AGNEZ-LEZ-DUISANS
I did not walk back to the Arras front. I went in a lorry. As we drew
near our destination I was surprised to see so much traffic--but it
was all coming towards us. At every cross-road we were stopped by the
traffic police, just as one might be stopped in a large city. It was
the first time I had ever witnessed a retreat. Great stores were in
Arras belonging to the military and the British Expeditionary Force
canteens. Most of these stores were being removed, and the city of
Arras, as well as the country villages near it, was being evacuated.
Up to this time I had seen the effect of war on combatants only. Now
I was continually passing scenes that made me turn sick at heart; for
all along our way came little groups of French peasants--mostly old and
young women, and children, though now and again an old man was passed.
Sometimes a yoke of oxen, hitched to a large farm wagon, were guided
to the right of the road by a woman or young boy. And sometimes an old
woman led a cow or calf, while an old man pushed a large wheel-barrow
full of bedding. Once, while we stopped at a cross-road, I tried to
study the faces of those who passed. On no face did I see the marks of
any great strain or fear. All were attired in their Sunday garments.
None of the children cried or seemed hysterical. All had a good color,
and their large eyes looked solemnly about at the strange scenes
surrounding them; but not one of them hopped or jumped or smiled at us.
The expression in their faces was one that I noticed in those of the
older people. I can only describe it as one of stolidity. Here were
these people leaving homes where perhaps whole generations of them
had lived, going they knew not where, leaving behind them many things
of value; but they must sleep on the way and the nights were cold,
therefore they had all brought bedding along with them. For the first
time since I had enlisted I recalled a short and succinct definition
of war given by General Sherman. “General Sherman was right,” I said
grimly.
Presently we came into a little village, at the entrance of which was a
large Calvary on the roadside, the great white figure drooping from the
cross in agony. Tomorrow would be His day. Perhaps it was the continual
passing of these wayside Calvarys that gave patience to the peasantry.
I was glad when the driver told me that this was our destination.
The lorry stopped before a large camp of Nissen huts. A gentle mist
had been falling for the last hour or two, but now it was developing
into quite a drizzle. I walked across the muddy square, then down a
little lane through rows of huts till I found my billet. In one part
of the hut the rain was leaking through the roof, but I did not mind
this. There were no berths, but we had our bed-rolls and all that was
necessary was to roll them out on the floor. I had been sleeping on
floors now, from time to time, for over a year and I cannot say that
it ever inconvenienced me very much. Just as I was leaving the hut to
go to the church to make a visit--for it was Holy Thursday--two Scotch
Highlanders accosted me. They wished to know to which battalion I
belonged. When I told them, they became very friendly and told me that
they had just come from the Front. Fritz had pushed them back a little
that morning, but they had been holding him since dinner-time. This was
good news, and I hoped that Fritz would continue to be held.
I had been praying before the lighted repository in the village
church for a few minutes when I heard footsteps coming, then I felt a
hand touch me on the shoulder, then a military chaplain walked by me
into the sacristy. I followed him. When he turned, I recognized him
immediately. It was Father Christopher Sheehan, an Irish chaplain whom
I had met at St. Michael’s Club, London, just about a year before. He
had come to London to receive the Military Cross from King George of
England.
“Don’t you know me, Father?” he asked. I smiled and told him his name
and when and where I had met him; also what I was doing there and when
I had come. When I had finished his brown eyes lighted up pleasantly,
as with the enthusiasm of a boy he began to tell me that I was “in
luck.” For he was billeted at a convent school and had charge of all
the livestock on the premises. Then Father Sheehan went on to prove
that I was “in luck;” and as he enumerated all the articles he had
at his disposal, I quite agreed with him. The Sisters had left him
bottles and bottles of preserved pears, peaches, and strawberries, many
different kinds of vegetables and a large number of hares, etc. His
eyes sparkled with delight at the thought of being able to share his
good things with some one. He looked at his wrist-watch; it was nearly
six o’clock. “Dinner-time,” he said, “Father, come!”
I followed him up the road, thanking God that I had fallen in with this
warm-hearted Irish priest. On the way he told me that the lad with him
was an excellent cook. I think the way the good things disappeared that
evening was sufficient evidence of my appreciation of his culinary art.
Yes, gentle reader, it was Lent--but, then, you know it was war time!
Just as we had finished George came in; but he was scarcely in till he
found himself seated at the table that Father Sheehan and I had just
vacated, and presently the cook and George had set to work. They went
at it earnestly, carefully, and methodically, giving it all attention.
The cook had prepared an enormous quantity of potatoes; an ordinary
vegetable dish would have been too small to hold them all, so they
were piled high in a large white milk basin. Father Sheehan and I had
decreased the pile considerably, but now under the skillful treatment
of George and the cook the remainder disappeared with extraordinary
rapidity. It was good to watch the lads; they worked with such dispatch
and so whole-heartedly. It was a wonderful example of the adage, “What
you have to do, do it well,” and I felt loath to leave when Father
Sheehan asked me to come with him to one of the class-rooms.