Our destination was Bruay, a mining town of about twelve thousand souls in the department of Calais, or, as the French write it, “Pas de Calais.” We marched into the town at about two o’clock and fell out at the square.
My billet was in a miner’s house. It was a very nice room with a stove in it, and as there was a coal mine just across the road, I did not want for fuel. The transport mess, which was composed of the transport officer, quartermaster, paymaster and chaplain, was billeted in a large house not very far away. We had a dining-room all to ourselves, but our cook operated on the same stove as did old Madame, who was the head of the house.
We were obliged to pass through the kitchen on our way to the dining-room, and I found it a very pleasant passageway, especially in the evening, for then it was crowded with happy faces. Old Madame and our cook both moved about the glowing stove where numerous pots and saucepans, boilers and frying pans, hissed and bubbled and sizzled, chatting away as they worked; for our cook was a French Canadian. Four or five soldiers sat about in the dim lamplight and numerous children played up and down. Two young French boys, one about sixteen, the other fourteen, snow-white from head to foot, were often there; for old Madame had quite a large bakery on the premises, and these two lads, together with an old man whom we seldom saw, did the baking. Now and again we saw two women, the mothers of the children, who attended the bake-shop, which was in the front of the house.
I asked George one day how the cook liked his stove. I learned that he liked it very much, but that he had his own little troubles, sometimes. When he would have some deep red coals just ready for making toast, old Madame would inadvertently throw a shovelful of fuel on the fire; or, sometimes, when the water in the kettle had just come to the boiling point and the cook was just about to make some tea, Madame would judge that the kettle needed replenishing and would immediately pour in about a pint of cold water; or, sometimes, a saucepan or some dish that needed quick cooking was moved by Madame from the front to the rear of the stove. “He finds it a little exasperating at times,” said George, “but he’s delighted with the billet.”
We passed a very pleasant time in rest billets. Every morning we were awakened by the pipe band playing up and down the streets of Bruay. The tune they played was that of an old Scotch song, “Hi Jonny Coup are ye sleepin’ yet.” I said Mass in the ancient church of the town, and while I did so the old curé taught catechism to a large number of children. While I made my thanksgiving a soldier-priest from one of the ambulances said his Mass. He wore a mustache, but no beard, as did many of the French soldier-priests. It seemed strange to see a priest, robed in the vestments of Mass, wearing a black mustache.
There was an Irish chaplain at No. 22 hospital, and I arranged with him to say Mass for the Thirteenth and Sixteenth at Bruay the following Sunday, while I went to Houdain to say Mass for the Fourteenth and Fifteenth and some details which were quartered there. The church at Houdain was a beautiful old stone structure built on the crest of a very high hill that overlooked the town. A long road zigzagged up the hill, breaking the steep ascent. The first time I went to the church the old curé, a large red-cheeked man, pointed out the different villages far over the countryside. In one, the village of Arnette, he told me St. Benedict Joseph Labre had been born, and in another—I think it was Cauchy—General Petain, of the French army. I was interested to learn that I was so near the birthplace of St. Benedict Joseph Labre, since my parents had given to me the same names, Benedict Joseph.
I had a large crowd at Mass, and for the first time I had the pleasure of seeing the Fourteenth Battalion on church parade. They were a fine crowd of lads; many came to confession that day. Every evening from five till six I was on duty either at Bruay or Houdain, so that any one who wished to come to confession might have the opportunity.
I remember one evening at Bruay, while awaiting the arrival of a soldier whom I was going to baptize and make a child of God, seeing a little girl with a shawl thrown over her head praying before a statue; near her, on the floor, was a bag made of some netted material with quite a large mesh. In the bag were two large rolls of French bread, and of course through the mesh the bread touched the floor; but the child paid no attention to this. She was rapt in prayer. I could not help looking at her from time to time, she reminded me so much of the pictures of little Bernadette that were so common in France—except for the two rolls of bread lying nearby in the dust. The little one prayed for nearly an hour, and I don’t think she turned her head once—not even to look at the bread!