INTO THE LINE
The following Sunday at Fosse-dix I gave the men a general absolution
and then Holy Communion, for they were going in the line immediately;
after the service was over I asked them to leave me the addresses of
their next of kin. Both Sundays, while at Fosse-dix, a young lieutenant
served my Mass. The address that he gave me was that of a Mrs.
Maxwell-Scott, London, England. I asked him if this was his mother’s
address and he said it was. Then I said, by way of a passing remark,
“I suppose you are a relative of Sir Walter Scott.” To my surprise, he
said he was. In the course of the week some little pamphlets arrived
for the soldiers, and as I was examining them I noticed that the name
of the author of several was Mrs. Maxwell-Scott. The next time I met
the young officer I asked if the author of the Catholic pamphlets was a
relation of his. He smiled. “My mother,” he said.
As not half my soldiers were in the trenches the first week, I did
not spend all my time in the line. There were confessions, and
Masses to say for those who were out. But I recall quite vividly the
morning before I went in the line for the first time. I felt a great
uneasiness, so that I could not stay very long in the same place. I
remember particularly the last hour before the time to go arrived. I
took a clean sheet of paper, sat down at a table and made my last will
and testament. This I folded and placed in my pocket Bible. Then I sat
quietly for a while in the little room till George came to tell me
that a groom was at the door with my horse, and that I was to meet the
officer with whom I was to go at the mess.
We rode over through Bully-Grenay, then up through Grenay, where we
left our horses with the groom; from there on we walked through ruined
buildings till we came to a great open waste, zigzagged with long
white trenches. I had always expected to find the trenches brown,
but here they were chalk-white. We passed Crucifix Corner, then left
the road and walked through a field or two above the trenches. I was
wondering when my companion would go down into them, for we could now
see Fritz’s line. We passed Loos, on our right, which was nothing but a
few shattered walls standing, and the slag heap of a ruined mine; then
on our left, a place called Hulluch. I was rather anxious to be down
in the communication trenches; the countryside appeared very level and
always we were drawing nearer the German front line. My companion, a
veteran of the Boer War, did not seem to feel the slightest timidity.
He had not spoken now for a few minutes and the silence was oppressive.
As far as I could see, the whole countryside was criss-crossed with
trenches; hardly a living person could be seen, yet in the twinkling of
an eye the great gridiron before me could be alive with thousands of
men now burrowing in the earth like foxes. I began to wish that I, too,
were between two walls of friendly earth. Then the captain spoke:
“We’re under observation now, Padre. Fritz can see us walking along.”
“Then, why doesn’t he fire at us?” I asked, but what I really wished to
say was: “Well, why don’t we jump down into the trench and walk along
it?” but I did not say it.
“Well,” he replied, “we’re a little too far for good rifle shooting,
and shells cost too much to be wasted on just two men.”
I drew a long breath, and felt grateful for the high cost of shells!
Then I heard words that were like music to my ears: “Suppose we step
down into the trench, Padre.”
I did.