ANZIN AND MONCHY BRETON
The Fifty-first “took over” from us and we went to Anzin. Here it was
much quieter and the battalion prepared to rest. I took charge of the
village church, for I was the only chaplain in the area. The first
day I swept it out and dusted the altar and sanctuary rail. The next
morning I said Mass, and after Mass a little sanctuary lamp twinkled
softly before the altar. The Guest had come!
There was a beautiful statue of Our Lady in the church, and as it was
her month I decorated it as well as I could. A long walk by the Scarpe
River, which flowed its narrow though very pretty way through Anzin,
brought me to the grounds of what had once been a very fine country
residence, now terribly battered from shell-fire. The road that led to
it sloped up from the river, and as I walked along it, this beautiful
May day, from the dark recesses of the trees came the repeated solitary
call of the cuckoo. I stopped to listen. The whole countryside seemed
very quiet and peaceful, save for the faint rumble, from far away, of
our guns.
Though the grounds were pitted in different places with old
shell-holes, many flowers grew in the garden. I picked some white
lilacs, although the season for these was now growing late, and a large
bunch of Parma violets. It was very quiet and still there in the old
French garden, but I could hear German shells whining through the air
and dropping in a little village not very far away.
Somewhere along the line battles were being fought, and I supposed
the British were losing ground and that many men were being taken
prisoners. Up to this time we Canadians had not lost any men as
prisoners and had given no ground except a mile in depth near
Neuville-Vitasse when we found ourselves placed in a very dangerous
position by the general retreat of British troops, which in some places
was more than twenty miles in depth.
Towards the end of May good news came to us. We were going back to
rest. And it was to be a long rest, among green fields, far from the
sound of the guns and the sights of the battlefield.
It was Saturday when we arrived in our rest billets after a long march
through a peaceful countryside. My battalions were scattered in four
different villages and I was very busy Saturday afternoon arranging
for Masses. Up to this time our rest billets had been always in mining
towns or districts, but now we had come to one of the most beautiful
countrysides I had ever seen. Open, unfenced farmlands stretched before
us, while here and there clumps of ancient wide-spreading trees, almost
hiding from view the little white-walled, red-roofed houses beneath
them, rose as dark-green islands in a light-green sea. The memory of
that Saturday afternoon is very vivid with me yet. It had been a warm
day and the long, dusty march had been most fatiguing. I was finding
some difficulty in arranging hours for Masses, and towards three
o’clock I dismounted from my bicycle, sat by the roadside and wiped
my forehead. Everything was intensely quiet; a Sabbath-day stillness
was over all the land. It seemed more like a beautiful dream than a
reality. For months I had been in the gruesome atmosphere of war,
gazing on broken villages, torn roads and ruined farmlands, walking
always in danger and “in the shadow of death” through a country utterly
desolate, and foully marred by the ingenuity of men. Now my eye was
being filled with the beauty of all things around me, of the wonderful
things of God.
I picked a wild flower of a variety that grew in profusion along the
roadside. It was about one-third the size of a morning-glory and
somewhat similar in shape. It was white, and so delicate that it seemed
almost transparent. As I gazed on its wonderful formation, my mind
dwelt on God and all the beautiful things He had created; then my
thoughts were of the soul and then of my men. Presently the plan of my
sermon for the following day was mentally outlined.
It was twelve o’clock Saturday night when I finished my work.