hat. I saluted.

As I walked up under the trees clothed in their beautiful spring garments, and listened to the birds that sang so blithely this bright cool spring morning, with never a thought as to their raiment, I wiped my brow again. “These military clothes are warm,” I said to myself—yet I knew that this was not the reason.

Chapter IV
The Portable Altar

After a few days a box about one foot and a half long, one foot high and nine inches wide, arrived. It was made of wood covered with a kind of grey cloth, with strips of black leather about the edges and small pieces of brass at every corner. There were leather grips on it so that it could be carried as a satchel. It was my little portable altar, containing everything necessary for saying Mass. One half opened and stood upright from the part containing the table of the altar, which when opened out was three feet long. Fitted into the oak table was the little marble altar-stone, without which one may not say Mass. In the top of the upright part was a square hole in which the crucifix fitted to stand above the altar; on either side were holders to attach the candlesticks. From the wall that formed a compartment in the upright portion, where the vestments were kept, the altar cards unfolded; these were kept in place by small brass clips attached to the upright. Chalice, ciborium, missal and stand, cruets, wine, altar-breads, bell, linens, etc., were in compartments beneath the altar table. The whole was wonderfully compact and could be carried with one hand.

As I write these words it stands nearby, sadly war-worn after its voyage across the ocean, and its travels through England, France, Belgium and the Rhineland of Germany. I have said Mass on it on this side of the ocean; on the high seas; in camp in England; in trenches; on battlefields; in tents, camps, and billets through the war-scarred areas of France. I offered the Holy Sacrifice on it placed on a low, wide window-sill in a German billet on our way through the Rhineland. It was carried across the Rhine December 13th, 1918, in the great triumphal march. Now it is home again. In many places the cloth covering is scraped and torn; one of the brass corners is missing. It is very soiled from the mud of France and rifle oil stains, etc.; the leather edging is chipped and peeled. The table has been broken and repaired again, so has the little book-stand. The silver chalice and paten are slightly dented in many places. The little bell has lost part of its handle, but its tone is still sweet. One alb has been burned, but I have another. The cincture has been broken and knotted.

I gaze at it now and think of the thousands of great-hearted lads who knelt before it, often on rain-soaked fields, or stood among piles of ruins and heard the sweet notes of the little bell warning them of the Master’s approach, so that they might bow reverently when He came; of the thousands on field, on hillside, in caves and huts who knelt to eat of the Bread of Life, many of them going almost immediately with this pledge of eternal life, before God to be judged,—as I think of all this, there comes into my eyes a mist, and the little portable altar grows dim.

Chapter V
In Training Camp

In a few weeks we left for training-camp, travelling all night and arriving at our destination early in the morning. We detrained and the whole battalion fell in, the band marching at the head of the column. Our camp was in a wide green valley, as level as a floor, flecked with hundreds of white bell tents; and in the distance on every side sloped gently upwards high solemn mountains that kept silent guard over the plain below. Through the whole length of the valley ran a long grey asphalt road, over which passed all the traffic of the camp.

All summer long battalions of new soldiers came up this road and took over lines that had been assigned them. All summer long, and well on into the autumn, battalions of trained soldiers marched down the road to entrain for the port of embarkation for overseas.

We marched up the smooth road, the band playing the regimental march, passed line after line of the different battalions quartered on either side. Soldiers from different units lined the way and voiced friendly criticism as to our appearance, etc. Many wagons from the farmlands beyond the hills were drawn up on each side of the road; grouped about them were many khaki-clad lads buying milk, little pats of butter, buns and a number of other articles. We marched about two miles till we came to a great square of unoccupied bell tents. Here we halted and took over our lines.

In a few days we were in the ordinary routine of camp life, and I think most of the men liked the new order. Living in a tent seemed to give one a continual feeling of freshness and buoyancy. Every morning, very early, far away at general headquarters, a flag would run up the tall flag-pole; then from all parts of the camp would sound the reveille, breaking in on the peaceful repose of honest sleepers, and when the last sound of the bugles had died away there would be heard a quick rattle of snare-drums and a few great booms from the bass drum, then the exhilarating strains of a military march would break on the morning air. I had listened to the pleasant martial strains for perhaps a week or two, and naturally associated with them the idea of orderly marching bandsmen, fully equipped, polished and shining from head to foot, till one morning I untied the flap of my tent and looked out. More than half the bandsmen were in their shirt sleeves; five or six were in their bare feet, and now and again they jumped spasmodically, as they walked on a pebble or struck a hidden tent-peg; some who wore boots did not wear socks or puttees, and the trousers from the knee down were tight and much wrinkled, yet there was no lack of harmony in the stately, marching music.

All day long till four o’clock the men drilled or took different exercises, while the sun slowly shifted scenery on the great silent hills. Up and down the long grey road huge-hooded khaki motor lorries rumbled with their loads of supplies for field and tent. In the evening towards sunset, after the men had washed and rested a little, the flag that had been flying at headquarters all through the day would drop slowly down the pole. Then two buglers would sound retreat, after which the guard would be inspected while the band played some slow waltz or minuet.

To me this seemed the happiest hour of the daily military routine. The day was done and from all parts of the camp could be heard low, pleasant talk, as the band played soft music, the men standing about in little groups or moving from tent to tent, visiting neighbors. It always brought to my mind the idea of restfulness and peace.

After retreat the long grey road would become alive with the continuous movement of soldiers going and coming. The officers did not care to walk along this road, as it meant for them one continual return of salutes. Sometimes an open-air moving-picture show would be in progress. There were also two halls where moving pictures were shown on rainy nights. In the early days it was a treat to the lads to visit these places. As there were never any ladies present, smoking was permitted. Sometimes the smoke rose in such density that it obscured the pictures on the screen.

At ten o’clock last post would sound and weary men would roll themselves in their blankets on the hard ground and dispose themselves to sleep.

Chapter VI
Mass Out of Doors

On Sundays I would set up the portable altar on two rifle boxes placed one above the other, on a great green plain near the end of the camp. Nearly always an awning would be erected above the altar, and whenever the wind blew canvas was draped about posts as a windshield, so that the candles might not be extinguished.

It was a wonderful sight to see the men draw up on the grass, every one of them reverent and quiet before the little altar as I vested for Mass. Often three thousand were drawn up on the green plain as level as a floor. Sometimes a number would wait till this late Mass—which was always said at ten o’clock—to go to Holy Communion, though I always said an early Mass for those who wished to receive.

Since the war, different men who were present at those open-air Masses have told me that never before had they assisted at the Holy Sacrifice with such devotion. All things seemed to praise God; the great solemn mountains stood silent, the clouds moved soundlessly across the blue of the sky. Not a sound could be heard, save when a man coughed softly, or when the little bell tinkled.

On account of what happened, I recall one of those Sunday mornings in particular. I had noticed, standing among the officers of one of the battalions drawn up in the church parade, an elderly man wearing ordinary blue civilian trousers and a military khaki shirt and helmet. He wore a leather belt but no coat. I no sooner saw him than I said to myself: “An old soldier!” And as I vested for the Holy Sacrifice the question came flashing across my mind again and again: Who can he be? What war was he in? When I turned after the Communion to address the men, there he was standing, well in front with the officers. He listened very attentively to my sermon, which was on the text, “Son, give me thy heart.” Towards the end I said a few words about Our Lady, because it was the Sunday within the octave of the Assumption. I told the lads to run to their Mother in all their trials; to be Knights of Our Lady, to think of her especially during their long hours of sentry duty at night, and never to let a day go by without saying her beads.

Then, after I had given my blessing and had turned to unvest before my little portable altar, my “old soldier” came forward and introduced himself. He was a judge from my home province, and he would be glad if I would permit him to say a few words to the men. I was very pleased that he should do so. A word was said to the officers in charge and the men were called to attention.

The judge stood up on the rifle box that I had just vacated, and there in God’s beautiful out of doors, with the great green mountains looking up to their Creator in silent humility, this old Catholic gentleman spoke to the lads in a wonderfully clear voice of their Mother and his Mother. It was very edifying to hear this educated Catholic layman speak so. He concluded with a few words about the Mass. “I have assisted at Mass,” he said, “in many large cathedrals in different countries; but, I think, never with such devotion as I have this morning here in the open air before your little altar placed on the rifle boxes, and God’s beautiful sky and sunlight above us. After all, gentlemen, it is the Mass that counts; the changing of the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ. God could do it and God did do it.” When the old man finished I could not but say gratefully: “God bless you, judge,” for I felt that his words would do very much good.

Chapter VII
A Little Indignation

The time passed quickly for me, though I think for most of the men it went slowly; they seemed always restless, always longing to get to the front. They used to come to me often with their little grievances. They seemed to think that their troubles would disappear once they reached training-camp overseas.

I remember one Sunday, after I had finished Mass and the last company had marched off the field, two soldiers came forward from somewhere and saluted. One of them, the taller of the two, acted as chief spokesman. “Father,” he said, “we have not heard Mass today. We were ordered to go to the Protestant service.” Excitement flashed in his eyes. “The service is just over, Father, and we slipped over here to tell you.”

It was strictly against K. R. & O. to order Catholics to a non-Catholic service. The lads did not belong to my battalion, but to a construction battalion that had but lately come to camp. Headquarters of this battalion were not far away, so I did not wait for my breakfast, but obeyed the first impulse and went immediately to the training square of the No. — Construction Co. The church parade was over and the chaplain had just finished packing his books and was preparing to leave the field with the adjutant. I asked the chaplain if the Catholics had been ordered to attend the service. “Yes,” he said, and then went on to explain that it was a universal church service and that all the men had been ordered to attend.

I asked him to look up a book entitled K. R. & O. I told him that it was a serious offense that had been committed; that my men had a right to attend their own service; that there was no such thing known in the army as a universal church parade.

When they saw they had made a mistake both chaplain and adjutant were very apologetic. Shortly after this, when the battalion was to leave for overseas, the chaplain wrote me a note asking me to hear the confessions of the Catholics. I think they came to a man; two other chaplains came to help me. This construction battalion was composed mostly of men who had moved quite a lot over different parts of the world, and had grown a little slack in the observance of their religious duties. Big things were done for Our Lord that night. Perhaps many would have passed the summer without even coming to Mass had not this great indignity been offered them.

So the days passed quickly, and then one evening word came that we were to leave—but only for another camp. There was great rejoicing at first, for the lads thought that orders for “Overseas” had come.

Chapter VIII
We Break Camp

It was Sunday, October 1st. It was the most beautiful day I have ever seen. There had been a heavy frost during the night, and in the morning the hills, which had been green all summer, but had lately begun to put on their autumn tints, were glorious in bright scarlet, yellow and russet, with still here and there a dark-green patch of spruce. The white frost was on the ground and a covering of ice one-eighth of an inch thick was formed on the basin of water in my tent. The air was cold, clear and invigorating. The men were all in excellent spirits. I said Mass for my own men, and then walked about two miles towards the entrance to the camp to say Mass for the other soldiers who still remained in the different areas. The Sabbath-day stillness seemed more intense than ever. Perhaps it was on account of the very small number left in the camp. When I turned around after I had said Mass, I could not but pause in admiration of the wonderful beauty of God’s works. I took for the text of my sermon: “O Lord, Our Lord, how admirable is Thy name in the whole world.” I told the lads that as Our Lord had made all things beautiful we ought to keep our souls beautiful in His sight, and that one of the surest means of doing so was to come to Holy Communion. Then I preached on the Blessed Eucharist.

When I reached our own lines after Mass nearly all the tents had been taken down and rolled up. I had breakfast at one of the men’s cook stoves. We were to break camp at twelve o’clock. I think I was the only one who was sorry to leave.

Things had gone very well during the summer; there had been many consolations in the ministry. Many men who had passed long years away from the sacraments had come into the white bell tent pitched in the open space in the valley and, kneeling there, had been reconciled after many years’ estrangement from God. I had watched the men in the evening and had noticed how cheerful they were, how much like boys they were in the tricks they played on each other.

One evening, shortly before we were to leave, a great bonfire had been lighted. All through the day the men had worked at the base of the slopes cutting down dry trees and carrying them out. The fire was built in the square where the men drilled and took their physical exercises in the mornings. It was a thrilling sight to watch the little tongues of fire darting in and out among the pile of dry twigs, increasing in size and speed till they developed into one great waving pillar of flame that tore its way upward through the gigantic pile of dry old trees, hissing, crackling and roaring as it went. The flames must have reached forty feet in height, and at times the sparks swarmed down on the tents like bees to a hive, and the soldiers had to beat them out. The band marched around the flaming pillar and played, keeping always within the circle of light made by the fire. Many soldiers followed in procession, some of them performing comical acrobatic feats as they went. There was an almost new tent floor up near the colonel’s tent which some of the lads thought would make excellent fuel for the fire. Presently about eight of them were carrying it towards the flames. The quartermaster, who had charge of the movables of the camp, saw them approaching and immediately advanced from his place near the fire, angrily shouting orders to them to put down the tent floor. They did, though not till the indignant quartermaster was very near them. Then they turned and ran quickly away. The quartermaster, who was a heavy man, did not pursue them. He turned towards the fire, but only to find that a number of rough tables and chairs had gone to satisfy the hungry flames! He was very angry. The lads had become like little children, and I think their souls had become like the souls of little children.

And now we were going back to civilization! Our journey was one of about four hundred miles through many small towns and cities to a camp near the seaboard, where we were to wait a few weeks before embarking. We left Valcartier at the time appointed, and all that day and most of the evening our route lay along the noble St. Lawrence. In the morning we came into our own Province of New Brunswick, from the northern part of which our battalion had been recruited.

In many towns at which we stopped liquor was procured, and soon there were evidences that many of the men had taken too much. And when we drew near the town from the environs of which the majority of the lads had been recruited a great number gave signs of almost complete intoxication, so that parents who stood among the great crowd which had gathered to see the lads as they passed through were greatly humiliated. I felt sick at heart, for a public holiday had been proclaimed and people had come from the whole surrounding countryside to see the battalion for the last time before going overseas. It was a gala-day. They had waited all morning, and then many of the men who arrived were in every stage of intoxication! It was very humiliating to the poor parents and the men had been so good all summer!

When the train pulled out, I went back to my seat in the Pullman. Two thoughts were working in my mind, so that my head felt a little dazed and I did not hear the officers talking around me. Neither did I perceive when they spoke to me. One thought was a very human one. I felt terribly disheartened, and I wondered if the people thought that the men had been drinking so during the summer, and I fell to wishing that they could only know all about the men in camp. The other thought was that I was grateful to God for having chosen me to minister to them. For surely they needed a priest!

Chapter IX
The Panel of Silk

The following Sunday, when all my Catholic soldiers were assembled at Mass in the church of the town where we were encamped, I spoke of what had transpired during our journey from Valcartier. During the week I had thought out a plan, and I had bought a few packages of blank visiting cards and a number of lead pencils. I had cut the pencils in two and had put a part in every pew, also a blank card for every person that would sit in the pew. In the course of my little talk I spoke of how fine a thing it would be if they could take the pledge, given in such a way, however, that they might be free to take the rum served in the trenches, which, under those circumstances, could be considered medicine. Those who would take the pledge would write their names on the blank cards; the cards would be gathered up after Mass; the names would be typewritten on a panel of silk; the silk, bearing the names, would be used as a lining for my little portable altar, and whenever Mass would be said, a special remembrance would be made for the lads who had taken the pledge.

When we gathered up the cards after Mass they numbered almost two hundred. They were typed on the panel of silk, and the panel of silk, with the names, still rests in the little altar. All through the war they have been remembered. Many of those names appear elsewhere on small white crosses “where poppies grow,” so that now they are no longer mentioned in the memento of the living; but there is another part of the Mass when they are remembered—with “those who have gone before us, signed with the sign of faith, and who rest in the sleep of peace.”

Chapter X
Movement Orders

We did not stay very long in our new camping ground. For a few days the men seemed quite content. Everything was new to them; but soon they began to wonder how long it would be before we would leave. The nights often were very cold in the tents, for it was now late in October. We began to feel sure that orders for departing must come soon as no preparations were being made for going into winter quarters. On Sunday I had announced confessions for the following Wednesday. On the day set, four priests came to help me, but just as the men were being formed up to go to the church, word came that we were to leave that evening for overseas. The men were dismissed and soon there was a scene of general disorder; but on all sides were happy faces. All seemed glad to go. They had been looking forward to it for so long a time.

I was obliged to tell the priests who had come so far that there would be no confessions. I kept the hosts that the Sisters in a nearby town had made for me, as I hoped to hear the men’s confessions on the boat on the way across the ocean.

All night long we stood around, waiting for the train to come to take us, but there had been some delay, and so it was not till early in the morning that we left. Our journey was not a very long one, but we were obliged to wait at many different stations till trains passed us. As the movement order had called for a night trip, no dining-car or buffet had been attached. The men went hungry all day. The last trip had been one of over-indulgence. This was one of abstinence.

We had no breakfast and no dinner, yet the men seemed quite content, and joked pleasantly over the fact that they were hungry. At one country station where we were side-tracked the bugler jumped out on the platform and blew the call: “Come to the cook-house door, boys!” But as there was no cook-house door to go to, and no “Mulligan battery”—the name given to the field-kitchen, with its steaming odors of Irish stew—they greeted the call of the smiling bugler with derisive laughter.

At four o’clock we were all aboard the S. S. Corsican, and at five we pulled out from the dock, the band on the upper deck playing “Auld Lang Syne.” Many relatives of the lads, who had arrived in the little seaport town, waved their good-byes from the dock as the boat swung clear from its moorings and steamed slowly down the bay. The boys swarmed up the rope ladders and cheered; many little tugs far down on the water darted about, shrieking shrilly their farewells. We were off to the war!

Chapter XI
The High Seas

The doctor and I had been alloted a stateroom together, but I was subsequently given one down below, where I said Mass the first morning and heard confessions every evening. The chief steward was a Catholic and he was very kind. I had permission to say Mass in the second-class saloon, which was the largest on the boat, and nearly all the men came to Holy Communion. Our first Sunday out I said Mass for the lads below. As I proceeded with the Mass the seas became very rough, so that the book fell off the altar three times; the chalice, however, never moved. Many became sick, and the Red Cross section was busy. On the first day out we donned our cumbersome life-belts, which we wore all the way across the Atlantic. I took mine off only while saying Mass. They hung on the berths at night. During the day the men walked up and down the upper deck; sometimes there were drills, etc. We saw no vessels. Every day we plunged forward through rough seas, and in the afternoons, as I sat in my little stateroom hearing confessions, I could hear the dull pounding of the waves on the sides of the vessel.

I was very pleased with the example the Catholic officers gave the men. Every one of them came to confession and Communion on the way over. One, the old quartermaster, who was confined to his cabin with a severe attack of la grippe, could not come to Mass with the others, so I gave him Communion in his cabin towards the last of the voyage. The second morning afterwards, however, as I walked back and forth making my thanksgiving, I stopped quickly and peered out over the sea. I could see very faintly, across the water, a long, serried line of hills that looked greyish-blue in the early morning—the hills of Ireland! I ran quickly to tell the quartermaster, who had been born in Ireland and had still a true Irishman’s great love for his native land. He was not there. I was surprised, as the doctor had told me that he had given orders that he was not to leave his cabin till after we reached port. As I went out on deck again I noticed, up forward, leaning over the gunwale and looking towards Ireland, a great muffled figure. He wore one khaki great coat, and another, thrown loosely about his shoulders, gave him a hunched appearance. It was the quartermaster!

I went forward quickly: “Captain,” I said, “didn’t the doctor tell you not to leave your stateroom till we docked?”

He didn’t say anything for a second or two, and I noticed a mist had come into his eyes. Then he pointed far across the grey waste of waters. “Ah, Father,” he said, “but there’s Ireland!”

Chapter XII
By Ireland

All day long we sailed by Ireland and she seemed strangely peaceful and quiet. Perhaps it was the great contrast with the sea, the wide tumbling waste of waters that, night and day, was always restless; or perhaps it was a benediction resting over the whole country. Anyhow it seemed that way to me as often as my eyes rested on the hills and fields of holy Ireland. Since that morning I have seen many different countries. I have come back to my own land over the same great distance of waters, and it was in the early morning that I saw it first, yet that strange spiritual peace that seemed to rest over Ireland was decidedly lacking. That early morning scene still comes back to me; and all through the day, whenever my eyes rested on the hills of Ireland, I felt that I was making a meditation and that I was being lifted in spirit far above the little things that bother one here below.

Down below us on the water, with the swiftness almost of swallows, darted here and there the long grey anti-submarine boats. Seven or eight of them had come to meet us. Later on in the day appeared the mine sweepers, low short steam boats painted for the most part red, and carrying one yard sails. The sails were of dark brownish-red color. They worked in pairs.

Chapter XIII
England

That evening we moved slowly up the Mersey and at nine o’clock anchored out in the stream in full view of the city of Liverpool. We could not see it very well, for throughout the city the lights were dimmed and windows were darkened.

All along the Irish coast the impression was one of peace and quiet, a spiritual something. But England seemed to give one the idea of a great machine, working slowly, steadily, untiringly. One was spiritual; the other material. That was my first impression of England as a nation, and that impression remained with me during my stay in the country. Every time I returned on leave from France I found it always the same. England, as a nation, seemed to be wonderfully organized, and that whole organization seemed to run smoothly, powerfully, and heavily. Each individual had his special work to do in that colossal workshop called England. He knew how to do that, and he did it, quietly, methodically, and well. But, taken away from his own work, he seemed to lack resource—the resource and initiative of the men from the New World.

We entrained early in the morning. For most of us it was our first experience with the compartment cars of the Old World—little compartments running the width of the car, a door opening from each side of the car, with two seats running from one side to the other, each holding from three to five people, who sat facing each other.

We passed through many quaint towns and many large cities, and it was evening when we came into the quiet little station of Liphook. We were due there at two o’clock, but there had been many delays along the way. Sometimes the lads had pulled the rope and had stopped the train; and each time a stolid brakeman had opened the door of compartment after compartment, asking solemnly: “’oo pulled the reope?” Of course no one gave him the information he asked; whereupon he closed each door and went patiently on to the next compartment.

Chapter XIV
In Camp

I have often remarked that English writers use the word “depression” much more frequently than do writers on this side of the water, and I have often wondered what could be the reason for this. I had not passed one week in England before I knew. A few days in an English military camp will give one an idea of what depression is.

The military camp to which we were sent was Bramshott—a great collection of long, low, one-story huts, built row on row, with a door at each end, opening into muddy lanes that ran the whole length of the camp. It was raining mildly the evening we arrived and we marched in the darkness for three miles along soft muddy roads, and now and again we splashed through a puddle, though we tried to avoid them.

There seems to be an especially slippery quality about the mud of England,—to say nothing of that of France—that makes it very difficult to retain one’s balance. My cane, which according to military regulations I always carried, for the first time now proved useful. Day after day as the soldiers of the camp drilled in the soft, muddy squares, their movements resembled sliding more than orderly marching. Sometimes thick pads of the soft, yellow mud clung heavily to their feet; very often a gentle drizzle of rain fell, and nearly always the sky was dark grey and sombre, so that one wondered no longer why the word “depression” should be so frequently used in English literature.

But notwithstanding the mud and the dark skies, many of us grew to like England. There were many quaint, winding roads hedged in places with hawthorne bushes or spruce or boxwood. These led us into delightful little country villages with their old free-stone churches, sometimes covered with ivy that often ran for a long distance up the old Norman tower.

Chapter XV
The Cenacle

Not more than three miles from the camp was situated the convent of the Sisters of the Cenacle, a beautiful three-story building of red brick and stucco hidden away among great hemlock, spruce and cypress trees. It is a kind of rest house, where at certain seasons of the year retreats are given for ladies, who come from different parts of England and pass a week at the convent.

All during the war there was an open invitation to the Catholic soldiers of Bramshott Camp to visit the convent on Sunday afternoon and assist at Benediction of the Most Blessed Sacrament.

There were three or four different ways of going to Grayshott, near which the Convent of the Cenacle was situated. One of these was a foot-path which led first through a moor, covered in summer with purple heather, then through bracken, almost as high as an average man, and bunches of green gorse bushes that blazed light yellow at certain seasons with flowers resembling in shape the sweet-peas. It was a quaint little path, passing on its way “Wagner’s Wells” a chain of what we on this side of the Atlantic would call ponds, in a low, wooded valley. In summer these were very pretty when the full-leafed branches of the trees hung low over the Wells, and the water was almost wholly hidden by tiny white flowers that rested on the surface. All during the war, on Sunday afternoons, a long, irregular line of khaki-clad figures went leisurely along the foot-path to Grayshott, passed scenery strange though pleasing, mounted quaint rustic stiles till they came to the convent of the Sisters of the Cenacle.

The first Sunday I visited the Convent there were so many soldiers present that the little chapel could not contain all. I learned afterwards that this had happened so frequently that, in order that all might be present at Benediction, the good Sisters had asked for and obtained a general permission to have the services on the lawn just in the rear of the chapel.

Benediction was given by a little Belgian who was doing chaplain’s work among the Canadians at Bramshott, while Father Knox, a recently converted Anglican clergyman, led the soldiers in singing the hymns. Little red hymn-books, which the English government had supplied the Catholic soldiers, were passed around to each soldier. It was a beautiful sight there on that English lawn, as all knelt grouped together, officer and soldier, priest, sister, while the white Host was raised to bless us all. Then the lads sang strongly and clearly that beautiful hymn, “Hail, Queen of Heaven,” that was sung so often during the war under many different conditions. The Irishmen sang it as they advanced to take a difficult position that the English had failed to take at Féstubert.

The Sisters dispensed hospitality; large teapots of tea and plates stacked high with thin slices of bread and butter, and baskets of thick slices of yellow cake with currants in it. Then in the evening the soldiers walked back to camp through winding foot-paths and over stiles.

I am sure there are many men scattered over the country who will remember gratefully the Sisters of the Cenacle at Grayshott. It must have inconvenienced them greatly, yet Sunday after Sunday, all during the war, soldiers went to the convent, and always the Sisters treated them most hospitably.

On Sundays, when the number of men present was not too large, Benediction was given in the Sisters’ chapel. It was a very pretty little chapel and on the altar, day and night, the Sacred Host was exposed for perpetual adoration; and always two Sisters knelt to adore. On the Gospel side of the altar stood a beautiful statue of the Blessed Virgin which was almost covered with the military badges worn by soldiers of the different battalions. In some way known to women the good Sisters had draped a mantle about the statue, and to this was pinned the badges of these modern knights.

After Benediction the lads would all come to a large room where tea would be served. Often among the little khaki-clad groups a Sister of the Cenacle would be seen standing, or sitting, listening to the stories told of the country far away across the seas. The Sisters wore a black habit, a small purple cape which reached to the elbows, and a white cap covered by a black veil, except for a one inch crimped border around the face. Sometimes, when it was time to leave the convent, a certain group would step forward to say good-bye to the Sisters and to ask their prayers. These would be men ordered to leave during the week as a draft for some battalion in the trenches. And the lads “would be remembered in the Sacred Presence there, where remembrances are sacred and each memory holds a prayer.” Day and night, as the Sisters knelt before the Lord and offered their continuous prayers for a world that seemed to have forgotten Him, special prayers were said for those whose badges hung on Our Lady’s mantle.

Chapter XVI
The Battalion is Broken Up

We were not in England three weeks when orders came for a draft of men to reinforce a battalion that had suffered severe losses at the front. In a few days one hundred and fifty men left for France. We thought at the time that reinforcements would soon come to us from Canada, but not much more than a week passed till we were called on for another draft. This time the order was that three hundred and fifty men be sent to the Eighty-seventh Battalion.

This second order came as a shock to us all. Many of the officers had been in the battalion for almost a year; they had watched it grow strong and numerous and had helped to form, the thing most essential in a battalion, an “esprit de corps.” I had never thought of going to the front except as a unit. The idea of our being broken up had never entered my mind, but before Christmas came our battalion had lost its identity as the One Hundred and Thirty-second Battalion, and the majority of the men had gone to join different units at the front. It was impossible for me to be with all my men, as there were no two drafts in the same brigade; still, I thought that I might be permitted to go as chaplain to the brigade in which was the largest number of my men, so I obtained permission to go to London to explain matters to the senior chaplain. He was very kind, but he said I must await my turn; there were other chaplains whose battalions had undergone the same process of annihilation as had mine. These must go first; work would be found for me in England till my turn would come to go to the front.

I returned to Bramshott Camp a somewhat wiser man as to the workings of things military. But as I sat in the cold first class compartment, with my feet on a stone hot water-bottle (seemingly this is the only way they heat the cars in England) my mind was busy with many things. One was that I never should have offered my services as chaplain had I foreseen the catastrophe which had befallen us. I had counted on being with my men till the last. Before leaving for overseas many of the mothers of the lads had come to me and had told me what a great consolation it was to them to have the assurance that a Catholic priest would be with their sons. Now I was not going with them; still, I had been convinced that the lads would be well cared for spiritually.

At Bramshott I became assistant for a time to the camp chaplain, Father John Knox.

Chapter XVII
The Little Spaniard

I had not been given very much information at headquarters as to how soon I might be sent to the front, for they did not know how soon the call might come for chaplains.

In a few days the remnants of my battalion left Bramshott for a camp at Shoreham-by-Sea—all save a few, who stayed as officers, servants or clerks in different branches at headquarters.

One afternoon I was sitting before Father Knox’s tiny fire-place in his little room, talking of the Sunday church parades, when a very young soldier entered, saluted, passed Father Knox a letter and then stood at attention. I did not notice the lad particularly, as Father Knox read the letter in silence, for my eyes were on the small heap of glowing coals in the grate before me, and my mind was busy on a scheme to get all the men in the camp at two church parades on the following Sunday.

As Father Knox began to write the answer, he looked up from the paper and asked, “Catholic?”

Then for the first time the lad began to speak, hurriedly, and with foreign accent. His eyes took on a queer strained expression; his head seemed to crouch down to his shoulders.

It transpired that he was a Spaniard and had been brought up a Catholic, but after going to Canada had been accustomed to go to Protestant churches. He was now orderly to a Protestant minister and had received a few books from him including a copy of the New Testament in Spanish, so at present, his religion was the “Lord Jesus.”

I had already turned from the fire and was watching the lad. It was the first time I had ever heard a Catholic speak so, and I felt a great pity for him. But quickly the pity gave place to other emotions, for in reply to Father Knox’s question as to what battalion he came over with, he said “One Hundred and Thirty-second”—my own battalion! Slowly a dazed, nauseating feeling chilled me. Such a thing to happen! I was responsible to God for this man’s soul; and apparently he had lost his faith!

I questioned him a little, only to learn that now he was orderly to a Baptist minister and that it was he who had given him the New Testament in Spanish. I appointed an evening for the lad to come to see me. He came and we talked for a long time, but he seemed to be strangely obsessed. The more we talked, the more I noticed the queer, strained expression in his eyes, and when he left me that night I feared I had not done very much towards reviving his faith. It was many months before I saw him again.

Chapter XVIII
The Garrison Church Hut

The days passed quickly. New battalions from home came and took up quarters in camp, and to their surprise were broken up and sent in drafts to France. Every night Father Knox or I remained on duty in the little garrison hut, that the lads might have an opportunity of going to confession before leaving for France.

The garrison church hut had been built by the military authorities for the use of all religious denominations. It was used on Sundays by the Catholics, or, as the Army Equivalent has it, R. C.’s, at seven o’clock for the Communion Mass for the men. The Protestant denominations had the use of it all the rest of the day. There was a little altar on which the Anglicans offered their Communion service, but we never used this. Father Knox had an altar of his own, on rollers, which was moved out in front of the other one before Mass and wheeled back after Mass.

Just outside the entrance to the hut had been erected a large blackboard for announcements of services. Always on Saturday night this board held the order of the Anglican services. We had never interfered with this, as the Anglican is recognized as the official religion of the British army. However, one Saturday evening as I came out alone from the hut I happened, in passing, to glance at the board. The customary announcements were not there; instead, was written in bold white letters the order of Catholic services for the morrow. Not only was the notice of the camp service given, but the Benediction at Grayshott Convent was mentioned also. For a few seconds I stood gazing at the sign, in great surprise. Soldiers passing along the little lane paused to read and then passed on. I knew Father Knox could have had nothing to do with it. Then, as I stood there in the night looking at the announcement board, I smiled. “Tim Healy,” I said, “Tim Healy!”

Tim Healy was a lieutenant who had come over from Canada with an Irish battalion. Like many another it had been broken up and Tim was waiting anxiously his turn at the front. He had been born in Ireland and was a near relative of the great Tim Healy. The following afternoon I saw him at the Convent of the Cenacle. I went across the room to where he was sitting, and waited till he had finished his tea. Then, without any preamble, I said: “Mr. Healy, why did you erase the announcements on the board outside the church and put the Catholic order on?”

Tim forced an expression of innocent wonder into his face, which, I thought, was a little too elaborately done; but almost simultaneously appeared a pleasant twinkle in the eyes of him.

“No, Father,” he said, “I didn’t,” then he smiled broadly and his eyes twinkled merrily.

I looked at him in great surprise, for I was almost certain that he had done it. But Tim had not finished, and as his eyes continued to twinkle said quietly: “But I sent one of my men to do it. I hope he did it well.”

“Oh, yes,” I said grimly, “I think it was done well—if not too well.” However, nothing ever came of it.

Chapter XIX
The New Sacrifice

Things went much the same at Bramshott. Spring came, and for the first time I saw the primroses, which are among the first flowers to bloom in England. They do not belong to the aristocracy for one sees them everywhere; along railway embankments, along the roadsides, near the hedge-rows, everywhere patches of the pretty little yellow flowers smiled the approach of spring.

Then one day when the spring birds, nesting in the great old English trees, were cheering up the poor war-broken lads that lay on their little cots in so many military hospitals throughout the country—Vimy Ridge had been fought, and many of the lads who had sailed with me had fallen that victory might come—word came that I was to join the Fifth Canadian Division, which was then preparing to go overseas.

It was a beautiful day when I left for Witley Camp where the Fifth Division was quartered. The birds were chorusing their glorious melodies from hedge and tree and field; but along lanes that should have worn a peaceful country setting went clumsily great motor lorries in different ways connected with the war.

Witley Camp was only six miles from Bramshott, so it did not take us long to speed over the Portsmouth road through the beautiful Surrey country.

I took up temporary quarters with my old friend Father Crochetiere, and slept on a table in his office. I was not very long there when another old friend dropped in to see me in the height of Father Hingston, S. J. Both priests welcomed me very kindly and told me I was just in time to help in the remote preparation for a stirring event. They spoke with great enthusiasm, and it was not long before I was made aware of the cause. A Solemn High Mass was to be celebrated in the open air the following Sunday, and the Catholic soldiers from all parts of the camp were to attend in order to be consecrated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. There were more than three thousand Catholic soldiers in the camp. The following Sunday morning I was up very early to help in the preparations.

It was a beautiful morning. The sun was up, clear, bright, and warm. The air was very still. Though preparations, both military and religious, had been most carefully made, there was discernible in the manner of the priests who had worked so hard for the bringing about of this great religious ceremony some signs of anxiety. They feared lest there be a hitch in the deliverance of orders, so that all the men might not be present. There was no need to fear, for at 9:30 o’clock three thousand Catholic soldiers drew up in the grove of pines on the border of the lake at the northwest corner of the camp and all anxiety disappeared. There were French Canadian lads from the Province of Quebec; Irish Canadian Rangers from Montreal; Scotch laddies, with feathers in their caps, from Ontario and Nova Scotia; Indian lads from Eastern and Western Canada.

An altar had been built against one of the very few oak trees that stood in the grove of pines, and above the cross that stood upon it, a large picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus was nailed to the tree; surmounting all was a canopy of larch and ivy leaves. Daffodils, tulips and larch stood out brightly among the candles on the white altar. All about the carpeted elevation on which the altar had been built stood many potted plants.

As the parade was drawn up beneath the trees, on the carpet of dry pine needles and the last year’s oak leaves, bands of different battalions played and the kilted laddies made music with their pipes.

Father Crochetiere sang the Mass, with old Father McDonald, who had come over as chaplain to a Scottish battalion, as deacon and the writer as sub-deacon. The choir of thirty voices which sang the Royal Mass so beautifully was under the direction of Lt. Prevost of the One Hundred and Fiftieth Battalion.

And so under the British oak where “Druids of old” once offered their pagan sacrifices, the Holy Sacrifice of the New Law was offered, and Canadian lads knelt to adore. And there by the quiet lakeside the miracle of God’s wonderful love was wrought, and the promise made by the Divine Master on the border of another lake, the day following the multiplication of the loaves and fishes, was fulfilled. For many of the soldiers had waited till this late Mass to go to Communion, and under the beautiful sunlight that filtered through the trees they knelt to receive the “Bread of Life.”

After Mass a short sermon was preached in English and French by Father Hingston, S. J., chaplain to the Irish Canadian Rangers, in the course of which he explained clearly and beautifully what the ceremony of consecration meant.

Then Colonel Barré, commanding the One Hundred and Fiftieth Battalion, read the Act of Consecration to the Sacred Heart of Jesus in French, and Major McRory, officer commanding the One Hundred and Ninety-ninth Irish Canadian Rangers, read it in English. Each soldier was then presented with a badge of the Sacred Heart.

And just as of old the multitude who followed the Divine Master were blessed before they departed, so, after the Consecration to the Sacred Heart had been made, the lads knelt while Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament was given, and then all was over. “He blessed them and sent them away.”

As I stood that day by the little altar near the lakeside, while bands played and the lads fell in preparatory to departing, I could not help thinking of the many different places where they had worshipped since they had left Canada; and though I could not foresee the strange scenes they would inevitably meet on the red road of war, which they would shortly travel, still I felt sure that one day would stand out in their memories in bold relief—the day they made the Act of Consecration to the Sacred Heart of Jesus,—the day when they knelt before God’s altar built in the open air under the trees by the lakeside—and Jesus passed!

Chapter XX
Through English Lanes

The early summer in England, especially in Surrey, is very beautiful, and as the work was light we had many opportunities to walk through the lovely country roads. But even prettier than the highways were the lanes that led off from them and went winding, with their hedges, through copse and field, and quaint little red-brick villages, each with its century-old, ivy-covered church that had come down from the good old Catholic days. In some of them a statue of some saint still stood, and in many were ancient holy-water stoops and baptismal fonts.

Often gigantic chestnut or oak trees, grouped near a quaint old gate, told us of the entrance to some baronial estate or castle; but nearly always our only view of the estate was a piece of road with very carefully trimmed box-hedge or a great blazing hedge-row of rhododendrons, and a small white board, attached to a gate-post or tree, which informed the passing wayfarer that there was “No Thoroughfare.”

It was very pleasant to steal away from the camp and the sounds of shouted orders, and practicing military bands and bugle notes, to the quiet country where the birds sang blithely and the strange notes of the cuckoo’s solitary call from some distant tarn or wood came sweetly to the ears; one forgot, for the moment, the thought of war and all associated with it.

I remember one afternoon I had taken a walk with Father Hingston and Father Crochetiere down a shady lane that wound, for the most part, through a high woodland, when we came suddenly to a small village of seven or eight houses. To our right was a long box-hedged foot-path, winding through a field or two till it was swallowed up in a grove of tall, full-leafed beech and oak trees that stood presumably before a rich country seat. But we did not take the foot-path to the right. Instead, the priests,—both had been here before,—turned to the left and presently we had passed through a little gate into a very small but lovely rose garden. A tiny path, with a tiny boxwood hedge not more than a foot high, led from the gate to the door of an old-fashioned white house. Just before the door was built a latticed portico, over which climbing roses grew. We were admitted by an elderly housekeeper and were asked to go upstairs.

There we found a priest whose age might have been forty-five and whose hair was just beginning to turn grey about the temples. He was about medium height, rather slight, with an ascetic face. He was sitting in a low room which was very bare save for a table on which were some morning papers. Across the hall was a room in which was a great old-fashioned fire-place with an ingle-nook. The priest’s name was Father McCarty, but he spoke with a decidedly English accent. He was a member of a religious community known as the Salesian Fathers. Knowing that he had such a very small parish, I asked him if he found the time heavy on his hands. He replied that he did not; and that although he had only three or four families in all, including the rich household of Capt. Rusbrook, whose large estate we had passed on entering the village, he was quite busy, as he was writing the life of the founder of his order, Don Bosco; he also from time to time helped the chaplains at Witley Camp.

Chapter XXI
At Parkminster

There was a different spirit in Witley Camp than there had been at Bramshott; for in the whole division—twelve battalions of infantry and three brigades of artillery, etc.,—was the one feeling of expectation of soon going overseas. Any day the orders might come.

Father Hingston had made a retreat in London, and Father Crochetiere had just returned from five days’ rest and prayer at the wonderful monastery of the Carthusian Fathers, at Parkminster. I decided to go there.

The following Monday, late in the afternoon, I drove up the winding drive, through hawthorn hedges, to the gates of the monastery. Everything seemed very quiet; no one appeared in garden or window. A bell-rope hung outside the blue-grey door. I pulled it quickly. From somewhere within came a great clanging, and almost simultaneously a clatter of heavy boots on stone flags. Inside, a bolt shot back, and immediately a white-garbed, white-bearded old brother stood before me, smiling in the opening. He shook hands with me and bade me enter.

“We have been expecting you, Father,” he said, with that gentle courtesy that one finds in a religious house. He took my grip, notwithstanding every protest and led me along the rough, stone-floored corridor to the Guest House, where I was given a large, airy corner room, plainly though adequately furnished. Snow-white sheets were on the bed—I had not seen sheets for a long time.

The old white brother told me to sit down,—that presently the Retreat Master would come. Then he left me. I went over to a window and looked out. Just below was a large garden with rose-fringed walks, enclosed by a very high stone wall. Outside the wall green fields, fringed with dark trees, stretched far away. Beyond these, rolling Sussex downs, looking greyish-blue in the summer haze, rose to meet the skyline.

A strange peace was everywhere, and save for a slight nervousness that seemed to have come to me with the great silence of the house, I was glad that I had come.

In a little while a knock sounded on the door and the Retreat Master entered. He was not very tall, and rather slight, and though his hair was grey he was not old. There was nothing very distinctive in his face, now rough with a three-days’ growth of beard—the rule of the order is to shave every fifteen days—and there was not much color in his cheeks. The eyes were small, grey and almost piercing. But there was that same indefinable atmosphere of peace about him. It seemed as if he had stepped aside from the great noisy highway of the world to listen in silence to the voice of God. Yet, as he talked, the Father seemed to take a childish interest in all that I told him of my experiences in a great military camp with officers and men of the world. But away below the wonder that rippled over the surface of the spirit of the monk there seemed to be great depths of silence, and as I tried to fathom these depths, I felt a strange helplessness come over me. I could not understand this man who sat smiling simply and cordially, and at the same time seemed to be enveloped in an atmosphere not of this world.

Before he left for the evening the Retreat Master pointed to a card that hung on the wall. “The Order of Retreat,” he said. “You will be able to follow it?”

I assured the Father that I would, and then he was gone for the night.

My retreat passed very quickly—I had only five days—and during that time I forgot all about war and preparations for war. Every day for about half an hour the Retreat Master came to my room and talked a little. He told me many things about the monastic life that I found very interesting. Each monk, he explained, lived in a little brick two-story house which was attached to the great main corridor that formed a quadrangle about the church. The lower story was a kind of workshop in which was a lathe and different kinds of carpenters’ tools, and to it the monk descended in his free time to do manual work. A small garden, in between the different houses, was allotted to each monk, where he worked for a while each day and grew vegetables for his own frugal board.

One day I told the Retreat Master that I had read a description of Parkminster in one of the late Monsignor Benson’s novels, “The Conventionalists.”

The monk smiled reminiscently. He recalled the day that Mr. Benson—he was an Anglican at the time of his visit—in company with another minister, had called. Mr. Benson had seemed very much interested. The other had made some strange remark. Monsignor Benson had never visited the Monastery as a priest, nor had he ever brought any one there to join the community. The monk assured me of this, and he had been Guest Master for many years. Yet when I had read “The Conventionalists” I had been almost convinced that the story related was a personal experience. It may have been to some other monastery that the young man had gone, although Monsignor Benson had said Parkminster.

Shortly before I left the monastery the Retreat Master came to have a last chat. “When you reach the front,” he said, “tell your men that we are praying for them day after day, night after night.”

I felt a strange feeling of security on hearing these words, but as I left the monastery gates and turned to say farewell to the old monk, I felt a distinct sinking of my heart. “Perhaps,” he said rapturously, “you’ll be a martyr!”

Chapter XXII
Orders For France

Not a week had passed after my retreat, when one morning a runner from divisional headquarters came into my hut, saluted and passed me a paper. I was ordered to France. This was good news, for I had now been in the Army over a year. The battalion had been recruited to full strength early in 1916, and I had hoped to be in France before the end of that year. It was now June, 1917.

The following morning I left Witley Camp for London, where I was to receive further orders and equip myself with bed-roll, trench boots, etc. At headquarters, in London, I learned that I was to go to No. 2 Canadian Infantry Base Depot, at Etaples. From there, after a while, I would be sent to the trenches.

Etaples is a quaint little fishing village on the Canche River, about two miles from its mouth. Before the war it had been a famous resort for artists; quite a colony had lived in the little town. Apart from its quaintness and the picturesque costumes of the townsfolk, its chief interest for artists lay in its beautiful sunsets. It was a glorious sight to look down the Canche, widening between the jack-pine-crested sand dunes, as it flowed nearer the sea, to the great golden sun sliding down towards the merry dancing blue waves of the Straits of Dover, slowly turning red and redder as it sank among the long pencils or banks of reddening clouds fringed with gold. When the sun would sink into the waves the water would be crimsoned for miles, and for a long time after the great red disc had disappeared the distant sails of the fishing boats made a very pretty picture as they moved silently over the waves.

Etaples, besides being quaint, was a very dirty little town. At any hour of the day one might see a good housewife come to the door and empty a tub of soapy water that had served its use into the cobbled-street, where it was mingled with other soapy waters that ran continuously along the gutters. Every morning piles of garbage appeared in the streets before the houses.

During the war almost every house bore a sign nailed to the door upon which was written or printed the word “Estaminet,” which signified that within one might purchase wine, beer, coffee and other refreshments. Sometimes accompanying the sign was a smaller one, bearing the English words, “Eggs and chips.”

All the narrow cobble-stoned streets that ran from every direction into the village stopped at the large market square. Market days were twice a week, and then it was difficult to find one’s way through the crowds who came to buy from the black- or white-hooded country women, whose market wagons, mostly drawn by donkeys, were laden with everything imaginable from farm, house, and field. It was a striking scene there in the old market square before the town hall. Soldiers from almost all the Allied armies could be seen there, while nurses from the great military hospitals, about one-half mile from the town along the road that followed the Canche towards Camiers and the sea, moved quickly, nearly always two by two, carrying small market-baskets.

Chapter XXIII
At No. 2 Canadian Infantry Base Depot

At the No. 2 Canadian Infantry Base Depot I had the most wonderful opportunity of the war to study the Catholics of the allied armies—Irish, Scotch, Welsh, English, New Zealand, Australian and Portuguese. For here were depot camps for all these troops. Often there would be as many as one hundred thousand men training at one time, but after every engagement drafts would be called for up the line. Then they would be given their full equipment from the large ordnance stores at Etaples, and in the evening they would come to confession and Communion. There were two large Catholic recreation huts, with a chapel in each. On Sundays folding doors were opened and the whole hut became a chapel; hundreds of soldiers came to assist at the different Masses that were said in each hut.

In the evening great numbers came to confession, and always crowds assisted at the early week-day morning Mass. Every evening priests would be on duty in the little chapels hearing confessions and, if soldiers had been called urgently and were leaving for the front, giving Communion.

It was my lot for the most part to hear confessions in the Catholic hut to which came not only my own Canadian lads, but the Irish of the famous Sixteenth Division: Connaughts, Leinsters, Munsters, Irish Guards, etc. It was wonderfully edifying to sit evening after evening and hear the confessions of these Irish lads. They would usually begin by saying, “God bless you, Father!” They came in extraordinarily large numbers every night and always stayed a long while to pray. The faith seemed to be part of their very being. Though they did not parade it, these lads seemed scarcely to breathe without showing in some way the love for their faith. When they met the Catholic chaplain in the street, they did not give him the salute they were supposed to give him, in common with all other officers. They always took off their hats. They were the only soldiers who ever did this. I asked an Irish Catholic officer about it one evening. “Why, Father,” he said, “they think the military salute not good enough for a priest. It does all very well, they think, for a general or a field marshal or the King of England, but it’s not enough for a priest. They must take their hats off, although they break a military rule by so doing.” “God bless them,” I said warmly.

The Queen of England visited the hospitals and military depots of Etaples while I was there. Happening to be near the Irish depot when she was about to pass, I stood among the great crowds of soldiers that lined each side of the road. In about three minutes the Queen would come along. Suddenly I heard the high, effeminate voice of an English officer of superior rank calling out: “Tell that man to put on his coat. See here, you!”

Looking in the direction towards which the colonel called, I saw an Irish soldier, minus his tunic, go galloping in his heavy military boots through a path that widened accommodatingly for him and closed behind him, so that progress was almost impossible for the aristocratic colonel, who perhaps wished to identify the man.

I remember one evening after I had finished confessions in Oratory Hut and had come back to the tent in my own lines, finding a young Scotch officer sitting at the little deal table waiting for me. After talking for awhile, he told me that for some time he had been wishing to become a Catholic, and that if I could spare the time he would begin instructions whenever I wished.

We began that night, and a few weeks later I baptized him in the chapel of Oratory Hut. An Englishman—I think his name was Edmund Hanley—stood sponsor. During the ceremony the chaplain of the Portuguese soldiers came in and knelt reverently. When all was over and we had offered congratulations, the Portuguese priest shook hands with the neophyte; then he came over to me and gave me both his hands warmly. Although he could not speak my language, nor I his, still we were brother priests, and I was sure he knew the joy I felt over this new sheep coming into the fold of Christ.

Chapter XXIV
The New Zealanders

Of all the lads of different nationalities who visited the little chapel in the evening and who came so often to Holy Communion in the early morning, I think I liked the best the New Zealanders. They were nearly all tall, lithe men, dark-haired, with long, narrow faces, and eyes that had a strange intensity of expression: perhaps one might call them piercing. They were quiet-voiced men and spoke with rather an English accent. They were the gentlest, finest men it was my good fortune to meet in the army. They were excellent Catholics, many of them daily communicants. The Maoris, the aborigines of New Zealand, were treated by the white men with the same courtesy that they showed one to another. The Maoris were the most intelligent looking men of the yellow race I had ever met. In fact, it was only by their color—which was almost chocolate—that one could distinguish them from the New Zealanders themselves. Those of the Maoris who were Catholics were excellent ones.

I recall one incident which impressed me very much with New Zealand courtesy. I had come to a segregation camp, just outside the little village of Etaples, to arrange for the Sunday church parade of the soldiers on the following day. The soldiers who were quartered in the segregation camp were men who had come in contact with those suffering from contagious diseases. They usually stayed in this camp about three weeks. If after this period no symptoms of any contagious disease appeared they returned to their different units. The day I speak of, three officers were sitting in the mess when I went to announce the services, two Englishmen and one New Zealander. I told the officer in charge that I should like to have the Catholic men paraded for Mass the following day, suggesting to him to name the hour most suitable. He, an Englishman, said eleven o’clock. I was about to say, “Very well,” when the New Zealand officer interposed gently but firmly. “You will have to make the hour earlier than that, Captain,” he said. “You know the Father will be fasting till after his Mass.”

The English officer looked at me quickly. “Why, Padre,” he said, “it did not occur to me that you would be fasting. Certainly, we’ll have it earlier. How about nine o’clock?” Nine would suit perfectly, I assured him. As I was to say an early Mass for the nurses at 7:30, I would just have time to move my altar to the dunes, where I was to celebrate Mass, before the soldiers would arrive.

The Mass was finished very early that Sunday, and there was no long fast. I was very grateful to the New Zealander for his thoughtfulness. As I have said before, they were the gentlest, finest men I had ever met.

Chapter XXV
The Workers

There was one thing about the natives of Etaples that impressed me particularly, and that was the respect each artisan seemed to have for his work. In the little village were candle-makers, bakers, boot-makers, makers of brushes, etc., and all these workmen seemed to be interested in their work and to have a great respect for it. They worked slowly, patiently, and always thoroughly. I noticed the same spirit in the fields. Just beyond the hill and the giant windmill that overlooked the village, unfenced green fields sloped downward to green valleys, then up over the hills again. Through this open countryside wound the white roads of France; and always the great main roads were arched by ancient elms. Unlike England, not even a hedge divided the property of owners. Here every day crowds of farm laborers, mostly women and girls, came early to work. One noticed a total absence of all modern farm implements. The women still used the old-fashioned reaping hook that was used long before the coming of Christ. What they cut they bound carefully into tiny sheaves. The women, for the most part, were dressed as the woman in Millet’s picture, “The Angelus,” from hood to wooden shoes. Here, again, the work was done patiently, quietly, and thoroughly. The modern idea of saving labor seemed never to have come to them. Sometimes when not very busy I would take a walk through the long white roads, leading into a white-housed red-roofed village, the Norman tower of the little church piercing the tree-tops; then out again through more green unfenced fields to another little village two, or three, or sometimes four miles away.

Often while on these walks, I used to think of the rugged strength of these sturdy French peasants who went so steadily and quietly about their work. They were strongly built people, well developed, and their faces were deep red—I suppose from so much work out of doors.

Chapter XXVI
Orders Again

I had come down to my tent one evening a little later than usual to find a D. R. L. S. letter from the Chaplain Service awaiting me. D. R. L. S. meant “Dispatch Riders’ Letter Service.” I opened it quickly, as a letter from headquarters, brought by a dispatch rider, might contain very important orders. This was an order to report for duty at No. 7 Canadian General Hospital the following day.

I looked at my watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. It was very dark outside and the rain was beating on my tent. No. 7 was at least two miles distant, but I must see the chaplain before he would leave. I put on my trench coat and stepped out into the rain.

As I drew near the hospital I was obliged to pass by a German prison camp. I suppose my thoughts were wandering that night. At least the first thing I realized was seeing through the rain the bright blade of a bayonet thrust at my breast; then I heard the voice of the guard: “Quick! Are you friend?”

I stopped suddenly. I had not heard him challenge me the first time, which he surely must have done. I realized in an instant my position. “Yes,” I shouted, “friend.”

“It’s a good job you spoke, sir,” warned the guard, and then he said, quickly, “Pass, friend.”

Although I had realized my position, I had not felt the slightest alarm, but now as I walked along in the darkness a strange fear took possession of me, so that I shook almost violently. I have been challenged often by sentries since that night, but it has never been necessary to inquire more than once; nor have I ever been halted so suddenly by a pointed bayonet.

I found the out-going chaplain, Father Coté, packing his bed-roll, and as he packed he gave me all the advice necessary to an incoming chaplain. The following morning he went up the line, and immediately after lunch I left No. 2 C. I. B. D., where I had been most cordially treated by both officers and men, and came to No. 7 Canadian General Hospital.

Chapter XXVII
Hospitals and Trains

No. 7 Canadian General was only one of a group of hospitals situated along the highway that led from Etaples to Camiers. There were seven or eight large hospitals in all, though only two were Canadian, the others being British. Although I was quartered at No. 7, I had also to attend the other Canadian Hospital, No. 1. There were about 2,500 beds in No. 7, and about 2,000 in No. 1.

At one end of No. 1, there was a marquee chapel-tent and at the rear of No. 7 there was a low wooden chapel called “Church of Our Lady, Help of Christians,” but this was used mostly by the British Catholics.

The military hospital in France usually consisted of a number of long, low, detached one-story huts, built in rows, each row behind the other. Between the rows ran little lanes just wide enough to permit two ambulances to pass. There was a door in each end of every hut, so that it was very easy to go from one hut into the other. Each hut was a ward; in some hospitals they were numbered; in others they were lettered. Down each side of the aisle, running from door to door, was a row of beds—low iron beds covered with army blankets. In most of the hospitals there were no counterpanes, but there were always clean white sheets and pillow-cases. At one end of the ward were two small cubicles, one of which was the nurses’ office, the other a kind of pantry and emergency kitchen, though nearly all the cooking was done in the general kitchen, which was a special hut.

Into these large, quiet wards, far away from the roar of the heavy guns, the crackle of machine-guns and rifles, the wounded lads came, carried by train and ambulance.

Many who will read these lines have seen the troop-trains, with their hundreds of khaki-clad lads leaning out from car windows, cheering, singing, and waving, as they were carried swiftly by on their way to seaport or training-camp. Perhaps they have watched long companies of soldier boys march up dusty roads, while flags waved and bands played and people cheered, to the lines of cars waiting for them. If so, they will recall the great buoyancy of the lads—their gaiety as they passed on their way to training-camp or port of embarkation for overseas.

This light-heartedness accompanied them across the sea and went with them up through France as they journeyed in other troop-trains to the front. And whenever thirsty engines stopped at watertanks, or when a halt was made to exchange a tired engine, little French children assembled and gazed wide-eyed at the soldiers who had come from across the seas. They wondered, too, what those words meant that some one on the troop-trains always called out and which brought such a thundering response. Many trains went up along the same way through France and stopped, as others had stopped, and always some voice called out those words, and always hundreds of voices roared back, “No!” So in time the French children learned them, and whenever the trains slowed into a station the little ones would run to the cars, and one of their number would call out, “Har we doon-hearted?” Then, mingled with the laughter of the khaki-clad lads, would come thundering the answer, “No!”

After awhile trains bearing soldiers began to come down from the line. But when the engines stopped at watering-tanks or stations the little French children that gathered about them noticed certain differences between these trains and the ones that went up to the front. Everything seemed very silent, save for the slow panting of the engine. On the side of every car was painted, in the middle of a large white circle, a red cross. No groups of laughing faces appeared at open car windows; though now and again the white, drawn face of some one lying in a berth peered out through the glass. Sometimes a white bandage was tied around the head, and sometimes on the white bandage was a dark-red patch. No one called out, “Are we downhearted?”

Trains kept coming down from the front somewhat irregularly; silent trains with red crosses painted on white circles on the sides of the cars. Then one day there was a slight change in the appearance of these hospital trains. The red cross was still there, but painted near one end, on the side of the car, was an oblong of red, white and blue about three feet long and two wide. The little children knew well what this was—the tricolor of France. But they did not know what the oblong of red, white and blue painted on the side, at the other end of the car, represented. The disposition of the color was different, and the formation of the colored parts was not the same. There were more stripes in this oblong, and the stripes were narrower and red and white in color. In the upper corner was a small blue square with many white stars on it. Then one day some one told the little children that this was the flag of the Americans who had come from so far across the seas to help their fathers and brothers in the war.

As I write these words I recall the passing of the trains of France. Those that went up took light-hearted lads who leaned from car windows and sang and cheered as they went through French villages. And the trains that came down, with red crosses on them, had for their passengers quiet lads who lay in berths, bandaged in every conceivable way. But although they suffered much, and although occasionally a low moan escaped through pain-drawn lips, those wonderful lads were still “not downhearted.”

They passed through many different hands after they were wounded and always they were well treated. First, stretcher-bearers picked them up and carried them to the regimental aid post, which was usually a dugout in one of the support trenches. Here they received treatment from the medical officer of the battalion and his staff. Then they were carried by other stretcher-bearers down the trenches to the field station, from which places motor ambulances took them to the advanced dressing station where bandages were re-arranged or improved. Then they went to the clearing station, where they remained for perhaps two or three days until there was a clearing for the hospital to which they were to go.

Ambulances took them to the Red Cross trains and stretcher-bearers carried them gently to berths in the cars, and then they began their long journey to the base hospital—the big quiet hospital far away from the roar of the guns. From time to time medical officers passed down the aisle of the car, and sometimes a Red Cross nurse, clad in light grey uniform, gave medicine to the wounded lads or examined a dressing.

The journey from the casualty clearing station to the base hospital often took many hours. It was usually evening when the long line of Red Cross cars came slowly into the smooth siding that had been built since the war. The bugle call would sound and many hospital orderlies and stretcher-bearers would assemble, as, one after another, the big green ambulances, each one driven by a woman, came swiftly down to the siding. Gradually their speed slackened, and they moved slowly down the line of hospital cars, in the sides of which doors opened. Then gently and carefully the wounded lads, wrapped in thick brown army blankets and lying on stretchers, were lowered from the cars and carried to the open ends of the ambulances, where the stretchers were fitted into racks running their full length—two above and two below. As soon as the stretchers were securely strapped the machine slowly moved off to the hospital, which was just a few hundred yards away.

Chapter XXVIII
D I’s and S I’s

I remember the day I arrived at No. 7. The quartermaster allotted me a burlap hut in the officers’ lines, just large enough to contain a low iron bed, a rough table, made of boards from an old packing case, a chair (which was not there) and a little stove when it was cold enough for one. I hung my trench coat on a nail and asked the two men who had brought my bed-roll to place it where the chair should have been. I gave just one look around the hut, then went out again and up to the Registrar’s office, first to No. 1, then back to No. 7.

Every morning a list was posted outside the Registrar’s offices, on which were printed the names of the D. I.’s and S. I.’s; those Dangerously Ill and Seriously Ill. For obvious reasons the Catholics of both classes were always prepared for death immediately. I found a number of Catholics in a critical condition and I administered the last sacraments to them. It was long after six o’clock when I finished my work. I was leaving No. 7 feeling a little tired, for I had covered quite a lot of ground on my visits, when I heard “Padre” called by one of the nurses, who was coming quickly behind me.

I stopped until she came to where I was standing. She asked me if I were the new R. C. chaplain. On being answered in the affirmative she told me she had a list of men of my faith who should be seen by their chaplain immediately. She passed me her list as she spoke, and in a second or two I was comparing it with the names written in the little black book that I had taken from the left upper pocket of my tunic. I had seen them all: all had been “housled and aneled,” had been prepared to meet God. I told her so, quietly, and I showed her my little book.

She compared the names: then she looked at me keenly. “My!” she said, “how you Catholic priests look after your men!” Then she was gone again.

Chapter XXIX
Down the Hospital Aisle

Although the emergency cases were attended at all hours by the chaplain, it was in the afternoon that the general visiting was done. Each patient, when he had entered the hospital, had attached to the buttonhole of his shirt, or overcoat if he was wearing it, a thick waterproof envelope containing a card on which was written a description of the wounds he had received and the treatment that had been given them in the different stations through which he had passed. Sometimes, though not often, there was a smaller card attached to the large one—but we shall speak of this card later. The nurse in charge of the ward kept the cards of her patients in her office. As the religious denomination of the patient was always given on his card, together with the number of his bed, it was very easy for me to find my patients once I had written down the names from the cards.

The first question that I usually asked the men, after I had inquired about their wounds, was how long it was since they were at Communion. Nearly always it was a few days or a week, as most of them had gone to Holy Communion before going into the trenches, though sometimes it was a month or two; and sometimes a man looked up at me steadily and said, “Ten years, Father,” or perhaps fifteen, or perhaps more. Then I would say, quietly: “It will soon be time to go again, won’t it?” Usually the man smiled, but generally he agreed with me. When I would meet a man a long time away, I would make a note in my little book so that I might make some special visits to him. Often, I had the great joy of seeing men, a long time away from the sacraments, return to God.

One afternoon I stopped at the bed of a bright-eyed young Canadian whose face lit up on seeing me, for he knew I was the priest. He had lost one of his arms above the elbow, so I began to talk to him of the wonderful artificial limbs that were being made for those disabled in the war.

The lad just smiled quietly—he was not the least bit downhearted—as he said: “They can’t help me much in my line, Father.” Then he fumbled with his hand in the little bag in the small white locker that had been placed near his bed, and when he found his pay-book he asked me to open it and read the newspaper clipping that was there. The head-line said, “Pat Rafferty Enlists,” and underneath, in smaller print, was a second heading: “Champion Light Weight Boxer of Western Canada Goes to the Front with the —— Battalion.” Then there were two short paragraphs, and below them was a picture of a young man in civilian dress. I examined it a moment, and as I looked at the original I felt a wave of pity well up within me. Yet the brave young soldier smiled.

It was not only Canadian soldiers who came to the hospital, for men of all the English-speaking armies were brought there. I always enjoyed a talk with the Irish wounded; they had such a warm friendliness and reverence for the priest. It really was not necessary for me to procure the number of their beds, once these men knew that it was the priest who was coming down the aisle, for I could have found them by the eager, smiling faces that watched me as I came. They always got in the first word; before I quite reached their beds I would hear their truly Irish greeting, “God bless you, Father,” and then as I would shake hands, they would ask me eagerly how I was—I had come to see how they were. They always wanted a medal—they pronounced it more like “middle”—and it was a little one that they wanted. One day I spread out on the palm of my hand eight medals of assorted sizes, and told a great giant to help himself. Among the medals was the tiniest one I have ever seen. The great finger and thumb did not hesitate for a second, but groped twice unsuccessfully for the tiny medal; finally, the third time they bore it away, while over the large face of the Irish lad spread the delighted smile of a child.

When I asked one of these lads which battalion he was in, expecting of course to be told the First or Second Munsters, or Leinsters, or Dublins, etc., but that is what I never heard. This is what they would say: “Father Doyle’s, Father,” or “Father Gleason’s, Father,” or “Father Maloney’s, Father.”

One afternoon, just when I entered, my eyes fell on a bright face looking up over the blankets. I knew he was a Catholic, an Irishman, from the Munster Fusiliers, though I judged from the manner in which the large blue eyes regarded me that he was not so sure about my religion. I thought that there was also a hint of battle in the glint of his eye, so I walked quickly over to his bed, without the faintest flicker of a smile, and said: “Let me see now, you’re a Baptist, aren’t you?”

The blue eyes of the Munster lad blazed as he looked up at me. “No, sir, I’m not! I’m a Roman Catholic!” he said, and as he panted for breath, I said to him quietly: “Well, now, I’m glad to hear that. I’m a Roman Catholic, too!”

Then swiftly the vindictive look faded out of the blue eyes of the Irish lad and a smile floated over his face as he said, somewhat shamefacedly: “Excuse me, Father—I didn’t know, Father—I’m glad to see you, Father,” (pronouncing the “a” in Father like the “a” in Pat), and a big red, brown-freckled hand was shyly offered me. It was only three days since Father Gleason gave him and all his comrades Holy Communion, but he would be pleased, if it would not be too much trouble to His Reverence, to go again in the morning. I wrote his name in the little book and promised to come in the morning with the Blessed Sacrament.

Chapter XXX
The Two Brothers

I had been visiting the two brothers for over a week—indeed one of them for over two weeks, before I knew they were brothers. One was in No. 1 hospital; the other in No. 7: one had been wounded in the chest or shoulder; the other in the knee. I carried messages one to the other, and they looked forward eagerly to my coming, for it was three years since they had seen each other. They used to anticipate with great pleasure the day when they would be convalescent and could see each other. Then one evening the lad who was wounded in the knee told me that the following morning there was to be an evacuation for England and that he was among the number. Although he was glad to hear this good news, still he regretted very much not being able to see his brother before leaving. “It is so long since I’ve seen him, Father, and he is so near,” he said wistfully.

I looked at the young fellow for a few moments, wondering silently what I could do to bring about a meeting of the brothers. First, I thought I might obtain permission for the ambulance to stop at No. 1 on its way to the siding, and that the young fellow might be carried in on a stretcher. But on second thought I felt it would be very difficult to obtain such a permission. Finally, I decided to ask the adjutant for permission to have him taken up to No. 1 on a wheel stretcher. The adjutant was very kind, granting my request. That evening the two brothers met for the first time in three years and passed two hours together.

This little act of kindness did not pass unnoticed, for I learned afterwards that it had met with the warm approval of many in both hospitals—I suppose because it was just one of those little human touches that everybody loves. But I could not help thinking of the numerous other meetings in the early morning, or often at any hour of the day or night, when through my ministrations two others were brought together, sometimes after a much longer separation than that of the brothers. One would be some poor broken lad who sometimes was a little bashful or shy about the meeting; the other was Jesus of Nazareth, the Saviour of the world. Not many concerned themselves about these meetings, but—there was “joy among the angels.”

Chapter XXXI
An Unexpected Turning

It was now November. The days were passing very quickly for I was kept busy; convoys were coming daily. Passchendael was being fought. I had to visit the D. I.’s and S. I.’s very often, for many were being admitted. One morning I stopped just long enough to prepare an Australian for death. He had been wounded through the throat and could not swallow, so that it was impossible for me to give him Holy Communion. I absolved him and anointed him quickly, then I told him I must pass on as I had many more to visit. It was almost impossible for him to speak, and he did so with great pain, but as he gave me his hand and his dying eyes looked at me, he made a great effort. “Cheerio,” he whispered. Truly these wonderful lads were not downhearted!

During the month of November thousands of patients passed through the hospital. Everybody was working extremely hard. Sometimes during the night, convoys arrived. The anaesthetist, who sat next me at mess, told me that he was beginning to feel that he could not continue very much longer; for days he had been giving chloroform almost steadily, as there were very many operations. We were both longing for a little lull in the work so that we might get a few hours’ rest.

There were many places where the officers of the hospitals used to go. There was “The Blue Cat” at Paris Plage, a famous seaside resort about three miles from Etaples, where they went to have tea and bathe in the sea. There was the village of Frencq, where a little old lady kept a small coffee house and made omelettes that were famous. Then there were two officers’ clubs and an officers’ circulating library at Etaples. I had been to the library at different times while at the base. There was a large reading-room exceptionally well lighted, for it was a part of an old studio. Tea was served every afternoon from 3:30 to 6:00 o’clock, at which a number of old English officers assembled. It was very amusing to listen to them relating past experiences, in which often a good dinner was not forgotten. They treated the soldier-waiter as if he were one of their own personal servants, calling him often; and although there was but one syllable in his name (it was Brown) they managed to twist the last letter into a rather complaining inflection. I watched Brown a number of times, and although he came “on the double” and stood head erect, looking at his nose, as all good butlers do, still I thought I detected on more than one occasion a merry light in his bright brown eyes, and he seemed to be exerting a little extra will power in keeping his lips composed.

Then one day there came a lull in the rush of work, and being advised by one of the officers to take a little recreation, I obeyed.

I recall that afternoon particularly. I went to the officers’ circulating library, which was at the rear of the town hall, where I passed the afternoon very pleasantly looking through a delightfully illustrated edition of “Our Sentimental Garden,” by Agnes and Egerton Castle, whose home I had visited while at Bramshott. The quarto volume contained many drawings of their pretty garden from different angles. It was very restful sitting in the quaint old studio, through the great windowed wall of which streamed the autumn sunlight.

Towards five o’clock tea was served by my old friend, the butler humorist. Then as the sun went quietly down into the sea, far out, I walked back to No. 7, feeling very much benefited by my visit, meeting hundreds of soldiers, nurses and civilians on the way.

It was dusk when I entered my little burlap hut. I lit the lamp, and as I did, the light flashed over an open letter on my newspaper-covered desk. All the feeling of exhilaration which had cheered my return walk left me suddenly, and an overwhelming, foreboding cloud came over my spirits; for the letter said: “Please come quickly, Padre, there is one of your men dying in Ward 3, bed 17.” It was signed by the adjutant of No. 1 hospital, and the hour of the day was marked on the letter. It had been sent at 2:30. It was now 6:00 p. m. I turned down the lamp and went quickly out of the little hut praying, as I ran up the road, that the lad might be still alive. I walked down the ward, not noticing the friendly faces that turned to greet me, as was their custom. The red screens were around the bed. I moved them gently and stood quietly by the lad’s bed. An orderly moved a little to one side.

“He’s dead, sir,” said the orderly. “Died just a minute ago.”

I put on my purple stole, gave the lad conditional absolution and anointed him conditionally. Then I stood for a long while looking on his still white face, wishing with all my heart that I had not left the hospital that day. Then the orderly made a little movement and I turned and went down the aisle of the ward, repressing a great desire to burst into tears; it was the first time, through my neglect, that I had ever missed a call to the dying. In passing I talked to a few patients, but there seemed to be a strange numbness in my brain, so that I did not follow the words spoken by the occupants of different beds where I stopped; one or two ceased speaking and looked at me keenly.

Just as I was about to leave the ward little Sister Daughney came in. She stopped and spoke to me, and her words were as sweetest music to my ear.

“Ah, Father,” she said—Sister was from Ireland—“I sent for you this afternoon for the lad who has just died. He would have been glad to see you, Father, although there was no need; for he said he had been anointed and prepared for death just six hours before up in the C. C. S.”

I looked at the little sister talking so quietly and in such a matter-of-fact way: while thundering in my ears was the desire to break forth into a great Te Deum Laudamus. She spoke to me of two or three new patients who might develop more serious symptoms, then passed on to other duties, whilst I went up the lane to my little marquee chapel to kneel before the tabernacle and make known to God my fervent gratitude. And so, after all, I had passed a very pleasant day.

Chapter XXXII
Private Belair

The days passed quickly, for they were well filled, and sometimes at night the call would come; my door would open quite abruptly, awakening me, and the light from a small flash-light would dazzle my surprised eyes, while a voice called, “R. C. chaplain?” I recall one night in particular. I had been awakened by the orderly calling, to find him standing at the head of my bed, his flash-light focused on a message written on white interlined paper that he held before my eyes. The words read: “Come quickly, Father, Wd 14, bed 7, Belair, gassed.” It was signed Sister Kirky, who weighed almost 300 pounds. In twelve minutes I was dressed and standing in the ward by Private Belair. I was a little surprised to find him sitting up with just his tunic and boots removed. He sat in such a way that his arms rested over the back of his chair which he faced. He was panting terribly and was evidently suffering greatly. Every little while, when he seemed to have sufficient strength, he would begin to pray in whispered Latin, “O bone Jesu,” then his voice would die out in a trembling whisper and the prayer would become inaudible.

“Oh, Father,” he whispered, “I am—so glad—you came. All my life—I have prayed—to have the grace.” Then he began to pray again, and I made ready to hear his confession. It did not take long for it cost him terrible agony to speak. Then I anointed him. I had not brought Holy Communion, being so eager to reach him that I had not taken time to go up to the chapel called “Church of Our Lady, Help of Christians.” My own marquee chapel had blown down a few days previous and I had removed the Blessed Sacrament to the above-mentioned church. I told the sick man I was going to bring our Blessed Lord, but that it might take a little while, as very likely I should find the church locked and should have to find the key.

Although the ward had been but dimly-lighted it was extremely dark on coming out, for it was raining; and in my haste I tripped over a tent guy-rope, taut by the rain, and fell on my hands and knees on the cinder walk. Then I walked on more carefully, rubbing tiny particles of cinders from my stinging hands. Just as I reached the chapel I was challenged by the guard. This time I answered quickly: “Friend. R. C. chaplain No. 7. Can. Gen. Hospital.” I stood to be recognized. Then the guard spoke, but this time softly, and he peered at my rain-wet face. “Ah, Father,” he said, “it’s you!” It was one of the Irish lads from the Sixteenth Infantry Base Depot who was one of the guards for the German prison camp opposite. He may have seen me saying Mass at Oratory Hut, or perhaps he had spent a few days at the segregation camp.

The door of the little church was locked, and I did not know where to find the key. I knew that an English Redemptorist, Father Prime, chaplain to No. 26 British General Hospital, said Mass here every morning; perhaps he might know where the key was kept. It was half a mile to Father Prime’s little hut at No. 26, and I went very quickly, praying all the while for the poor gassed soldier that he might have the great privilege for which he had prayed so much.

Father Prime was very easily awakened and seemed glad that it was not a call for him to go out in the rain. He had the key, and presently I was hurrying back to the little church.

The Irish lad, still on guard, as I returned bearing the Bread of Life to the dying soldier in the hospital, knelt on the rainy ground, and I could just tell that he was bowing his head as the Saviour passed.

The poor fellow was still alive, though panting in great pain. He received Holy Communion most devoutly. I felt that I was in the presence of an exceptionally good man. In the afternoon he died.

Chapter XXXIII
A Little Nonsense

It was hard work visiting the wounded, listening time after time to each one as he described the nature and history of his wounds, which in many cases were so similar. Often on leaving one hut only to enter another, I have paused to look longingly out to the estuary of the Canche, where the sun would be sinking slowly, and breathe the strong, aromatic air coming from the sea and the marshes that grew from the river mud; then in again to great wards of poor broken lads and the antiseptic odors of the hospital.

Although the spirits of the lads, on the whole, were bright and merry, and those who nursed them brought sunshine to their work, still one would scarcely think of entering any one ward with the intention of being entertained. Yet frequently I have gone into a certain ward of No. 7, Canadian General, with no other intention than that of being amused. For in this ward were the malingerers, that is, the men who were trying to “put one over” on the doctors. The soldiers called them “lead swingers.” The ingenuity of some of these men was really extraordinary. I have seen a case come through three or four different posts, diagnosed as measles, until finally the doctor in the stationary hospital saw that the man had used a preparation of some oil to bring out the rash, and had raised his temperature with cordite.

The first day I went into Wd. —, I was somewhat puzzled. I had not known that this was the ward of malingerers, and so was surprised to find so many healthy looking men in hospital. The nurse in charge looked a little surprised when I entered and said smilingly: “Well, Padre, what are you doing here? Nobody ever dies in this ward.”

“Well, Sister,” I said, “as far as I can see now, every one has the appearance of being quite spruce.” Then she said quietly: “P. U. O.,” nodding her head a little after pronouncing each letter. Then she went into her cubicle to continue her work.

That evening at dinner I asked the doctor who sat nearest me what was meant by “P. U. O.” He smiled, then said: “It means, Padre, ‘Praxis of Unknown Origin’,” and kept smiling as he continued: “We sometimes meet a case which really puzzles us, but nearly always, when you see ‘P. U. O.’ on a medical history sheet you can count on its being a case of malingering.” He did not say very much till we had nearly finished our meal, then he said: “Wait, Padre, after dinner and we’ll see ‘Boots’.”

This was a nickname for the doctor in charge of Ward —, one of the jolliest M. O.’s in the mess. We found him in the ante-room, three or four others grouped around him; but instead of the customary broad smile on his good-natured fat face, there was a look of real indignation. He was explaining to his smiling listeners something about a few cases that had been sent to him; and as we drew near I caught these words: “Dey had da hitch,”—the doctor was a French Canadian—“and dey were sent to my ward—height of dem! Sent to me, and dem wit da hitch!” Every one was laughing and trying unsuccessfully to suppress it.

Then a young doctor interposed: “And what did you do, Boots?”

“Do?” echoed the other. “What did I do? I just took dare papers and sent dem up to the skin disease hospital. Dere’s no room for men wit da hitch in my ward.”

The mere thought of the indignity seemed almost too much for the good doctor, so he paused for a little and his face grew red as he looked around on his smiling audience. Then he said: “Da idea of sending men wit da hitch to me!” He had closed his lips tightly and was nodding to himself at the insult that had been offered his ward by having men with the itch sent to it, when the doctor who had spoken previously spoke again: “Yes, ‘Boots,’ the idea of sending sick men to your ward!”

“Boots” looked at him quickly, and suddenly the dark clouds were dispersed and the light of his broad, sunny smile spread over his good-natured face. “Dat’s hit,” he said. “What do dey want to send sick people to me for?”

The others laughed and moved on, and presently I found myself making arrangements with Captain “Boots” to visit his ward when his “patients” would be undergoing treatment the following morning. The only condition the good doctor imposed was that I would not laugh. This I promised.

The following day, as I walked down the aisle of No. —, I realized how hard it would be to fulfill the condition the doctor had made for my visit. The men were undergoing “treatment”; some held the handles of a galvanic battery in their hands, while their bodies squirmed and twisted, but never for one instant did they drop the handles; others had their feet on steel discs in tubs of water, while others underwent electrical treatment in different ways. The doctor moved from bed to bed, inquiring with simulated solicitude as to the state of each patient, offering a word of encouragement to some poor fellow who writhed under the current that passed through hands and feet.

“Dat’s right, my lad,” the doctor would say encouragingly, “just keep your feet on de disc.” Perhaps it did not occur to the good doctor that the man was powerless to take his feet off the disc! To another he would say: “Dere, now, my lad, we’ll soon have you in perfec health again”—and I would wonder how the strong, rosy-cheeked lad would look when in perfect health.

I was not surprised to hear two or three lads inform the doctor that they thought they felt well enough to go back to their battalions again. The doctor would always agree with them. One fellow said, within my hearing: “He might as well give us the chair at once!”

I remember coming out of the ward that first day, and when I was out of view, I stood in the lane and laughed and laughed. The fat doctor had been so funny, and also the poor fellows, squirming and twisting under treatment that was not at all necessary for them.

I made many subsequent visits to No. —. Whenever I would feel tired out from the more serious work of visiting the wounded, I would step down the lane and listen for awhile to Doctor “Boots” passing up and down the aisle giving his electrical treatment.

Chapter XXXIV
Transfusion

Although the little wooden chapel called Church of Our Lady, Help of Christians was nearer No. 7, I always said Mass in the chapel at No. 1. It was wonderfully edifying there in that little marquee chapel. I don’t know who had had it erected, for it was standing when I went to No. 1, but I do recall the devout congregations of walking wounded in their hospital suits of light-blue fleeced wool; the hospital orderlies who came so reverently; the white-veiled blue-clad nurses who came in large numbers. Two Masses were said on Sunday so as to accommodate the different shifts of Sisters, and every Sunday evening there was Benediction and a short sermon.

I remember one morning noticing that the hospital orderly who served the Mass trembled while answering the opening responses. He was a tall, well-built young fellow with light hair, and usually his face had the glow of excellent health; but when he passed me the cruets, I noticed that his face had almost the pallor of death, and that although it was a cold morning in early autumn little beads of perspiration stood out on his white forehead.

After Mass I asked him if he were not well. Then he told me quietly that he felt extremely weak, having given a quantity of his blood just a few days before to save the life of a wounded soldier who was dying from loss of blood. The wounded man was now recovering. It was not the first time he had given his blood, and, he said, as he smiled painfully and with the appearance of great weakness, he felt that it would not be the last time.

As he moved about slowly and wearily, extinguishing the candles and covering the altar, I felt a great admiration for this generous lad, and I thought truly there are other heroic ways of giving one’s blood than shedding it on the battlefield! It was quite a common occurrence in different hospitals to go through the process of transfusion of blood. The most necessary condition was that the blood of the donor be adaptable to the system of the patient.

Chapter XXXV
The Ministering Angels

The nurses—“sisters” we called them—throughout all the base hospitals were most attentive to the wounded, without the slightest display of any maudlin sympathy; but they worked hard and long and one never heard the least complaint from their lips. It was a common occurrence at No. 7 to see a nurse being ordered away for a complete rest, made necessary by the terrific strain of her work.

The Catholic nurses were, on the whole, very faithful in the practice of their religious duties, many being weekly communicants. To communicate daily was not practicable for many, as they were on duty during morning Mass. Often I have seen a nurse come with five or six of her patients to Holy Communion: some back-sliders that she had rounded up.

Often, while giving Holy Communion to a soldier in the ward of a non-Catholic nurse, I had been annoyed by the lack of any special preparations on the part of the sister for the administration of the Sacrament. But one morning I found a spotlessly white cloth spread over the small locker, a clean graduate glass of fresh water and a spoon. There was also on the locker a folded white towel for the lad to hold when receiving Holy Communion.

It pleased me very much to see such care taken to prepare for the coming of Jesus, and it was with deep gratitude that I went to thank the sister in charge, after I had given the lad Holy Communion.

“Sister,” I said, “how did you know how to prepare everything so well? It was so clean, and everything necessary was there.”

The good little sister seemed pleased that I had even noticed the preparations. Then she said: “Well, Padre, I knew just what was needed for I studied nursing in a Catholic hospital.”

As I went out of the ward the thought struck me how fine it would be if only all the non-Catholic sisters would prepare for the Saviour’s coming as had their sister nurse, and as I thought I formed a little plan.

The following day I was notified by a non-Catholic sister to bring Communion to a boy in her ward; and there and then I tried out my plan. “Sister,” I said, “yesterday morning I was called to Sister ——’s ward to administer one of my lads who is dangerously ill, and I was very much surprised to find the table arranged as if it had been done by an R. C. Sister.”

“How did she have it arranged, Padre?” she asked. Then I told her just how things had been prepared. The following morning when I brought the “Bread of the Strong” to the poor wounded lad, I found, as on the previous day, everything spotlessly arranged for the visit of the Guest.