One turns from such horrors to the heroism of the French soldier, his
devotion to his officers, his letters to that _chère maman_ before whom
his heart is always that of a little child, to the faith which saves
men from at least the grosser brutalities of war....
The priest-soldier in France has been a spiritual influence among his
comrades, so that some of them fought with nobler motives than that of
blood-lust, and went to death or victory, influenced not by hatred of
fellow men, but by a conviction that out of all that death there would
come a new life to nations, and that in killing their enemy they were
killing a brutal tyranny with its grip upon the world, and a barbarism
which would make human life a slavery....
Not a week passed without some priest being cited in the Order of the
Day....
The Abbé Bertrand, vicar of St. Germain de Coulamer, was mobilized
on the outbreak of war, and for his gallantry in the field promoted
successively to the ranks of sergeant, sergeant-major, sub-lieutenant,
and lieutenant. He fell on November 4 at the battle of Audrechy,
leading his men to the assault. A few days before his death he wrote:
"I always look upon this war as an expiation, and I am proud to be a
victim." And again: "Oh, how cold the rain is, and how severe the
weather! For our faith in France I have offered God to let me be wet
and soaked to the very bones."
The story of the Abbé Armand, in the 14th battalion of the Chasseurs
Alpins, is that of a hero. A simple man, he used to open his heart to
his rough comrades, and often in the trenches, under shell-fire, he
would recite the Psalms in a clear voice so that they could hear him.
On November 17, to the south of Ypres, his company was selected to hold
a dangerous position, swept by the heavy guns of the Germans and near
the enemy's trenches. All day until the evening the priest and his
comrades stayed there, raked by a hideous shell-fire. At last nearly
all the men were killed, and on his side of the emplacement the Abbé
Armand was left with two men alive. He signaled the fact to those below
by raising three fingers, but shortly afterwards a bullet struck him
so that he fell and another hit him in the stomach. It was impossible
to send help to him at the time, and he died half an hour later on the
tumulus surrounded by the dead bodies of his comrades. They buried
him up there, and that night his loss was mourned, not without tears,
by many rough soldiers who had loved the man for his cheeriness, and
honoured him for the simple faith, which seemed to put a glamour about
the mudstained uniform of a soldier of France.
There were scores of stories like that, and the army lists contained
the names of hundreds of these priest-soldiers decorated with the
Legion of Honour or mentioned in despatches for gallant acts.
Not all French soldiers are like these priests who were valiant with
the spirit of Christian faith. Side by side with the priest was the
apache, or the slum-dweller, or the peasant from the fields, who in
conversation was habitually and unconsciously foul. Not even the mild
protest of one of these priests could check the flow of richly imagined
blasphemies which are learned in the barracks during the three years'
service, and in the _bistros_ of the back streets of France from
Cherbourg to Marseilles. But, as a rule, the priest did not protest,
except by the example of keeping his own tongue clean. "What is the
use?" said one of them. "That kind of thing is second nature to the men
and, after all, it is part of my sacrifice."