AT THE WAYSIDE
Early in the morning George and I left to find the Sixteenth which
had passed through in the evening. We anticipated some trouble, for
to find one’s battalion after an attack is not the easiest thing in
the world. However, we saw the Sixteenth Battalion water cart in the
great procession that filled the road before us, so, keeping our eyes
on it, we slipped in behind a transport wagon and followed along on
the right side of the road. We went slowly, and at times halted for
five and sometimes ten minutes. Now and again some of the horses in the
procession, as we passed dead horses on the side of the road, would
begin side-stepping in their fear, and this would interfere somewhat
with the progress of the line.
We had been walking with many halts for over an hour, and I remember
how surprised I was that our soldiers had advanced so far. All the
marks of the advance were along the way: broken war-wagons of every
description, dead Germans and dead Canadians, deep shell-holes,
shattered buildings, and always in the air mingled with the dust that
rose from the busy road were the odors of gas and sulphur.
We had been walking on the right of the procession, and to this day I
cannot say why I decided to change my place. For no reason that I can
remember I stepped in front of a team of mules hitched to a general
service wagon and crossed to the left of the road. Then I noticed two
soldiers approaching carrying a wounded comrade on a stretcher. I am
certain that if I had not crossed to the left of the road I would not
have noticed them.
Just as the lads came alongside me they halted and I heard one say: “He
ain’t dead yet.” Then gently they lowered their burden to the road in
order to take a short rest.
I stepped over to the wounded lad and a glance told me that he had not
much longer to live. I knelt quickly on one knee and pulled out the
little round identification disc attached to the string around his
neck. I looked at it and saw the letters “R. C.”
I remember throwing off my shrapnel helmet (“tin lid,” the lads called
it) and it rattled on the hard road, though the noise was deadened by
the rumble of the passing traffic. Then I spoke to the lad, telling
him I was a Catholic priest. Finding him conscious, I told him to make
a good act of contrition for all the sins of his past life and that I
would give him absolution. Then, as the great procession went lumbering
by I pronounced the words of absolution, and anointed him there on the
roadside. In a little while he passed away peacefully.
I copied from the little leather disc his name, number and battalion:
Private W. J. Daze, No. 788567, Third Canadian Infantry Battalion. A
few days later I got his mother’s address from the Third Battalion
orderly room and wrote her, telling how grace had come to the lad.