A STRANGE INTERRUPTION
Every morning I said Mass in the part of the trench where I slept,
which was covered overhead with a piece of camouflaged burlap, spread
across pieces of scantling. The trench was so low that I was obliged
to dig a hole in the ground, so that I could stand upright at my
little portable altar. One morning while I was saying Mass, a little
fox-terrier, belonging to George and the transport cook, began walking
on the burlap above my head. As the burlap was taut, the small paws
made a kind of drumming sound above me. Both George and the cook,
although they were non-Catholics, wished to show every respect to the
chaplain; knowing I was saying Mass, they began to call off the dog.
The little fellow, however, was stubborn and wished to remain on the
burlap. I think that the cook and George then got sticks and tried to
poke him off, for I could hear him dancing up and down as the points
of the sticks tapped the burlap roof. It was a long time before he
was captured, and it was at the cost of so much extra noise that I
think it would have been better had they left him to follow his own
inclinations--but the lads’ intentions were good.
New drafts now began coming to the battalions to reinforce the ranks,
broken in the Battle of Amiens. One afternoon the adjutant told me that
a draft of seventy men had come and that they were going into the front
line that night. The senior chaplain of the division, Canon Scott, an
Anglican clergyman, was going to address them first, after which, he
said, if I wished I might say a few words to them.
I went to the orderly room, where I learned that thirteen out of the
seventy soldiers were Catholics. I waited a long time that evening
for the Canon to finish. When, at last, he had ceased speaking and
had invited those who wished to attend the communion service to step
over to the side of the lines, I spoke to the men. My talk did not
take very long. I first asked the Catholics to fall out. Immediately,
from different sections in the ranks, thirteen men stepped out before
me. I told them that as they were going into the front line and did
not know what might be before them, perhaps they would wish to go to
Holy Communion. I told all who wished to do so, to follow me down into
the trench where I would hear their confessions and give them Holy
Communion. I turned and proceeded towards the trench. Thirteen men
followed me.
That night, after I had wrapped myself in the blankets of my bed-roll,
a lieutenant, a middle-aged man who was sharing part of the trench
with me, came down to retire for the evening. As he lay smoking a last
pipe before drawing the curtains of sleep, I was surprised to hear him
give utterance to this monologue: “Self-esteem! Self-esteem! Too much
self-esteem. That’s what’s the matter!”
I wondered to whom he referred, and after waiting a few seconds to see
if he had any more to say, I asked him if he were speaking to me. “No,
no, Padre,” he exclaimed. “I’m thinking of those fellows this evening.
Did you see them when Canon Scott invited them out to the communion?
Only about half a dozen went, out of all the crowd. Self-esteem,
self-esteem--that’s it!”
“Well,” I replied, “I didn’t notice. I asked my men--I had only
thirteen in the draft--if they wished to go to the sacraments of their
church, and immediately the thirteen followed me down to the trench.”
He looked at me keenly and there was not the slightest rancor in his
voice as he spoke again: “That’s it, Padre! That’s it! Of course your
men would go! That’s to be expected.” A kind of musing note came into
his voice, as he continued: “What is the secret? What is the secret?
They don’t fear you. Indeed, they love you.”
I told him as clearly as I could the secret, and as he continued
smoking quietly, I felt how truly he had spoken of our Catholic lads.
How they loved the priest, how on battlefield or muddy trench their
eyes lighted with love as the priest drew near. No wonder thirteen men
followed me down to the trench: they knew what I could do for them.
They knew in a few minutes they would be friends with Christ; that He
would visit them, abide in their souls. They were so absorbed in the
sublimity of what was to take place that no thought of what others
might say flashed across their minds. There was no human respect there.