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.