LEFT BEHIND
I was well satisfied with my work among the soldiers during these
evenings and we were all benefiting very much by our rest. But we did
not know just how soon we would be going into action. One evening
towards seven o’clock, on coming back to Berneville after having
attended a meeting at corps headquarters, I found men of the Fourth
Division walking up and down the street. I was somewhat surprised at
this, for when I had left in the morning the village had been occupied
only by First Division troops. Now I saw no men of the Third Brigade. I
stopped the first soldier I met and asked him where was the Sixteenth.
He told me he did not know, that the Sixteenth had “pulled out” about
four o’clock and that another battalion had “taken over” these lines.
I went quickly to the place our mess had been, only to find other
officers occupying it. They were just about to sit down to dinner, and
invited me to remain, but I was too eager to have news of my troops.
This was the first time they had ever stolen a march on me.
I opened the gate of the old curé’s garden, hoping to see George
standing in the twilight somewhere among the roses; but there was no
khaki-clad figure there. In fact, there was no one in the garden;
everything was very quiet. Knocking on the door which led to the office
and dining-room combined, I advanced into the lamp-lit room to find
the curé and his sister just about to sit down to their evening meal.
They welcomed me warmly. It was good to see the kindly, beaming faces
of my old friends; and as my eyes wandered from them to the table I saw
that places had been set for three.
“Come,” said the old priest as he motioned me to the seat beside him.
“Come, you are just in time, for we were about to begin, fearing you
would not arrive.”
I sat down quickly, for I did not wish to delay any longer these
good people. The memory of that evening is still very vivid; the
low, lamp-lit room, with its quaint engravings on the wall, the
old-fashioned furniture, the spotless white linen cloth, heavy silver
and thick china, with blue scroll-work bordering of old chateaux and
rustic-bridged streams. A large roll of coarse though wholesome brown
bread, such as I had seen old “Mamma Katzenjammer” make some time
before, was on a plate in the middle of the table, and beside this was
a black-handled bread knife; a huge bottle of golden cider stood near
the bread. Opposite me was a wooden bowl of salad and a large wooden
fork and spoon.
Madame brought from the kitchen a small brown earthenware casserole and
placed it before M. le Curé. The removal of the cover disclosed three
plump little pigeons. Simultaneously M. le Curé and Madame looked at
me. “In your honor,” said the priest as both bowed, jokingly.
I remembered how, when a boy, I had shot a few pigeons, which when
cooked I was unable to eat, because they were so tough. But the pigeons
of old Madame were not tough. Indeed, I had never eaten any meat more
tender. They had been pot roasted.
It was one of the pleasantest evenings I had ever spent in rest
billets. As we sat at table they told me that the battalion had left
for the front at four o’clock. George had packed my bed-roll, and had
placed it and my portable altar on the general service wagon, leaving
my haversack with articles I would need for the night. He had left word
that we would not be going into action for a day or two and that I
would be quite safe in staying that night in Berneville.
As we sat talking in the quiet lamp-lit room, and I realized all that
was before me, I could not help thinking how pleasant it would be to
live on in this peaceful old house, far from the horrors of war, and
preach to the quiet peasants, and teach them the ways of God. But
quickly I put this thought from my mind. The Master for whom I labored
had sterner work for me to do. And tomorrow morning early I must leave,
to go once more into The Red Vineyard.