THROUGH THE RHINELAND
Shortly before we reached the frontier one of the officers came into
the mess and said to me: “It may be a little exciting crossing the
line, Padre. I hear there are some revolutionists who are going to
snipe at us.”
I did not care for this kind of excitement. I felt I had seen all I
wanted of shooting for the rest of my life. There was no need to worry,
however, for our march into Germany was a very peaceful one. But nobody
cheered us; no flags waved; everything was silent in the land as our
khaki swung through the winding road. We passed through a very hilly
country, and we soon had evidence that it was a Catholic country, for
all along our march were little wayside shrines.
Our first billet was a low, white farmhouse, very comfortably
furnished. On the wall of our mess was an oleograph of the Holy Family;
a similar copy had hung in my bed-room when I was a boy. Presently
an old lady came in, looked at me and said something. I replied in
French, but she shook her head. I pointed to the oleograph and said,
“Katholisch?”
The old lady looked at me, beaming. I pointed to myself and said,
“Katholisch,” and then added, “Prester,” as I thought this was the
German word for priest. During my stay in that house I was treated as
the Catholic priest is always treated by the humble.
In one place a young woman, learning that I was a priest, came to me
with her brother, who spoke excellent English; he had been a waiter in
the Savoy Hotel, in London, previous to the war. The husband of the
young woman had been killed in the war, and passing me her offering,
she asked if I would say Mass for the repose of his soul the following
morning in the village church. This I did, and while I said Mass the
village choir sang two hymns. It was a low Mass I said, and in the
color of the day. I asked the young man the name of the hymns and he
told me. I cannot recall the name of the first one: but I think the
second was entitled “O Komm O Komm Emanuel.” It must have been an
Advent hymn, for I heard it almost every morning as I said Mass in
those little churches of the Rhineland.
I have never seen such excellent Catholics: every morning the village
church would be crowded as if it were Sunday. Sometimes I gave
communion to German people who came reverently to the rails.
The time passed quickly and at last on December 12th, we arrived in
the city of Cologne. The following morning we marched across the
Rhine, while the band played the “Regimental March” and “The British
Grenadier;” the men with fixed bayonets marched rigidly to attention.
Some officers near me sang softly the words: “When we wind up the watch
on the Rhine.”
We marched about twelve miles beyond the Rhine to a little place called
Altenbruick. Here we halted. And it was here that I said good-bye to
the battalion on Christmas Day.
We had Midnight Mass in the German church on the hill overlooking the
village. Father Madden, who had returned to his battalion after being
discharged from hospital, came to help me with confessions. My lads
were scattered over different parishes, but I had arranged for church
parades for all who could come. I heard confessions from seven p. m.
till midnight, and as the clock struck the midnight hour one of my lads
from the Fourteenth began to sing that beautiful Christmas hymn which
was being sung that night in French churches all over Canada, “Minuit,
Chretiens” (Holy Night). Every Christmas, just at midnight, I had heard
it sung in the basilica of old Quebec, where I had made my studies for
the priesthood. And as the clear, strong voice sang those beautiful
notes of Gounod’s famous composition, memories of peace swept over my
soul. I had seen horrible things; but now they were past and this was
the night of the Christ Child, when the angels sang “peace on earth to
men of good will.”
I was fully vested, and was about to proceed to the altar for the last
time before these lads, when the German parish priest came in to the
sacristy. He spoke quickly in French, telling me that at the communion
I need not descend to the rails; that he would give communion to my men.
For an instant I seemed dazed. I had brought the Bread of Life so
often to many of those soldiers and officers who now waited for me to
draw near to the altar of God. Very likely I should never have the
opportunity of again ministering to them. But, then, I thought, this
German priest wishes to give communion to my lads. Centuries before,
the angels had sung: “Peace to men of good will.” I must show good
will. Yet how hard it was! Then, mastering a great reluctance, I said
quietly: “Very well, Father, you will give communion to my men.”
So this is the last memory I hold of those wonderful soldier lads--the
Midnight Mass at Altenbruick. The sound of the voice of the German
priest, “Corpus Domini Nostri Jesu Christi,” etc., as he dispensed the
mysteries of God to my soldier lads! And, above all else, the presence
in our midst of Jesus of Nazareth, the Saviour of the world--The Prince
of Peace!