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.