The days passed quickly, for they were well filled, and sometimes at night the call would come; my door would open quite abruptly, awakening me, and the light from a small flash-light would dazzle my surprised eyes, while a voice called, “R. C. chaplain?” I recall one night in particular. I had been awakened by the orderly calling, to find him standing at the head of my bed, his flash-light focused on a message written on white interlined paper that he held before my eyes. The words read: “Come quickly, Father, Wd 14, bed 7, Belair, gassed.” It was signed Sister Kirky, who weighed almost 300 pounds. In twelve minutes I was dressed and standing in the ward by Private Belair. I was a little surprised to find him sitting up with just his tunic and boots removed. He sat in such a way that his arms rested over the back of his chair which he faced. He was panting terribly and was evidently suffering greatly. Every little while, when he seemed to have sufficient strength, he would begin to pray in whispered Latin, “O bone Jesu,” then his voice would die out in a trembling whisper and the prayer would become inaudible.
“Oh, Father,” he whispered, “I am—so glad—you came. All my life—I have prayed—to have the grace.” Then he began to pray again, and I made ready to hear his confession. It did not take long for it cost him terrible agony to speak. Then I anointed him. I had not brought Holy Communion, being so eager to reach him that I had not taken time to go up to the chapel called “Church of Our Lady, Help of Christians.” My own marquee chapel had blown down a few days previous and I had removed the Blessed Sacrament to the above-mentioned church. I told the sick man I was going to bring our Blessed Lord, but that it might take a little while, as very likely I should find the church locked and should have to find the key.
Although the ward had been but dimly-lighted it was extremely dark on coming out, for it was raining; and in my haste I tripped over a tent guy-rope, taut by the rain, and fell on my hands and knees on the cinder walk. Then I walked on more carefully, rubbing tiny particles of cinders from my stinging hands. Just as I reached the chapel I was challenged by the guard. This time I answered quickly: “Friend. R. C. chaplain No. 7. Can. Gen. Hospital.” I stood to be recognized. Then the guard spoke, but this time softly, and he peered at my rain-wet face. “Ah, Father,” he said, “it’s you!” It was one of the Irish lads from the Sixteenth Infantry Base Depot who was one of the guards for the German prison camp opposite. He may have seen me saying Mass at Oratory Hut, or perhaps he had spent a few days at the segregation camp.
The door of the little church was locked, and I did not know where to find the key. I knew that an English Redemptorist, Father Prime, chaplain to No. 26 British General Hospital, said Mass here every morning; perhaps he might know where the key was kept. It was half a mile to Father Prime’s little hut at No. 26, and I went very quickly, praying all the while for the poor gassed soldier that he might have the great privilege for which he had prayed so much.
Father Prime was very easily awakened and seemed glad that it was not a call for him to go out in the rain. He had the key, and presently I was hurrying back to the little church.
The Irish lad, still on guard, as I returned bearing the Bread of Life to the dying soldier in the hospital, knelt on the rainy ground, and I could just tell that he was bowing his head as the Saviour passed.
The poor fellow was still alive, though panting in great pain. He received Holy Communion most devoutly. I felt that I was in the presence of an exceptionally good man. In the afternoon he died.