I did not walk back to the Arras front. I went in a lorry. As we drew near our destination I was surprised to see so much traffic—but it was all coming towards us. At every cross-road we were stopped by the traffic police, just as one might be stopped in a large city. It was the first time I had ever witnessed a retreat. Great stores were in Arras belonging to the military and the British Expeditionary Force canteens. Most of these stores were being removed, and the city of Arras, as well as the country villages near it, was being evacuated.
Up to this time I had seen the effect of war on combatants only. Now I was continually passing scenes that made me turn sick at heart; for all along our way came little groups of French peasants—mostly old and young women, and children, though now and again an old man was passed. Sometimes a yoke of oxen, hitched to a large farm wagon, were guided to the right of the road by a woman or young boy. And sometimes an old woman led a cow or calf, while an old man pushed a large wheel-barrow full of bedding. Once, while we stopped at a cross-road, I tried to study the faces of those who passed. On no face did I see the marks of any great strain or fear. All were attired in their Sunday garments. None of the children cried or seemed hysterical. All had a good color, and their large eyes looked solemnly about at the strange scenes surrounding them; but not one of them hopped or jumped or smiled at us. The expression in their faces was one that I noticed in those of the older people. I can only describe it as one of stolidity. Here were these people leaving homes where perhaps whole generations of them had lived, going they knew not where, leaving behind them many things of value; but they must sleep on the way and the nights were cold, therefore they had all brought bedding along with them. For the first time since I had enlisted I recalled a short and succinct definition of war given by General Sherman. “General Sherman was right,” I said grimly.
Presently we came into a little village, at the entrance of which was a large Calvary on the roadside, the great white figure drooping from the cross in agony. Tomorrow would be His day. Perhaps it was the continual passing of these wayside Calvarys that gave patience to the peasantry. I was glad when the driver told me that this was our destination.
The lorry stopped before a large camp of Nissen huts. A gentle mist had been falling for the last hour or two, but now it was developing into quite a drizzle. I walked across the muddy square, then down a little lane through rows of huts till I found my billet. In one part of the hut the rain was leaking through the roof, but I did not mind this. There were no berths, but we had our bed-rolls and all that was necessary was to roll them out on the floor. I had been sleeping on floors now, from time to time, for over a year and I cannot say that it ever inconvenienced me very much. Just as I was leaving the hut to go to the church to make a visit—for it was Holy Thursday—two Scotch Highlanders accosted me. They wished to know to which battalion I belonged. When I told them, they became very friendly and told me that they had just come from the Front. Fritz had pushed them back a little that morning, but they had been holding him since dinner-time. This was good news, and I hoped that Fritz would continue to be held.
I had been praying before the lighted repository in the village church for a few minutes when I heard footsteps coming, then I felt a hand touch me on the shoulder, then a military chaplain walked by me into the sacristy. I followed him. When he turned, I recognized him immediately. It was Father Christopher Sheehan, an Irish chaplain whom I had met at St. Michael’s Club, London, just about a year before. He had come to London to receive the Military Cross from King George of England.
“Don’t you know me, Father?” he asked. I smiled and told him his name and when and where I had met him; also what I was doing there and when I had come. When I had finished his brown eyes lighted up pleasantly, as with the enthusiasm of a boy he began to tell me that I was “in luck.” For he was billeted at a convent school and had charge of all the livestock on the premises. Then Father Sheehan went on to prove that I was “in luck;” and as he enumerated all the articles he had at his disposal, I quite agreed with him. The Sisters had left him bottles and bottles of preserved pears, peaches, and strawberries, many different kinds of vegetables and a large number of hares, etc. His eyes sparkled with delight at the thought of being able to share his good things with some one. He looked at his wrist-watch; it was nearly six o’clock. “Dinner-time,” he said, “Father, come!”
I followed him up the road, thanking God that I had fallen in with this warm-hearted Irish priest. On the way he told me that the lad with him was an excellent cook. I think the way the good things disappeared that evening was sufficient evidence of my appreciation of his culinary art. Yes, gentle reader, it was Lent—but, then, you know it was war time!
Just as we had finished George came in; but he was scarcely in till he found himself seated at the table that Father Sheehan and I had just vacated, and presently the cook and George had set to work. They went at it earnestly, carefully, and methodically, giving it all attention. The cook had prepared an enormous quantity of potatoes; an ordinary vegetable dish would have been too small to hold them all, so they were piled high in a large white milk basin. Father Sheehan and I had decreased the pile considerably, but now under the skillful treatment of George and the cook the remainder disappeared with extraordinary rapidity. It was good to watch the lads; they worked with such dispatch and so whole-heartedly. It was a wonderful example of the adage, “What you have to do, do it well,” and I felt loath to leave when Father Sheehan asked me to come with him to one of the class-rooms.