ECOIVRES
April was passing quickly. Very early in the morning, from the old
trees about the convent, one heard the sweet, clear call of many birds;
the leaves were unfolding; the fresh, revivifying odors of new grass
and early spring flowers were in the air. All around us were signs
of destruction by the ingenuity of man; yet nature was steadfastly
following her laws, restoring, expanding, and quickening to new
life--and cheering wonderfully many tired and war-weary men.
On all sides Fritz was making advances, but we were holding him at
Arras. I made frequent visits to this City of the Dead, and every time
I passed through its gates--Arras is a walled city--an appalling sense
of loneliness gripped me. Only seventy people of the thirty thousand
inhabitants remained; and to see, now and then, a solitary civilian
moving along the street, or about some shattered dwelling-place, only
emphasized the awful stillness. I visited the ruins of the great
cathedral and saw the statue of Our Lady standing unscathed in her
little side chapel. I walked through the corridors of the shattered
seminary, where for many years young Frenchmen had walked silently,
listening to the voice of the Spirit of God, forming them for the work
of the holy ministry. The young men who should now be here were in the
trenches, clad in the light-blue uniform of the soldiers of France.
Not far from the seminary, in the basement of their shattered convent,
lived two Poor Clare nuns who had remained to adore our Divine Lord
on the altar. I do not know how it had been arranged, but there was
Perpetual Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament in that poor cellar.
Perhaps it was for this reason that the Canadians held Arras. It was
to these holy women of France that Father Sheehan made many visits,
carrying pieces of meat, rolls of bread, etc. The quartermaster of the
unit from which he drew rations was an Irishman, and many of the lads
gladly stinted themselves so that he could lay by a little food for
the Poor Clare Sisters at Arras.
Then, one day just after lunch, orders came to move. We were not going
very far away--only to the little village of Ecoivres at the base of
Mt. St. Eloi, about five or six kilometers distant. I stayed with
Father Sheehan for tea, and at four o’clock left alone for Ecoivres.
I had never been there before, but Father Sheehan had given me minute
directions and I knew I would have no difficulty finding the large
chateau of the village.
I had not gone more than a mile on my way when I noticed shells
dropping into many of the little villages that lay scattered over the
green countryside before me. I must pass through two of these villages
before arriving at my destination. I suspected some big attack on the
part of the Germans, as it was their invariable custom to shell heavily
the back areas In order to prevent us from bringing up fresh troops.
As I was revolving in my mind how pleasant it was going to be for me
to run the gauntlet of fire, I heard the terrifying shriek of a shell,
and as I turned, was just in time to see a great black shell burst only
a few feet behind me. A group of men had been standing on the roadside
but not one was hit. I stood for a few moments dazed by the suddenness
of it all, my ears ringing from the terrible explosion, while teams
drawing general service wagons galloped noisily by and men ran like
startled hares towards points of safety. Presently I continued my walk,
every nerve tense, expecting another shell-burst. None came, however.
I passed through the two villages and no shell dropped near me till
I came to the outskirts of Ecoivres, then shell after shell came
screaming through the air, exploding in the high bank that sloped
up from the roadside. A few soldiers coming behind me on bicycles
dismounted and crouched low as each one tore its way across our road. I
felt sick, dazed and frightened and whenever the others crouched, I did
also; but we reached the little town in safety.
I passed the church, which was untouched, though many stone buildings
about it were almost completely demolished. Then I came into the court
before the chateau, where a great number of soldiers were quartered.
It was an old chateau, the ancestral home of a long line of French
counts, which had been commandeered early in the war. The present
owner, however, still had a room or two allotted to him. I went up an
old winding stairway and walked from the landing along the hall till
I came to a great wide room where a number of officers of different
battalions of my brigade stood talking in little groups. They greeted
me with true military friendliness, but I could see that they were
restless and ill at ease. Fritz had struck again and broken the British
line, taking many prisoners and great quantities of supplies. And as
the officers talked, shells screamed into the village.
Just before dinner George came to the mess and his face lighted up when
he saw me. He had come before me by a different route, and some of his
companions--although none of our own brigade--had been killed, together
with a number of horses. There was in George’s eye that hurt, dazed
look that I was to see so often in the eyes of men when the shells
screamed by and took toll of their companions. George told me I was to
be billeted in a large room with a number of other officers. While he
was speaking, however, the billeting officer joined us to say that he
had a fine billet for me; it was a little hut outside in the grounds.
It had been reserved for the colonel, but as he wished to remain in
the chateau, the billeting officer, remembering that I preferred, when
possible, to have a billet alone, so that the men might the more easily
come to see me, had given me the little hut.
After dinner, which was late that evening, I went down through the
chateau grounds, crossed a bridge over a small river that ran through
them and followed the road until I came to a little burlap hut built
on the river bank under the willow trees, that had just hung out their
fresh green draperies. And as I stood surveying my billet, I became
aware that the shelling had ceased; the stars were coming out; just the
faintest rustle sounded among the tree-tops; there was a very pleasant
tinkle and gurgle from the running water; from all around the wide
green grounds came the low murmur of talking from groups of soldiers
bivouacked here and there under the trees. George came up presently
with four or five letters and a box of caramels that had come with the
Canadian mail. It was one of those strange interludes that came fairly
often during the campaign, when one actually forgot for a little while
war and its gruesomeness.
In the morning, after a very pleasant night’s sleep by the softly
running waters, I went down to the parish church to say Mass. The curé
was a large man and very kind; evidently the billeting officer had
tried to place me with him, for he took great pains to explain to me
that his house was extremely small, and already it was full on account
of the presence of some of his relations who had been evacuated from
the Arras area.
I told the curé how pleasantly I was situated, and that the softly
running water had sent me to sleep. He smiled, helped me to put
on my vestments and then served my Mass. After Mass, as I made my
thanksgiving before the altar, I noticed on the Gospel side a large
alcove. In it were five or six prie-dieux, and a communion rail ran the
width of it. It was somewhat similar to a box in a theatre. On the wall
in the alcove opposite to where I knelt was a large copper slab bearing
the inscription:
To the Memory of
M. Edward Mary Alexander
Viscount of Brandt of Calometz
Died in his castle of Ecoivres
the 9th. October 1894
R. I. P.
I concluded that this was the part of the church where the people
of the chateau came to assist at Mass in the old days before France
printed on her coins “Liberty, Equality and Fraternity.” I saw the
present owner of the estate a few days later, and I wondered if he sat
in the alcove to assist at Mass on Sundays. He was a tall, heavily
built man in old rough clothes, and looked more like a laborer one
would see sitting idly about the docks. He had a large, heavy red face
and a thick black mustache. When I saw him first he stood facing a
pointed bayonet--though he kept at least three feet from the point--and
an angry sentry at the entrance to the chateau was telling him in
English that he could not enter. The owner of the chateau, still more
angry than the guard, shouted in French that he would enter; that these
were his grounds, though his manner of putting in practice his words
resembled more the advancing of a horse on a treadmill. I was about
to offer my services as interpreter and general peace-maker when an
officer approached the angry guard and told him that it was the owner
of the chateau whom he was keeping from entering. The guard sprang to
attention, and as the angry owner entered his grounds looked after him
sheepishly. “Well, Holy Moses!” he exclaimed.