BOVES AGAIN
The first Sunday on the Amiens front we had no church parade. But the
second Sunday we managed to have one for the lads out of the trenches.
We had Mass on a wooded hill that had been heavily shelled during the
week by the Germans, though they left us quiet on Sunday.
There was a huge crippled tank on the hill, and workmen were busy
repairing it. I found a rough table placed against the tank, and on the
table a portable altar already set up for Mass; grouped about this
were some men from other brigades and a few of my own men, with a draft
that had come for the Thirteenth. Father MacDonnell had just finished
Mass. He and Father Fallon heard confessions, and the workmen repaired
the tank, while I offered up the Holy Sacrifice for the men.
The following Friday evening, after a long, weary march, we came back
into Boves. It was a different looking city from the one we had entered
almost three weeks before. On the outskirts, high on a hill, dozens of
great marquee tents rose in the darkening twilight, and from a large
flag-staff waved, on a white background, the red cross: it was one
of our Canadian clearing stations that had moved up. We came around
a turn in the road and there, standing in a group, were the nurses,
orderlies, and many patients from the tents on the hill. They cheered
and cheered as the lads marched by and the nurses fluttered their white
handkerchiefs, while the band played a merry march. Down the street of
the city the merry pipers piped our way, while house after house opened
its doors wide and the good French people who had returned, whole
families of them, came out and cheered us as we passed up the street. I
had a fine billet in the class-room of a school just next door to the
church; yet it seemed somewhat stuffy and closed in after having lived
for almost three weeks in an apple orchard.
The following morning, after I came in from Mass, I noticed the cook
standing on the outer sill of the window, looking closely at the
grape-vines which grew up the sides of the building; many bunches of
white grapes grew among the thick green leaves. A few minutes later,
as I sat down to breakfast, George walked in with a great cluster,
almost as large as a pineapple, on a dish and placed them near my plate.
All day long I was hoping to have the opportunity of having my men to
confession before leaving Boves, for it was being rumored about the
city that we were on our way back to the Arras front where we were to
take part in other big battles. I could not learn from headquarters at
what time we were to leave, but I surmised it would be early Sunday
morning. I was praying the Blessed Virgin to let me have the men, but
at seven o’clock p. m. it seemed certain that we were to move early in
the morning.
At eight o’clock the quartermaster came to me, saying: “The move’s off,
Padre. We don’t leave here till tomorrow evening.”
I called George, and soon he and I were out organizing a church
parade of all the troops in the city. I called at the C. C. S. on the
hill, thinking there might be a chaplain there who could help me with
confessions. I learned that there was a Catholic chaplain attached to
the unit, but that at present he was absent on leave.
I heard confessions for about an hour before Mass, but as the time
for Mass drew near it became evident that I would not be able to hear
one-quarter of the great throng of khaki-clad lads that filled the
church; all the pews were filled and many were standing. When the hour
for Mass had come, even the large sanctuary was filled with soldiers,
some of them wearing the blue uniform of France.
I was just about to leave the confessional to say Mass when I heard
some one knocking on the door. I looked up quickly: there stood Father
MacDonnell in his Scotch uniform. I was so overjoyed that I stepped out
quickly and cried: “The Blessed Virgin sent you here!”
He looked at me with his shrewd, kind eyes, and there was not the
shadow of a smile in them as he said: “Never mind, now, who sent me
here. What can I do for you?”
I asked him which he preferred, to say Mass or to hear confessions. He
said he had already said Mass and had taken his breakfast. So I asked
him if he would kindly hear confessions.
I walked up the aisle towards the altar, past row and row of those
great-hearted Catholic lads, and as I went I thanked the Blessed Virgin
for what she had done. But it was a little too early: she had not yet
finished answering my prayers, for just as I entered the sanctuary
I noticed one of the French soldiers sitting on a bench reading his
Breviary. I touched him on the shoulder and asked him if he were a
priest.
He was.
Then I asked him if he would hear the French confessions, for more than
half the men of the Fourteenth Battalion were French. He closed his
Breviary, after he had marked the place with a colored ribbon. Then he
bowed and said he would.
About two years after the Armistice had been signed I was travelling
in New Brunswick when a young man came down the car to shake hands
with me. He had been one of the officers of the Fourteenth Battalion
assisting at Mass in the church at Boves that Sunday. After we had
talked a little while, he remarked: “Father, I have often thought of
that Sunday at Boves. It seemed to me a beautiful thing to see officers
of high rank going over and kneeling down at the feet of one clad
in the uniform of a French private of the ranks to have their sins
absolved.”
Just before Mass I announced that during the celebration of the Holy
Sacrifice Father MacDonnell would hear confessions in English while
the French Father would hear the French confessions, and that after
Mass, if there were still some who had not gone to confession, the two
priests would continue to hear and I would help them. I added that
confessions would be heard and communion given again that afternoon.
I said my Mass slowly and preached about twenty minutes. During
my sermon I saw something that gratified me very much. Among the
officers of one of the battalions was one whom I had never seen at the
sacraments. I had approached him some time before, and had met the
greatest rebuff I had ever received from a Catholic: he told me quite
gruffly that he had no time for that kind of thing. His words had
actually struck me dumb for a few seconds, so that I walked away from
him without saying anything further. But as I preached that Sunday at
Boves, looking out over that sea of reverent faces, I saw the officer
stand up and walk reverently to the confessional, and when I gave Holy
Communion I saw him at the rails.
As I write these words there stands on the little table before me a
tiny plaster statue of the Immaculate Conception. Since I began writing
this story it has been always present on the table. It was given to
me by a soldier of the Fourteenth Battalion just after the Battle of
Amiens. Cut into the base of the statue is the one word “Boves,” and
the dents made by the letters are filled with the red clay of France.
I will keep this statue always, for it brings back memories of a town
where great things were done for God among my Canadian soldiers, and of
her who brought these things about.
That evening, as I entered the class-room that was my billet, two
figures looked up quickly: one was George, who had a right to be there;
the other was one of the assistants in the veterinary section. There
was a very strong odor of iodoform in the room. On a bench between
the two soldiers was my wash-basin filled with some solution, and
the little dog, who had broken his paw, was having it washed in the
solution.
I said nothing. I was not even cross, for I knew how difficult it was
to procure a vessel in which to wash dogs’ broken paws.