CHAPTER LXXXII
A STRANGE INTERRUPTION
Every morning I said Mass in the part of the trench where I slept, which was covered overhead with a piece of camouflaged burlap, spread across pieces of scantling. The trench was so low that I was obliged to dig a hole in the ground, so that I could stand upright at my little portable altar. One morning while I was saying Mass, a little fox-terrier, belonging to George and the transport cook, began walking on the burlap above my head. As the burlap was taut, the small paws made a kind of drumming sound above me. Both George and the cook, although they were non-Catholics, wished to show every respect to the chaplain; knowing I was saying Mass, they began to call off the dog. The little fellow, however, was stubborn and wished to remain on the burlap. I think that the cook and George then got sticks and tried to poke him off, for I could hear him dancing up and down as the points of the sticks tapped the burlap roof. It was a long time before he was captured, and it was at the cost of so much extra noise that I think it would have been better had they left him to follow his own inclinations—but the lads’ intentions were good.
New drafts now began coming to the battalions to reinforce the ranks, broken in the Battle of Amiens. One afternoon the adjutant told me that a draft of seventy men had come and that they were going into the front line that night. The senior chaplain of the division, Canon Scott, an Anglican clergyman, was going to address them first, after which, he said, if I wished I might say a few words to them.
I went to the orderly room, where I learned that thirteen out of the seventy soldiers were Catholics. I waited a long time that evening for the Canon to finish. When, at last, he had ceased speaking and had invited those who wished to attend the communion service to step over to the side of the lines, I spoke to the men. My talk did not take very long. I first asked the Catholics to fall out. Immediately, from different sections in the ranks, thirteen men stepped out before me. I told them that as they were going into the front line and did not know what might be before them, perhaps they would wish to go to Holy Communion. I told all who wished to do so, to follow me down into the trench where I would hear their confessions and give them Holy Communion. I turned and proceeded towards the trench. Thirteen men followed me.
That night, after I had wrapped myself in the blankets of my bed-roll, a lieutenant, a middle-aged man who was sharing part of the trench with me, came down to retire for the evening. As he lay smoking a last pipe before drawing the curtains of sleep, I was surprised to hear him give utterance to this monologue: “Self-esteem! Self-esteem! Too much self-esteem. That’s what’s the matter!”
I wondered to whom he referred, and after waiting a few seconds to see if he had any more to say, I asked him if he were speaking to me. “No, no, Padre,” he exclaimed. “I’m thinking of those fellows this evening. Did you see them when Canon Scott invited them out to the communion? Only about half a dozen went, out of all the crowd. Self-esteem, self-esteem—that’s it!”
“Well,” I replied, “I didn’t notice. I asked my men—I had only thirteen in the draft—if they wished to go to the sacraments of their church, and immediately the thirteen followed me down to the trench.”
He looked at me keenly and there was not the slightest rancor in his voice as he spoke again: “That’s it, Padre! That’s it! Of course your men would go! That’s to be expected.” A kind of musing note came into his voice, as he continued: “What is the secret? What is the secret? They don’t fear you. Indeed, they love you.”
I told him as clearly as I could the secret, and as he continued smoking quietly, I felt how truly he had spoken of our Catholic lads. How they loved the priest, how on battlefield or muddy trench their eyes lighted with love as the priest drew near. No wonder thirteen men followed me down to the trench: they knew what I could do for them. They knew in a few minutes they would be friends with Christ; that He would visit them, abide in their souls. They were so absorbed in the sublimity of what was to take place that no thought of what others might say flashed across their minds. There was no human respect there.