FOR CROSS AND CROWN
DEATH IN ACTION OF FATHER FINN OF THE DUBLINS AND FATHER GWYNN OF THE
IRISH GUARDS
In which mood do soldiers generally go into battle--devotional or
profane? An observer of authority, Mr. J.H. Morgan, professor of
constitutional history at University College, London, who had a long
stay at the Front, in France and Flanders on Government duty, commits
himself to the curious statement that most men go into action, not
ejaculating prayers, but swearing out aloud. However that may be as
regards the non-religious soldier, it certainly is not true of the
Catholic Irish soldier. By temperament and training the average Irish
soldier, like most of his race, is profoundly religious at all times,
and the experiences of the chaplains to the Catholic Irish regiments
show that at no time is the Irish soldier more under a constant and
reverent sense of the nearness of the unseen Powers, and his absolute
dependence upon them, than at the awful moment when, in the plenitude
of his youth and physical strength, he is confronted by the prospect
of sudden death or bodily mutilation.
Of course, if a soldier does swear on the battlefield, that
circumstance must not necessarily be accepted as proof either that he
is destitute of religious feelings and principles, or that there is any
thought of impiety in his mind. Most likely the swearing is done quite
unconsciously. At a time when the mental faculties are distraught and
the tension on the central nervous system reaches almost to the
breaking-point, it is probable that men no more know what they say than
they do when they are under an anaesthetic; and that, in the one state
as in the other, incongruous expressions--wholly inconsistent with the
character of the patient--come to the lips from the deeps of
subconsciousness. There is nothing like constant nearness to death to
make men generally turn their thoughts to things serious and solemn.
The experiences of Catholic chaplains tell how widely the sense of
religion--the vanity of earthly concerns, the importance of eternity,
the wish to be at peace with God--has been stirred by the war even in
breasts that probably had not harboured in the years of peace a thought
that there was any other world but this. Ah, the eagerness of the Irish
Catholic soldiers to have sin washed away by confession and the
absolving words of the priest!
The Irish are the most religious soldiers in the British Army; and it
is because they are religious that they rank so high among the most
brave. The two characteristics, religious fervour and fearlessness of
danger, have always been very closely allied. In the average Irishman
there is a blend of piety and militancy which makes him an effective
soldier. Largely for the reason that he is a praying man, the Irish
Catholic soldier is a fine fighting man. His religion gives him
fortitude in circumstances of unmitigated horror, resignation to face
the chances of being mangled or killed at the call of duty; and from
this ease of mind spring that bravery and resolution in action which
are the most essential characteristics of the soldier. In order that
the Catholic soldier may thus show himself at his best, it is
necessary that he should have ready access to the rites of the
Church. He wants the priest to be near him, and though the Catholic
army chaplains appointed for active service are comparatively few,
though their movements are frequently impeded by the ever-changing
developments in the military situation, the priest is usually close at
hand at his service. Thus the Irish Catholic soldier goes into battle
stimulated by the services of his chaplain, praying that God may bring
him safely through, or for a merciful judgment should he fall.
Extraordinarily varied and trying as have been the experiences of the
priesthood in the mission-field, it is probable that never has it been
subjected to so severe a trial of nerve and endurance on its physical
side as it is in the present War of Nations. As to the kind of men
best suited for the service, the Rev. William Forrest, an Irish
Catholic chaplain himself, writes:--"Priests between thirty and forty,
not afraid of some rough and tumble, with, perhaps, an adventurous
vein in their composition, and with plenty of zeal and sympathy, would
be the most suitable--riders and good horse-masters rather than
ponderous theologians and professors, though, indeed, these would have
much to learn, and would very greatly profit, by their experience."
Certainly the record of Catholic army chaplains shines gloriously for
its zeal, self-sacrifice, and heroism; and its sanctifying light
illumines the awful tragedy of suffering and woe that has befallen the
human race.
The Catholic chaplain has also various duties to perform when his men
are resting in billets, on guard in the lines of communication, or
lying wounded or ill in the base hospitals. He goes about in khaki,
like the other officers of the battalion to which he is attached, save
that he wears the Roman collar and black patches on his shoulder
straps. His equipment or kit is usually heavy. It contains the stone
for the altar, the vestments, the sacred vessels, the candles, the
crucifix, and other requisites for the Mass. On his person he always
carries the Holy Oils and the Viaticum for the last sacrament of all,
when the soul of the mortally wounded soldier is about to take flight
into the eternal.
Services are held in all sorts of places and on every possible
occasion. Lieutenant C. Mowlan, medical officer to the 1st Irish
Fusiliers, writes:--"We have Mass out in the open, and it is most
gratifying to see the long line of men waiting for confession, and at
Mass the devotion with which they attend, and tell the beads of our
Blessed Lady, a devotion so dear for many reasons, historical as well
as devotional, to the heart of the Catholic Irishman. A large crowd
attended Communion." A door laid upon two trestles or a packing-case
often serves as an altar, with the two burning candles, and a few
hastily gathered evergreens for decorations. Mass is frequently
celebrated in the very early hours of the morning before the dawn
begins to creep into the sky. And a strange and wonderful spectacle it
is! Black darkness, save for the two candles; the priest offering up
the Sacrifice at the rudely improvised altar; the soldiers, each with
his rifle, and weighed down with his kit and ammunition, grimed with
the mud of the trenches and the smoke of battle, kneeling in a circle
round the light. They receive the final Blessing with bowed heads,
then, crossing themselves, they stand up for the last Gospel, their
haggard and unshaven faces all aglow with religious exaltation.
But perhaps the most moving and inspiring scene of all is that of
giving the General Absolution to a battalion ordered to advance
immediately into action. Father Peal, S.J., of the Connaught Rangers,
enables us vividly to see it in the mind's eye. The regiment were in
billets in Bethune when one winter's morning at three o'clock they
received instructions to make an attack. Before the men left, Father
Peal got the Colonel's permission to speak to them. They were drawn up
in a large square behind a secular school, called "College de Jeunes
Filles," when their chaplain, mounting the steps of the porch, thus
addressed them in the dark: "Rangers, once again at the bidding of our
King and country you are going to face the enemy. Before you go, turn
to God and ask of Him pardon for your sins. Repeat the act of
contrition after me." Then the square resounded with the fervent
ejaculations of the men. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the
Holy Ghost. Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.
I detest my sins most sincerely, because they are displeasing to Thee,
my God, who art most worthy of all my love; and I promise never to
offend Thee again." "I shall now," says the priest, "give you
Absolution in God's name. 'Dominus noster Jesus Christus vos absolvat
et ego auctoritate Ipsius vos absolvo a peccatis vestris, in nomine
Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.' May God Almighty, Father,
Son, and Holy Ghost, bless you and lead you to victory. Amen." As the
priest blessed them, the men again made the sign of the Cross. No
wonder that men of such deep faith and so heartened by the services of
their chaplains should fight valiantly.
The tireless care and solicitude of the Catholic chaplain for his men
is seen in the fine record, during a long and arduous campaign, of
Father Francis Gleeson, of the 2nd Munster Fusiliers, who has been in
Flanders and France since the outbreak of the war. If you meet a man
of the 2nd Munsters, just mention the name of Father Gleeson, and see
how his face lights up. "Father Gleeson, is it!" exclaimed one whom I
encountered among the wounded at a London hospital. "He's a warrior
and no mistake. There's no man at the Front more brave or cooler.
Why, it is in the hottest place up in the firing line he do be to give
comfort to the boys that are dying." "And, do you know," he added with
a laugh, as he recalled the chaplain's playful and sportive ways,
"Father Gleeson brought us mouth-organs, and showed that he could play
'Tipperary' with the best of us." Another man described a meeting with
Father Gleeson in a village close to the first line of trenches, where
the chaplain was waiting to attend to the wounded. "It got so hot with
stray bullets that he gave me absolution as I stood in the street of
the ruined village. It was very dramatic, I covered with mud and
standing bareheaded, and he blessing me. I'll never forget it." I
gathered, too, that Father Gleeson is the counsellor of the battalion
as well as its chaplain. The men go to him with their temporal
troubles of all kinds, and never fail in getting sympathy, guidance,
and help.
The chaplains of all denominations are equally devoted. But the
Catholic priest has a special impulse to self-sacrificing duty for two
reasons--first, the desire that Catholics have to die shriven and
anointed; and the softening of the bereavement of parents and
relations which comes from the knowledge that Paddy, Jamsie, Joe, or
Mike had been to his duty before the battle, or had the priest with
him when he died. Accordingly, no consideration of danger to himself
will deter the Catholic chaplain from going into the firing line to
administer the last rites. In the circumstances, it was to be expected
that though the chaplains of all the denominations are zealous and
brave in the discharge of their sacred duties, the first chaplain of
any denomination to give his life for his men should be an Irish
priest, Father Finn, of the 1st Royal Dublin Fusiliers, who fell in
Gallipoli.
A Tipperary man, serving on the English Mission in the Province of
Liverpool, Father Finn joined the 1st Dublins on their arrival in
England from India for active service, in November, 1914. The Dublins,
with the 1st Munster Fusiliers, took part, as I have already
described, in the first landing of British troops on the Peninsula, at
Sedd-el-Bahr, on Sunday, April 25th, 1915. On the Saturday morning
Father Finn heard the confessions of the men on board the transport,
off Tenedos, said Mass, and gave Holy Communion. Then on Sunday
morning he asked permission of the commanding officer of the battalion
to go ashore with the men. Colonel Rooth tried to persuade him to
remain on the transport, where he could give his services to such of
the wounded as were brought back. "You are foolish to go; it means
death," said the officer. "The priest's place is beside the dying
soldier; I must go," was Father Finn's decisive reply. For these and
other particulars of the gallant action of the priest, I am mainly
indebted to the Rev. H.C. Foster, Church of England naval chaplain,
who was in one of the warships engaged in the bombardment of the
Peninsula at the landing, and highly esteemed Father Finn as a friend.
Father Finn left the transport for the shore in the same boat as the
Colonel. When the boats crowded with the Dublins got close to the
beach a hail of shrapnel, machine-gun fire, and rifle fire was
showered upon them by the Turks, hidden among the rocks and ragged
brushwood on the heights. Numbers of the Dublins were killed or
wounded, and either tumbled into the water or dropped on reaching the
beach. This fearful spectacle was Father Finn's first experience of
the savagery of war. It terribly upset him. He at once jumped out of
the boat and went to the assistance of the bleeding and struggling
men. Then he was hit himself. By the time he had waded to the beach
his clothing was riddled with shot. Yet disabled as he was, and in
spite also of the great pain he must have been suffering, he crawled
about the beach, affording consolation to the dying Dublins. I have
been told that to give the absolution he had to hold up his injured
right arm with his left. It was while he was in the act of thus
blessing one of his men that his skull was broken by a piece of
shrapnel. The last thought of Father Finn was for the Dublins. His
orderly says that in a brief moment of consciousness he asked: "Are
our fellows winning?" Amid the thunder of the guns on sea and land his
soul soon passed away. He was buried on the beach where he died, and
the grave was marked by a cross, made out of an ammunition box, with
the inscription--"To the memory of the Rev. Capt. Finn." Gallipoli is
classic ground. It is consecrated by the achievements of the ancient
Greeks over the Persian hordes at the dawn of Western civilisation. It
is now further hallowed as the grave and monument of that warrior
priest, Father Finn, and the gallant Dublins and Munsters.
The next Catholic chaplain to lose his life on active service was
Father John Gwynn, S.J., of the 1st Irish Guards, who was killed in
the trenches near Vermelles on October 11th, 1915. Born at Youghal,
and reared in Galway, Father Gwynn entered the Society of Jesus in
1884. At the outbreak of the war he was one of the governing body of
University College, Dublin, and volunteering for active service he was
attached, the first week of November, 1914, to the Irish Guards, as
their first war chaplain. A big, handsome man, and soldierly in
appearance, Father Gwynn was fitting in every way to be chaplain to so
splendid and almost wholly Catholic body of Irishmen as the Irish
Guards. His experiences at the Front--the devotion he showed to his
duties and the risks he ran--prove more than the truth of the old
saying that every Irishman is born either a soldier or a monk, for
they establish that often he is born both.
Father Gwynn was the first chaplain of any denomination attached to
the British Expeditionary Force to be wounded. That was during the
memorable engagement at Cuinchy, on February 1st, 1915, when Michael
O'Leary won the Victoria Cross. What a moving picture of piety it
presents! The task of the Irish was to retake positions in the
brickfields captured by the Germans from the Coldstream Guards. Eager
to retrieve the position the Coldstreams first advanced, but being met
by a heavy fire from the enemy, they showed signs of wavering. Then a
company of the Irish Guards were ordered out. They had received
absolution and Communion behind the trenches, a few days before, from
Father Gwynn, and their chaplain was still with them at the supreme
moment. Now, before advancing, they knelt in silent prayer for a
minute. Then, each man making the sign of the Cross, they sprang to
their feet, and dashing in wide open order across the exposed ground,
swept by the enemy's fire, they hunted the Germans from the
brick-fields. We all know that when the story of Michael O'Leary's
achievement that day became known, half the world stood up bare-headed
in acknowledgment of his gallantry. I have been told that the incident
which was most talked of from end to end of the British lines was that
of the Guardsmen kneeling down in prayer before the charge. Nothing
like it ever occurred before. At least it is unprecedented in the
history of the English Army of modern times. Those who saw them say
that, as the Irish Guards dashed across the plain, they had an
expression of absolute happiness and joy on their faces. Surely an
episode that will live in the crowded annals of this war. It was then
that Father Gwynn was wounded. He said the last thing he remembered
was seeing the Irish Guards get to the top of their trench when a
lurid blaze seemed to flash into his eyes with a deafening crash. He
was hurled back five yards or so and lay unconscious for some minutes.
When he came to he felt his face all streaming with blood and his leg
paining him. He was suffocated, too, with a thick, warmy, vile gas,
which came from the shell. "A doctor bandaged me up," he goes on, "and
I found I was not so bad--splinters of the shell just grazed my face,
cutting it; a bit, too, struck me an inch or so above the knee and
lodged inside, but in an hour's time, when everything was washed and
bandaged, I was able to join and give Extreme Unction to a poor Irish
Guardsman who had been badly hit."
I have before me a number of letters written by Father Gwynn. They are
all most interesting. In every one of them he has something to say in
praise of the Catholicity and valour of the Irish Guards. "We have to
have Mass in a field," he writes in one letter, "the Irish Guards are
nearly all Catholics, and we are at present the strongest battalion in
the Guards' Brigade. The men then sing hymns at Mass, and it is fine
to hear nearly a thousand men singing out in the open at the top of
their voices. You have no idea what a splendid battalion the Irish
Guards are! You have Sergeant Mike O'Leary, V.C., with you. I often
have a chat with him when he comes to see me. But do you know that
there are plenty of men in the Irish Guards who have done as bravely
as O'Leary, and there's never a word about it." In another letter,
written a few weeks before his death, he says:--"It would have done
your heart good to hear them last night in the little village church
where we are just for the moment, singing the 'O Salutaris,' 'Tantum
Ergo,' 'Look Down, O Mother Mary,' and at the end the 'Hail Glorious
St. Patrick.' A Grenadier officer who happened to be present, having
ridden over from where the Grenadiers are, said it was worth coming
ten miles to hear. I feared for the roof of the church, especially
when they came to the last verse of the hymn to St. Patrick."
Throughout the morning of the day he received his mortal wound, Father
Gwynn had had a most arduous and anxious time in the trenches. It was
during the fighting round Hill 70, after the Battle of Loos. An Irish
Guardsman writes:--
"I saw him just before he died. Shrapnel and bullets were being
showered upon us in all directions. Hundreds of our lads
dropped. Father Gwynn was undismayed. He seemed to be all over
the place trying to give the Last Sacrament to the dying. Once I
thought he was buried alive, for a shell exploded within a few
yards of where he was, and the next moment I saw nothing but a
great heap of earth. The plight of the wounded concealed beneath
was harrowing. Out of the ground came cries of 'Father, Father,
Father,' from those who were in their death agonies. Then as if
by a miracle Father Gwynn was seen to fight his way through the
earth. He must have been severely injured, but he went on
blessing the wounded and hearing their confessions. The last I
saw of him was kneeling by the side of a German soldier. It was
a scene to make you cry."
Shortly after this scene Father Gwynn was at luncheon with four other
officers in the Headquarters' dug-out when a German shell landed in
the doorway and burst. Captain Lord Desmond FitzGerald (brother of the
Duke of Leinster) was slightly hit. Colonel Madden was so severely
wounded that he died some days afterwards. Father Gwynn received as
many as eight wounds. One piece of the shell entered his back and
pierced one of his lungs. He was sent to hospital at Bethune, and died
there the next morning. In the Bethune cemetery his grave is marked by
a marble monument which bears these two inscriptions:--
"R.I.P.
REV. FATHER JOHN GWYNN, S.J.
Attached to the
1st Irish Guards.
He Died at Bethune on October 12th, 1915, from
Wounds Received in Action near Vermelles
on October 11th, 1915.
Aged 49 years.
This Monument has been erected by all Ranks of the 1st Bat.
Irish Guards in grateful Remembrance of their Beloved Chaplain,
Father Gwynn, who was with them on Active Service for nearly
twelve months from Nov., 1914, until his death, and shared with
unfailing devotion all their trials and hardships."
The wonder, indeed, is that many more Catholic chaplains have not been
killed. Father James Stack, of the Redemptorist Order--a County
Limerick man--had a narrow escape from being killed by German rifle
fire as he was attending to a dying Irish soldier between the opposing
lines. The soldier was heard in the British trenches calling for a
priest. Father Stack crept out to him, heard his confession, anointed
him, and lay by his side praying until he passed away. While he was
engaged on this sublime errand of mercy the priest was fired on by the
Germans, but he got back unhurt. He was mentioned in Sir John French's
valedictory despatch. A dramatic story is also told of another
dauntless Catholic chaplain. One bitter winter's night eight men left
a British trench to bomb the Germans. None of them returned. Their
comrades wore consumed with anxiety as to their fate. Were they
prisoners, were they dead, or were they lying wounded in the mud and
the slush? The Catholic chaplain of the battalion volunteered to go
out in front and try to learn what had become of them. After some
hesitation his request was granted. "Donning his surplice and with a
crucifix in his hand the priest proceeded down one of the saps and
climbed out into the open," writes a staff correspondent of the
Central News at the Front. "With their eyes glued to periscopes, the
British line watched him anxiously as he proceeded slowly towards the
German lines. Not a shot was fired by the enemy. After a while the
chaplain was seen to stop and bend down near the German wire
entanglements. He knelt in prayer. Then with the same calm step he
returned to his own lines. He had four identity discs in his hand, and
reported that the Germans had held up four khaki caps on their rifles,
indicating that the other four were prisoners in their hands."
Father J. Fahey, a Tipperary man, made a lasting reputation among the
Dominion Forces in Gallipoli by his services as chaplain to the 11th
Australian Battalion. The Archbishop of Perth (Australia) got a letter
from an officer in Gallipoli which said: "You are to be congratulated
for sending us such an admirable chaplain as Father Fahey. He is the
idol of the 11th Battalion, and everyone, irrespective of creed, has a
good word to say for him." Dr. McWhae, one of the medical officers,
puts in a different way the estimation in which Father Fahey is held:
"He is one of the finest fellows in the world, and everybody swears by
him. He landed at Gallipoli with the covering party, and spends his
time in the trenches." Before the troops left Lemnos Island for the
first landing at Anzac on April 25th, 1915, the Brigadier went round
and told the chaplains of all denominations that they could go aboard
the hospital ships if they wished. Father Fahey and Father McMenamin,
a chaplain with the New Zealand Forces, said they would go in the
transports with the men and also accompany them into the trenches.
And, sure enough, these two priests were the first of the chaplains in
the firing line looking after their men. "The 'Padre,' as he is called
by his battalion," writes the officer in his letter to the Archbishop
of Perth, "fills in his spare time carrying up provisions to the men
at the front, and helps the wounded back, and I can tell you he is
not afraid to go where the bullets fall pretty thickly," Father Fahey
has done more in the way of utilising his spare time--he has led the
men in a charge against the Turkish entrenchments. On an occasion when
all the officers had been killed or disabled he called on the remnants
of the company, "Follow me, and though I have only a stick, you can
give the Turks some Western Australian cold steel."
Father Fahey himself gives the following racy account of the
discomforts which attended the discharge of his duties in Gallipoli:--
"I have had my clothes and boots off only once during the past
month. I had a wash twice, and one shave, so I can assure you I
do not look a thing of beauty. I am cultivating a beard, and in
another month I expect to look as fierce as a Bedouin chief.
Water is scarce; we only get enough to drink and cook, but none
to wash; so we are not too clean. I have had several narrow
escapes, so many, in fact, that I wonder why I am still alive. I
had four bullets in my pack, one through a jam tin out of which
I was eating, which spoiled the jam and made me very wild. One
through my water-bottle; one through a tobacco-tin in my pocket;
one took the epaulette off my tunic, and once I had nineteen
shrapnel bullets through a waterproof sheet on which I was lying
only a few minutes previously. I have lost count of the shells
that nearly accounted for me; I hardly expect to get through the
business alive, but seeing that I have been lucky so far I may."
The last I heard of Father Fahey was that he was lying wounded in an
hospital at Malta. Writing of his work as a priest, he says: "I have
heard confessions in all kinds of weird places, with the shrapnel
bursting overhead and bullets whizzing around. I go along the trenches
every day in case anyone might want to see me. It is all so strange
and uncanny. Passing along the trenches, a soldier with his rifle
through a loophole and one eye on the enemy may call me to hear his
confession; while it is being done the bullets are plopping into the
sandbags of the parapet a few inches away. It is consoling and
satisfactory work, if a little dangerous."
The part of the chaplain's work that is most harrowing to him
personally, but most consoling to those whom he serves, is that of
ministering to the wounded at the hospital clearing stations nearest
to the firing line. "Sometimes when I hold them up on the stretcher to
try to get them to take a drink," writes Father L.J. Stafford, one of
the chaplains to the 10th Irish Division in Gallipoli, "I think that
Christ must have foreseen this awful slaughter and borne it in His
Passion as part of the sorrows of mankind, and I try to associate
myself with the feelings of His Virgin Mother." The acts and the
thoughts of the priest blend together in perfect harmony like the
words and music of an inspired hymn to the Almighty. Well might Father
Stafford add: "I am in great peril, but doing my duty fearlessly.
Could man wish for more?"
As the priest kneels down by these dying Irish youths he receives many
last messages to send to the loved ones at home, a sacred trust which
he is most scrupulous faithfully to discharge. There are thousands of
mothers in Ireland grieving for darling sons lying mouldering in
Flanders, France, and Gallipoli. If anything can ease the gnawing pain
at the heart of these bereaved mothers, it surely must be the receipt
of one of those beautifully sympathetic and healing letters which they
receive from the Irish Catholic chaplains. I have had the privilege of
reading numbers of them, and happily in none have I come upon any
heroics about the nobility of the youth's self-sacrifice and the
grandeur of the cause for which he died. To the Irish Catholic mother
such phrases bring no consolation. His death tells her that her son
has done his duty; that is enough; and her sole concern is with his
eternal salvation. It is on this point that the chaplain is at pains
to reassure her.
"I saw him last at 7.30 p.m. on July 14th. He was very exhausted, and
I could see that he would not last long. He tried to give me his
mother's address, but failed. All he could say was: 'Not weep. With
God.' I told him I should tell his mother not to weep because he would
be with God, and he shook his head in consent. He then said:
'Good-bye, Father. God bless you.'" So does Father Felix Couturier,
O.P., describe the death in hospital at Alexandria of Lance-Corporal
Wilkerson, 7th Dublin Fusiliers, wounded at Gallipoli. Then there is
the consoling letter of Father O'Herlihy, chaplain in Egypt, to Mrs.
Kelleher, Cork, telling of the death of her son, Patrick, a private in
the 1st Battalion Royal Munster Fusiliers, also wounded in Gallipoli.
Here is an extract from it:--
"I've seen many in pain and suffering since the war began, but
few have I seen to bear it all so willingly and so patiently as
your son, Paddy; for God and His Blessed Mother were helping him
a lot. About, a week after the operation his sufferings
increased, and on Sunday morning last, when I said Holy Mass at
the hospital, he again asked me to bring him Holy Communion, as
he was confined to bed. You could see the happiness in his
features, when Our Blessed Lord came to him again to give him
new strength and grace to bear up. He said to me after: 'Father,
every time you'll say Holy Mass here, you will bring me Holy
Communion again, won't you? I don't like to trouble you, but I
long so much to receive.' Poor Paddy! He was such a good boy! I
know, dear Mrs. Kelleher, you have long since put your son in
God's holy hands, leaving him entirely to God. And God and Mary
will now, I know, reward you and give you help and grace to bear
for the love of them the sorrowful news it's my hard lot to be
the first to send you, perhaps. Your poor Paddy passed away to
the God whom he loved so much, and for whom he bore all so
patiently. Don't fear for Paddy. He is happy now, poor lad,
after many sufferings."
Could there be anything more precious to an Irish Catholic mother than
such an account of the last hours of the son of her heart--_a vic mo
chree_--dying of battle wounds in a far foreign land?