DOMREMY--HOME
"Major Whittington, I have not had a furlough since we landed in
France."
"I guess that's so, Chaplain; which city would you prefer visiting,
Paris or Metz?"
"Domremy--."
"Domremy!" he exclaimed, "I never heard of the place. However, you may
go." Then, with forced seriousness, added, "I believe you are needed in
Domremy on Official Business."
It was December eleventh. We had long been anxious to visit the
birthplace of Joan of Arc. The story of her heroic brilliant life had
ever interested and inspired us; and now, to actually be in the hills of
her native Lorraine, to make a pilgrimage to her shrine, became our
supreme ambition.
I could indeed have visited Domremy before, but purposely had I waited
for this date. On December thirteenth, President Wilson, coming to the
Peace Conference, was to land in France. I wanted to say Mass, that
very morning, at the shrine of the Maid for the welfare of the
President.
A one hundred and fifty mile trip from Thiacourt to Domremy, south of
Verdun on the Meuse, especially in an open motorcycle car and through a
blinding storm of hail and rain, is not particularly pleasant.
When we recalled, however, the arduous journey she, a girl, of eighteen
years, had once made on horseback from Domremy to Chinon, three hundred
miles, through snow-covered roads, we determined that nothing short of a
Firing Squad should stop us.
A cold I had contracted at Rembercourt had settled in my back. Lumbago
had painfully doubled me into an inverted "L," a figure not happily
adapted to a cycle car.
Laboriously adjusting myself to the machine I plainly told the Maid, "I
wish you clearly to appreciate, Saintly Joan, that I am making this
journey for you. Of old, you were supremely helpful to the ruler of
_your_ country. I want you to do as much for the President of _mine_. I
am going to say Mass on your home altar for him, and I want you to help
me. If God spares me, and I return to America, I promise to proclaim
your glory and encourage all I can, young and old, in the practice of
your devotion."
Early dawn found us on our way. The steel helmet pulled low offers
splendid protection to one's eyes. Traversing the old battlefields of
St. Michel, we passed ruined Even and Essey and took the highroad
leading south. The shell-torn steeple of Flirey church still leaned over
the road; and the grewsome Limey Gondrecourt front, its deserted dugouts
resembling grinning skulls, elicited a sigh and a prayer for its dead
legions.
Through Noviant and Men-le-Tour we sped, and at noon were beyond Toul
and racing through the historic valley of the Moselle.
At Bullney, our speeding car was curiously observed by thousands of
German prisoners peering through the barbed wire enclosure of their
roadside camp.
Columbes-les-Belles, with its huge hangars, grimly stood in silhouette
against a crimson burst of sunset.
At Neufchateau we reached the river Meuse with whose glory the names of
heroic inconquerable Petain and Verdun shall be forever shared.
We were now in the picturesque "valley of colors," whose winding trails
were trodden by the soldiers of Julius Caesar when "Omnis Gallia divisa
est in partes tres" was written.
With pulse beat quickened by thought of our hallowed pilgrimage nearing
its end, we rushed like a specter down the road, through winding vistas
of giant cottonwood and poplar; rounding a hill we came in full view of
Domremy, and, with a final burst of speed, rushed splashing, and all
a-thrilled with emotion, into its single street.
Drawing up in front of the church, that of St. Remi, Apostle of the
Franks, we were at once surrounded and curiously observed by a group of
children. "Are these children now to see a soldier, still crippled with
lumbago, or one the intercession of Joan has made whole?" This was the
question I soliloquized, as I started to excavate myself from the
mud-littered car!
My chauffeur eyed me askance; and the look of pleasure with which he
noted my evident recovery, told me he was as proud as I. The Saintly
Maid had wrought her cure completely and with generous finality.
At once we entered the Church. Five hundred years before Jacques and
Isabelle d'Arc had crossed that very threshold, carrying the precious
babe Joan to be baptized. The glowing ray of the sanctuary light
welcomed us, and, perhaps, turned to jewels the tears of joy and
reverence coursing our cheeks.
The rough hobble nails of our shoes rang alarmingly on the stone
pavement as we made our way up the hallowed aisle. On our knees before
the altar we literally cried our prayers.
Looking toward the lowly Tabernacle we felt that Jesus, the gentle
Master there present, was pleased with us. He seemed to look approvingly
upon us and to say, "My soldiers, rest here your weary head upon My
Heart."
At the very railing where we knelt, Joan had made her First Communion.
Just at our left on the Epistle side was the ancient font where she had
been cleansed from original sin, made a Christian, a child of God, and
heir to the Kingdom of Heaven. In the twilight, too, we could see the
faded plaster statue of St. Catherine Martyr, for whom she had special
devotion. We felt, in that holy hour, that Joan, high in heaven, was
pleased even with us; for we, too, had fought and bled for the same holy
cause, the cause of Truth and Justice in the world, for which she had
with the Greater Love offered the sacrifice of her life. How often, in
that hallowed long ago, had the sun of early morning or the twilight
glow of eventide found Joan here at prayer. In this sanctuaried Garden
of the Lord grew the fairest Flower of Chivalry. Here did she receive
the Bread of Life, the Wine that maketh Virgins; here, by frequent
confession, was her soul kept fair and pure as the lilies of Paradise.
Darkness had fallen over the village when we left the Church. A call at
the Rectory informed us that Monsieur le Cure was absent, and would not
return till a late hour. At the end of the street we found a dear old
couple, living alone, who agreed to shelter us for the night. With what
skill good Madame made ready that evening meal! Sitting in the square of
light cast by the glowing fireplace, and with our shadows, to the tempo
of crackling fagots, in rhythmic gyrations on the ancient walls, my
driver and I watched her prepare it.
First there was the pommes de terre to be peeled, washed and sliced to
the exact size of centuries old French fry. Monsieur was permitted to
assist her in this, and wielded the keen bladed knife with precision.
Then there was the salad and the seasoning of it to just that degree of
the "delicieux" the palate revels in. With the art, as it were, of a
magician, she drew from a huge cupboard the most inviting piece of beef
and proudly flourished it before our devouring eyes. Here was the
makings of a "filet de boeuf" fit for Epicurius himself. In the center
of the table was next placed the great round loaf of bread, neither
wheat nor oats nor rye, but a happy combination of all and delightfully
toothsome. Crowning all, the liquid amber of cafe-au-lait, which Madame,
timing our needs to a nicety, poured at just the right moment.
During the meal, we diligently inquired if any lineal descendants of the
d'Arc family were to be found in Domremy. No, not one! No person of the
name lived in the village; although most every girl and woman there bore
the name of Joan!
After the meal, and when all had retired, I made my way out into the
moon-lit night. Domremy was sleeping, nor did it give thought of "the
stranger within its gates." Back to the Church, and to the home of Joan,
still standing beside it, I made my way. I revelled in the historical
ensemble of it all; and my desire was to become so imbued with its very
atmosphere, as to verily breathe it all my remaining life. In fancy I
reviewed the story of her life like pages of a book, and its thrilling
deeds and transcending achievements were made real before me.
This very street was the Alpha of her public life; the market place of
Rouen its Omega! Riding forth in the bitter cold of that February
morning, 1429, with but meager escort and along three hundred miles of
brigand-infested roads and trails, she traversed France to the court of
Chinon. Convincing Charles VII of her divine vocation; throwing herself
into the war; rallying the people to her standard; wounded in battle yet
never wavering; animating veteran soldiers; bearing the brunt of the
attack and shielding with her stainless bosom the heart of France.
Her recompense? Abandoned by her king and by her countrymen, by the
cruel path of flame she returns to God!
The several hours following Mass, we passed in the home where she was
born, and on the hillside where she toiled as humble shepherdess.
Reverently, and in very awe of its beauty, we visited the magnificent
Basilica the people of France have raised to her memory. The structure
is but partially finished; and I urged the good Fathers there in charge
to visit America some day and give its people opportunity to contribute
to so worthy a cause.
Returning to the front we found the "War Cross" which had arrived during
our absence. Colonel Lenoncle wrote as follows:
"A Monsieur l'Aumonier McCarthy.
En appreciation de la belle action de Charite
qu'el est venie accomplir pour notre chere
terre de France.
P. Lenoncle, Col. Chas.
in Compagne."
The above referred to services in Bois-le-Pretre.
"Tempora mutantur et nos ubique in illis." It is only the things that
God has made that change not. The moon, bathing in silvery sheen the
village street, had made radiant, in that long ago, the face of Joan at
prayer. The Meuse, softly flowing by, still voiced the echo of her
dreams, and bore her spirit to the tideless sea.
Nature had not changed; neither had the Author of Nature whose creatures
are all men and whose ways are wise and just. For He whose "Mills grind
slowly yet grind exceedingly small" is likewise He whose Master hand has
written in this our own day, the illuminated Manuscript of her solemn
Canonization.
The golden fingers of next morning's sun were scattering incense of
light over Joan's Altar as I began Mass. The lips of Old Glory kissed
the Gospel side, while the tri-color of France was draped on the
Epistle. A nun of the village answered the responses. Reverently I
besought the Author of All that is Right and Mighty upon the earth to
bless our President; to be light to his path, wisdom to his mind, and
right hand to his endeavor. That rulers of earth might base their
deliberations on the rock of the Divine; mindful, that "unless the Lord
build the house in vain does he labor who would build it."
On December fifteenth I wrote as follows:
Headquarters Seventh Division, American Expeditionary
Forces, France
Hon. Woodrow Wilson, President, American Embassy, Paris.
My dear Mr. President:
May I be permitted the honor of informing you that on Saturday
morning, December fourteenth, I said Mass on the Altar of
Jeanne d'Arc in her old church at Domremy, praying and
believing that God would bless and direct you, as of old He did
the Maid, as His chosen representative of Justice and enduring
Peace.
Most respectfully and devotedly yours,
GEORGE T. MCCARTHY,
Senior Chaplain, Seventh Division,
A. P. O. 793.
On December twenty-fifth I received the following:
Rev. George T. McCarthy, Senior Chaplain, Seventh Division,
A. P. O. 793.
My dear Chaplain McCarthy:
The President directs me to acknowledge receipt of your letter
of December fifteenth and to thank you for it. It is indeed
gratifying for him to know that you are thinking of him and
praying for him especially in these critical times.
Very cordially yours,
GILBERT CLOSE,
Confidential Secretary to the President.
Christmas Day was memorable. A fall of snow gave festive atmosphere to
our outpost homes. "Jip" carried me from Euvezin, where I said Mass for
Headquarters troop, to Grey Hound, where I repeated the Sacrifice for
the Signal Battalion. With the coming of the holiday the boys had been
rehearsing an old-fashioned minstrel show, with boxing and wrestling
matches as side attractions. A long rambling shack near Bouillonville
had been secured for the entertainment, and its battered walls adorned
with holly and cedar branches. The hearts of all were sad and pensive
that Christmas Day, far overseas, and the entertainment, lasting through
five hilarious hours, did wonders in the way of reviving depressed
spirits.
December twenty-ninth marked the "ne plus ultra" of my active service
overseas! In an old shack on the hills, swept with rain and swarming
with well meaning but annoying rats, I came down with the flu with a
temperature of 103 degrees. Doctor Lugar, who had nursed me through the
gas attack, shook his head and ordered me sent to Evacuation Hospital
No. 1. Here I was delighted to meet my old friend Father Morris O'Shea
of Buffalo, there stationed as Chaplain. A few days later I was sent to
Base Hospital "51" at Toul. The Medical Staff ordered me from Toul to
America, and on February first I arrived at St. Nazaire on Biscay Bay.
My supreme joy here was in meeting my niece, Miss Honor Barry, who had
served as an Army Corps nurse in Base Hospital 101, located at this
seaport, during nine arduous months.
On February ninth I sailed on the Manchuria, arriving in New York on
February twenty-second. Reporting at General Hospital 28, Fort Sheridan,
Ill., was thence ordered to the Army Hospital at Asheville, North
Carolina. Six weeks in the ozoned hills of the Southland restored
perfect health; and on May first reported for active duty at Fort
Sheridan.
With the memory of sweet Domremy still before us, we shall bring the
humble record of service Over There to its close.
In this period of valedictory may we be permitted a concluding
reflection, projected in clear outline on the background of those
thrilling days now forever over. That reflection, in silhouette, is
this--the great crises of life--whether decisive of weal or of woe, are,
to the soul of normal man, God impelling! In direct ratio as danger and
death impended in the gloomy wastes of No Man's Land, all soldiers grew
religious and turned instinctively to God. In the zero hour the profane
grew silent and the curse died unuttered on his lip. All, all,
_realized_ God! The trench became His sanctuary, the flaming front His
Presence Light, the glow on the faces of dying comrades visualized the
Gospel of His Greater Love.
We needed God Over There, we need Him equally as much Over Here! Peace
has its trials, its dangers, its lurking foes, its pitfalls, its hills
of Pride to be conquered, its valleys of Despond to be overcome. The
Rembercourt of Life lies before us. We survived _that_ attack--who shall
survive Death's _final_ hill crest!