BACK TO THE BATTALION
The men were never told on coming back from leave where they might
find their battalion; and when the troops were on the move often a
soldier was put to very great inconvenience trying to reach his unit.
I, however, was in great good luck, for just at the base of Mount
St. Eloi, while the train stopped, I noticed some of the soldiers of
the Sixteenth standing near by. I called one of them and asked the
whereabouts of the battalion.
“Just over here in Ecoivres, sir,” he said. I stepped out of the train
and in twenty minutes was sitting in the transport mess talking of my
leave.
I had found my friends in England somewhat downhearted, which was but
natural considering the great losses the British army had sustained
during the recent German advances. On all sides one heard only gloomy
forebodings as to future attacks. But back again among the gruesome
scenes of devastation and ruin, I was struck more than ever by the
buoyancy and light-heartedness of the troops. Here were no gloomy
forebodings, but on all sides were friendly faces and the air was merry
with sounds of whistling, singing, bugle calls, practicing bands, and
good-natured banter. Of one thing I felt sure--old “Major Gloom” did
not belong to the Third Canadian Brigade!
After I had talked awhile with the quartermaster and transport officer,
my mail was brought in. It was very large, the accumulation of two
weeks. It was a long while before I had finished reading all the
letters. The transport officer had gone outside, but the quartermaster
was in the room adjoining the mess, from which came now and then little
explosions of partly suppressed laughter. And whilst I read my letters
I wondered what was the cause of the mirth. In a little while the
quartermaster came out of the room and stopped in passing to ask me if
I had ever read “Seventeen” by Booth Tarkington. Indeed, I had, and I
wondered no longer why sounds of laughter had drifted out to me.
Among my letters were a few edged in black. One of these, heavily
crossed by a blue pencil, was registered, and when I opened it a
ten-dollar bill dropped to the table. I had been accustomed to
receiving many letters edged in black, answers to those I had written
to next of kin at home, telling them of the death of dear ones, and how
they had been prepared to meet God. It was not often, however, that
they came registered. But as I read the letter I forgot altogether that
a ten-dollar bill had dropped from it and was now lying on the table.
The letter was from the wife of Captain Waud, the young officer who had
fallen at the head of his men--he who had knelt so reverently with them
to receive Holy Communion that day in New Plymouth Cave. It was not
only a beautiful letter, with a deep note of Catholic faith sounding
throughout it, but it told me something of the young officer that I
had not known. He had not always been a Catholic. I learned from the
letter that he had been wounded previously. “You know, he did not have
to go back to France,” wrote Mrs. Waud, “but duty called, so I let him
go with as brave a heart as I could, and brought my little son home.
I had prayed so that my husband would be spared to me, but indeed God
knows best and He is helping me now. Everything of that last day is
comforting and very beautiful. And although the heartache and longing
will not leave, I feel that I have a great deal to be thankful for. I
am enclosing a little offering for whatever lies near your heart. It
is little and I wish it were more. I thank you for all you have done
for my husband, and indeed I will pray for your lads. Trusting that you
will remember me, and that God will give me the grace to do my duty as
worthily as my husband did his, I am, gratefully yours, Ruth Waud.”
For a long time I sat there thinking of the letter I held in my hand,
and then of other letters that had come to me from time to time. And
I thought how many women there must be over the world bearing great
sorrows, but the eyes of the world were not focused on these! They
were on the battalions that had marched away to the war while flags
fluttered and bands played and people cheered. They watched the papers
for accounts of great deeds of arms. But whenever I read such letters
my thoughts would go back to the roads over which the soldiers had
marched so bravely away, and I would see figures leaning over gates,
white handkerchiefs held to eyes that had strained down the white
dusty road over which their soldier sons or husbands had marched away.
They would go back into silent rooms where so many little things
would remind them of their men. Then, as the days would pass, to many
would come words to chill the heart and make homes desolate: “Killed
in Action.” Whenever I wrote to these poor mothers or wives, I would
see a great lonely hill, on which stood a cross whereon was nailed a
scourged, thorn-crowned Figure whose eyes rested with great pity on one
who stood below--the Mater Dolorosa. It was on her feast, the Feast of
the Seven Dolors, that the bishop had decided I should go to the war,
and perhaps it was she who helped me to write the letters of sympathy
that brought comfort to so many sorrowful hearts. With the ten-dollar
bill I bought comforts for the men.