After a few days a box about one foot and a half long, one foot high and nine inches wide, arrived. It was made of wood covered with a kind of grey cloth, with strips of black leather about the edges and small pieces of brass at every corner. There were leather grips on it so that it could be carried as a satchel. It was my little portable altar, containing everything necessary for saying Mass. One half opened and stood upright from the part containing the table of the altar, which when opened out was three feet long. Fitted into the oak table was the little marble altar-stone, without which one may not say Mass. In the top of the upright part was a square hole in which the crucifix fitted to stand above the altar; on either side were holders to attach the candlesticks. From the wall that formed a compartment in the upright portion, where the vestments were kept, the altar cards unfolded; these were kept in place by small brass clips attached to the upright. Chalice, ciborium, missal and stand, cruets, wine, altar-breads, bell, linens, etc., were in compartments beneath the altar table. The whole was wonderfully compact and could be carried with one hand.
As I write these words it stands nearby, sadly war-worn after its voyage across the ocean, and its travels through England, France, Belgium and the Rhineland of Germany. I have said Mass on it on this side of the ocean; on the high seas; in camp in England; in trenches; on battlefields; in tents, camps, and billets through the war-scarred areas of France. I offered the Holy Sacrifice on it placed on a low, wide window-sill in a German billet on our way through the Rhineland. It was carried across the Rhine December 13th, 1918, in the great triumphal march. Now it is home again. In many places the cloth covering is scraped and torn; one of the brass corners is missing. It is very soiled from the mud of France and rifle oil stains, etc.; the leather edging is chipped and peeled. The table has been broken and repaired again, so has the little book-stand. The silver chalice and paten are slightly dented in many places. The little bell has lost part of its handle, but its tone is still sweet. One alb has been burned, but I have another. The cincture has been broken and knotted.
I gaze at it now and think of the thousands of great-hearted lads who knelt before it, often on rain-soaked fields, or stood among piles of ruins and heard the sweet notes of the little bell warning them of the Master’s approach, so that they might bow reverently when He came; of the thousands on field, on hillside, in caves and huts who knelt to eat of the Bread of Life, many of them going almost immediately with this pledge of eternal life, before God to be judged,—as I think of all this, there comes into my eyes a mist, and the little portable altar grows dim.