CHAPTER XXIX
DOWN THE HOSPITAL AISLE
Although the emergency cases were attended at all hours by the chaplain, it was in the afternoon that the general visiting was done. Each patient, when he had entered the hospital, had attached to the buttonhole of his shirt, or overcoat if he was wearing it, a thick waterproof envelope containing a card on which was written a description of the wounds he had received and the treatment that had been given them in the different stations through which he had passed. Sometimes, though not often, there was a smaller card attached to the large one—but we shall speak of this card later. The nurse in charge of the ward kept the cards of her patients in her office. As the religious denomination of the patient was always given on his card, together with the number of his bed, it was very easy for me to find my patients once I had written down the names from the cards.
The first question that I usually asked the men, after I had inquired about their wounds, was how long it was since they were at Communion. Nearly always it was a few days or a week, as most of them had gone to Holy Communion before going into the trenches, though sometimes it was a month or two; and sometimes a man looked up at me steadily and said, “Ten years, Father,” or perhaps fifteen, or perhaps more. Then I would say, quietly: “It will soon be time to go again, won’t it?” Usually the man smiled, but generally he agreed with me. When I would meet a man a long time away, I would make a note in my little book so that I might make some special visits to him. Often, I had the great joy of seeing men, a long time away from the sacraments, return to God.
One afternoon I stopped at the bed of a bright-eyed young Canadian whose face lit up on seeing me, for he knew I was the priest. He had lost one of his arms above the elbow, so I began to talk to him of the wonderful artificial limbs that were being made for those disabled in the war.
The lad just smiled quietly—he was not the least bit downhearted—as he said: “They can’t help me much in my line, Father.” Then he fumbled with his hand in the little bag in the small white locker that had been placed near his bed, and when he found his pay-book he asked me to open it and read the newspaper clipping that was there. The head-line said, “Pat Rafferty Enlists,” and underneath, in smaller print, was a second heading: “Champion Light Weight Boxer of Western Canada Goes to the Front with the —— Battalion.” Then there were two short paragraphs, and below them was a picture of a young man in civilian dress. I examined it a moment, and as I looked at the original I felt a wave of pity well up within me. Yet the brave young soldier smiled.
It was not only Canadian soldiers who came to the hospital, for men of all the English-speaking armies were brought there. I always enjoyed a talk with the Irish wounded; they had such a warm friendliness and reverence for the priest. It really was not necessary for me to procure the number of their beds, once these men knew that it was the priest who was coming down the aisle, for I could have found them by the eager, smiling faces that watched me as I came. They always got in the first word; before I quite reached their beds I would hear their truly Irish greeting, “God bless you, Father,” and then as I would shake hands, they would ask me eagerly how I was—I had come to see how they were. They always wanted a medal—they pronounced it more like “middle”—and it was a little one that they wanted. One day I spread out on the palm of my hand eight medals of assorted sizes, and told a great giant to help himself. Among the medals was the tiniest one I have ever seen. The great finger and thumb did not hesitate for a second, but groped twice unsuccessfully for the tiny medal; finally, the third time they bore it away, while over the large face of the Irish lad spread the delighted smile of a child.
When I asked one of these lads which battalion he was in, expecting of course to be told the First or Second Munsters, or Leinsters, or Dublins, etc., but that is what I never heard. This is what they would say: “Father Doyle’s, Father,” or “Father Gleason’s, Father,” or “Father Maloney’s, Father.”
One afternoon, just when I entered, my eyes fell on a bright face looking up over the blankets. I knew he was a Catholic, an Irishman, from the Munster Fusiliers, though I judged from the manner in which the large blue eyes regarded me that he was not so sure about my religion. I thought that there was also a hint of battle in the glint of his eye, so I walked quickly over to his bed, without the faintest flicker of a smile, and said: “Let me see now, you’re a Baptist, aren’t you?”
The blue eyes of the Munster lad blazed as he looked up at me. “No, sir, I’m not! I’m a Roman Catholic!” he said, and as he panted for breath, I said to him quietly: “Well, now, I’m glad to hear that. I’m a Roman Catholic, too!”
Then swiftly the vindictive look faded out of the blue eyes of the Irish lad and a smile floated over his face as he said, somewhat shamefacedly: “Excuse me, Father—I didn’t know, Father—I’m glad to see you, Father,” (pronouncing the “a” in Father like the “a” in Pat), and a big red, brown-freckled hand was shyly offered me. It was only three days since Father Gleason gave him and all his comrades Holy Communion, but he would be pleased, if it would not be too much trouble to His Reverence, to go again in the morning. I wrote his name in the little book and promised to come in the morning with the Blessed Sacrament.