WHEN THE MEN COME HOME
Clergymen Serving in the Ranks--A Strange Burial
Incident--When the New Army Comes Back--Will the Churches be
Ready?--They are Coming.
The needs of the country led a good many men, already ordained to the
Christian ministry, to enter the new Army. The question whether they
should or should not do this was, as I have already indicated, a
matter of some dispute, but as the war went on a testimony gathered as
to the influence of such as did enlist. Thus "D." wrote to the
_Times_:
"At our table, which served for meals and other purposes, sat opposite
to me a clergyman of the Church of England, to do his best with us to
fight and prevent his country being treated like poor Belgium. We knew
what he was, and what he had given up to join us, and his influence in
that hut, and in his platoon, was greater than that of the khaki-clad
official chaplain who paid us occasional visits. We all respected him
and knew his aversion to things which were often thought lightly of by
us, and one look at his good and serious face would often keep back an
oath, which would come out naturally to a troublesome steer or a slow
and careless sailor, and many a tale which would have been thought
appropriate in a smoking-room or round a camp fire remained untold in
his presence. This has been my experience of one man, and I am glad to
say that in this battalion there are already serving as private
soldiers some half-dozen clergymen."
[Illustration: WHEN THE MEN COME HOME.
_Drawn by Arthur Twidle._]
Let one of them also answer for himself. I do not know his name, but
he is a young Wesleyan minister who enlisted in the R.A.M.C. last
October, and who is, as I write, now at the forefront of the fight.
The following extracts from his letter were published in the _Daily
News_:
"The call comes for stretcher-bearers, and I volunteer to go with No.
3. The medical officer comes out, flashes his torch, and gives the
order: 'Men to march in front of the waggon. Whole party walk--march!'
"We are off. Ten paces ahead walked the medical officer, a captain;
behind him a sergeant and four men of the squad. Then comes the
ambulance waggon, with the great Red Cross on both sides, one man
driving. Inside are the stretchers (one man in the squad carries a
surgical haversack), and behind the waggon comes the drag-horse, with
a waggon orderly mounted on it. This horse will help us out of a ditch
or the mud, if the waggon gets stuck in it.
"We head straight for the trenches. It is very dark; light rain
splashes on our faces, and there is a cold wind. Occasionally the
captain flashes his electric torch as we pass an outpost or a belated
infantry man returning from the firing line. The rattle of the waggon
sounds like the passing of heavy guns in the still night, and we
wonder whether we shall draw the enemy's shell fire. A road with a
waggon on it is a good spot to drop a 'Jack Johnson' on now and then.
"Suddenly the sky is illuminated by a brilliant German star-shell
with a long white tail. Every figure, every tree, every stone in the
road is revealed for one moment to the enemy's snipers and artillery.
Egyptian darkness follows the flash, and out of it ahead we hear,
coming towards us, the tramp of many marching men. Their officer stops
us.
"'I have left two men on the road--ptomaine poisoning. Pick them up,
will you?' he asks.
"'Yes. Good-night!'
"On we go again. The rain pours, the wind is rising to a gale. The
road is very narrow. The wheels of the waggon plunge into a deep rut
and send a spray of mud up into our faces. Soon we pull up before a
little building at the side of the road not far from our firing line.
It is the dressing station where the wounded are brought until the
waggons can come to convey them to the hospitals out of the fire zone.
"Our captain and the sergeant enter the building, and a corporal in
charge of the place whispers, 'Sir, we have one dead here.'
"'One dead! We did not know that. We have no chaplain.'
"The sergeant whispers to the captain that I am a Wesleyan minister.
The captain calls me.
"'Are you a minister?'
"'Yes, sir.'
"'Can you bury this man?'
"'Yes, sir.'
"'Carry on, then!'
"What is his religion--the dead man? No one knows. One of the soldiers
has a Prayer-book on him, so we decide to read the Church of England
service.
"Over the road, opposite the building, is a patch of ground--just a
cabbage patch. A grave has been dug, just a few minutes previously,
and the dead soldier lies in it uncovered, just as he fell in the
trenches. His arms are folded on his breast. A piece of cloth hides
his face from our sight. He lies two feet from the surface--no more.
Three of us stand by the grave. The corporal hands me an electric
torch, and I begin to read the burial service.
"'Ping-ping!' A bullet whizzes over us. Out goes the torch--and we
finish with an extempore prayer. Five minutes later two of his mates
are filling up this soldier's grave, and another is cutting out a
rough wooden cross. Ten minutes more and we are away with our
ambulance."
If they all acquit themselves thus we shall indeed be proud of
Kitchener's Army.
The Christian work at the front becomes increasingly successful as the
months go by, until one wonders whereunto it will grow. We must not
exaggerate or make too much of momentary impressions of those at the
front, but such scenes as the following, pictured to us by the Rev.
Lauchlan McLean Watt in the _Scotsman_, will live in our memory. As we
read it we can hardly wonder at his closing words declaring that it is
Resurrection and Pentecost through which they are passing in France
and Flanders to-day.
He had been in a deserted billet just behind the firing line, and was
about to move on when a couple of soldiers of the Black Watch appeared
on the scene. Here is the story he has to tell:
"They touched their bonnets, and said, 'We're going off to the front
to-night, sir, and we thought we'd like to have the Sacrament before
we go. Can you give it to us?' 'How many?' I asked. 'Oh, maybe
sixteen,' was the reply. 'Well,' I answered, 'at six o'clock in the
shed next to this one be present with your friends.'
"Off went the two with a deepened light in their faces, while I
prepared the place that was to be for some of them the room of the
Last Supper. A tablecloth borrowed from the officers' mess and a
little wine from the same source helped to meet our preparations. A
notice on the door that the place was closed for ordinary use until
the Communion service was over did not keep us free from interruption,
for the room was the ordinary one for the soldiers' 'sing-song,' and
men would come and beat upon the doors and clamour for admission, not
reading notices nor at first understanding.
"The men began to gather, and sat down there as reverently as though
the dim, little, draughty hut were the chancel of some great cathedral
holy with the deepest memories of Christian generations.
"'You might wait,' whispered one. 'The Camerons and Seaforths may be
able to come.' So we waited--a hushed and solemn waiting. Then quietly
some of them began to croon old psalm memories, and quiet hymns,
waiting. And at length the others came, stepping softly into the
place; and with them comrades, who explained that, though they were of
a different country and a different church belief, they yet desired to
share in the act of worship, preparatory to celebration. At length
about one hundred and twenty men were there, and we began.
"It was the 23rd Psalm, the Psalm of God's shepherding, the
comradeship of the Divine in the Valley of the Shadow, the faith and
the hope of the brave. What a power was in it--what a spell of wonder,
of comforting, and uplifting in this land of war! They sang it very
tenderly, for it spoke to them of times when they had held their
mothers' hands, and looked up wondering in their faces, in the church
at home, wondering why tears were there.
"It means a big thing still, to-day, for our Empire, this heart-deep
singing of our soldier men. I have never dreamed that I should see
such depth of feeling for eternal things. Do not tell me this is
Armageddon. It is not the end of things. It is Resurrection and
Pentecost we are passing through. A harvest is being sown in France of
which the reaping shall be Empire-wide. There will be angels at the
ingathering.
"It only needed the simplest words to seal that sacrament. And next
morning, in the grey light, the men who had been touched by the
thought of home and the dear ones there, and the big throbbing thought
of consecration, were marching off to grip the very hand of death, in
sacrifice, like Christ's for others."
The Easter visit of the Bishop of London to the front is fresh in our
memories. What a holy and triumphant progress it was! Vast bodies of
men have listened to the addresses of the bishop, and joined
reverently in the responses to the prayers. How grandly those glorious
hymns, "Rock of Ages" and "Jesu, Lover of my soul" have swelled forth
in the stillness which was only broken by the booming of great guns!
The programme of the visit had been arranged with much care. There
were all sorts of services. Now the bishop was with the Flying Corps
gathered in one of their great hangars, now with the Household Cavalry
massed in the field, now with the Army Service Corps beside their big
lorries. To all sorts and conditions of men the bishop spoke, and it
seemed as though he had the right word for each man.
He passed along the whole British front often within the range of the
German guns. At one part of the line, where there had recently been
heavy fighting, some five hundred officers, many of whom had only just
come from the battle, were present. The service was, of course,
voluntary, and the fact that those officers were present because they
_wanted_ to be there made the service all the more impressive. Veteran
generals knelt side by side with newly commissioned subalterns in
reverent worship on the hard stoned floor.
Easter Day the bishop spent with the Territorial regiment of which he
is chaplain. I quote the description of the services from the
_Manchester Guardian_:
"The regiment is in a most exposed position, and the bishop motored
into the village (a village that has been very much knocked about by
shell fire) in pitch darkness, only broken by the weird glare of star
shells fired from the German trenches about a mile away. A most
enthusiastic reception awaited him from the two hundred and fifty men
who were billeted in the village, the remainder of the battalion being
in the trenches.
"Cheer after cheer greeted him as he entered the barn, where a
'sing-song' of the most lively nature was in progress. After giving a
short address the bishop went with some of the men to their billets
and had a cheery word for each. At seven A.M. on Easter Day he
celebrated the Holy Communion in a barn, the roof and walls of which
had been scarred and shattered by gun fire. Over two hundred men
communicated. As this service ended we found at least a hundred and
fifty men of other regiments outside the building, who had been
waiting since seven o'clock, and had been unable to enter the crowded
room. For these the bishop celebrated at once. Strange as the
surroundings were, with guns firing and the crack of rifles distinctly
heard, one would doubt if in any church, however beautiful, a more
reverent congregation had ever gathered together on an Easter morning.
On the evening of Easter Day the bishop preached his final sermon at
General Headquarters in the presence of Sir John French, many
distinguished officers, and a large body of men. One heard on every
side how much the bishop's presence and his words had inspired and
encouraged the gallant men who were present at the services. Easter
Monday saw him leave the front to visit Rouen and Havre before
returning to England."
So once more old England greeted her sons across the Channel, and
commended them to Him who died and rose again for their Salvation.
But we are beginning to look forward to the future. The war will end
some day, and then, what then?
A new army will come back from the fight, veteran as regards its
fighting power, but new as regards its conduct and its spirit. Mr.
Asquith said this was a "spiritual war." It is so perhaps in a deeper
sense than Mr. Asquith meant. There has been "wrestling" out there,
not only against "flesh and blood," but against the powers of sin and
darkness. And there has been victory--victory over sin, victory in
Christ. And back they will come to us--these new men who have been
transfigured and transformed upon the battlefield. And the question is
to what sort of a Church will they come? Shall the fires of their new
love be chilled by the ice of our formality, or shall our worldliness
seem strange to these new citizens of the City of God?
If we are not ready to receive these new men when they come home, God
will send in a terrible account to us which we shall have to pay. Woe
to the Church which quenches the fire of their devotion, to the
so-called Christian who lives in Ease-in-Zion instead of in Beulah
Land!
Now is the time for the churches to prepare. We are told that the
enthusiasm of last September is dying out of our churches, that in the
busy work of the following months we have forgotten to pray. We are
even getting used to the war. Let the churches of our land bestir
themselves. These men will need our choicest care, as they deserve our
most brilliant example. Christ has not left Britain for Flanders. He
is here too, and we must seek Him in penitence and prayer, that when
the lads come home His Church shall be found ready for her Christian
task.
What a welcome we will give them when they come! How the great hall
will be hung with flags, and the homely hearth will be gay for once!
What love light there will be in the eyes of the mother, the wife, and
the maiden! How hand will grasp hand, and all the world will seem
young again! They are coming--they are coming!
But not all are coming,--some have fallen in the fight, and sad hearts
will weep in silence, and lives will seem worthless now they are no
more. But it will not all be darkness even to those who mourn, for it
is great to die with honour and in the service of one's country. And
many a home will cherish the memory of its hero, and look forward to a
meeting by and by. And Britain will emblazon their names on its roll
of honour--this man and that man has died for her.
They are coming--they are coming, and we greet them one and all--the
men who fought for us and endured nobly on our behalf.
Let us show them when they come a new Britain, freed from the curse of
drink, purified as by fire--a new Britain which has crowned Christ as
its King, fit mother of such sons as these!
* * * * *
The cross is still at the front--its power ever widening and
developing. It will go wherever our troops go, carrying with it the
life which is life indeed. Death cannot weaken its influence, it
triumphs over death, and many a soldier lad will it draw to itself,
and many a dying gaze will be fixed upon it, for it is there--always
there--when men need the truths it reveals.
* * * * *
The cross is still at the front--many crosses. It has become a custom
to fix crosses over the graves of our soldiers, most of them rudely
and hastily shaped, but crosses still. Some of them large and strongly
planted, others hardly showing above the earth. Not long will many of
them last. Over some of them the feet of soldiers in the rush of the
battle may tread, others may be overthrown by the storms of winter.
But they are there now, and some day may be replaced by more permanent
structures. Whether that be so or not, the truth they symbolise will
abide--Christ died, Christ lives. He died the just for the unjust to
bring us to God. He is the resurrection and the life.
As we visit those graves by the wayside or in countless little
cemeteries, consecrated by our heroic dead, we thank God that over
them all is the Sign of the Cross.
O dearly, dearly has He loved,
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming Blood,
And try His works to do.
_Spottiswoods & Co. Ltd., Printers, Colchester, London and Eton._
_READY SHORTLY._
THE ROLL CALL
OF SERVING WOMEN
A RECORD OF WOMEN'S WORK IN THE WAR
BY MARY FRANCES BILLINGTON
_ILLUSTRATED._
Large Crown 8vo. Cloth Gilt. 3s. 6d.
LONDON: 4 BOUVERIE STREET. E.C.
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End of Project Gutenberg's With our Fighting Men, by William E. Sellers