CHAPTER VII
VISITING THE WOUNDED
It was late the next morning when we awoke, for there were no guns to disturb our slumbers. However, we were up in time for the last Mass. Having breakfasted, we set to work to carry our parcels upstairs, and to clean our shoes, which, owing to our peregrinations, were hardly recognisable, being simply clotted with mire and dirt. This finished, we made our first visit to the wounded soldiers in the ambulance. What a scene of suffering met our eyes! If it made us realise, more than ever, that we had left our beloved enclosure, still it gave us an insight into human misery which we should never have had, had we remained peacefully in our Abbey. The ensemble was not yet organised, only those downstairs having bedsteads—the poor soldiers upstairs lying on straw on the floor. The impression made was ineffaceable. We now saw what war really meant, and we left, after having distributed little cakes, biscuits and sweets, with a promise to come back as often as we could.
Mother Prioress was now called for, to see Edmund and the poor family who had not been received in the convent, as the Superioress had been threatened with a summons if she received any refugees. They had been directed to the police station, where, having presented themselves, they had been placed in an inn, and had passed the night in an attic on some straw. They were also starving, having had nothing to eat. They were quickly given some of our provisions, and Mother Prioress paid the mason for his hard work of the day before. Being now a little consoled, he said he would go off with his wife and children to a village close by, to see if he would not be more successful in getting a lodging there. Edmund remained, lamenting loudly over his misfortunes. The chaplain of the community passing by, and hearing his sad tale, had compassion on the poor man, and told him he might sleep at his house, while the nuns arranged to give him his meals. After some days, however, he found the priest’s house too far away from the convent, and so managed to get a bed in a baker’s establishment just opposite.
Every morning we had the happiness of assisting at two or four Masses; for besides the Director of the community, whose Mass Edmund served, some French priests who were attached to the ambulance also requested permission to celebrate the Holy Sacrifice. Reverend Mother arranged with the Superioress that we might go to the chapel when we liked to say our office, where—instead of stalls—turning the chairs to face each other, we improvised a choir, and recited the Benedictine hours with the usual ceremonies. We were, of course, obliged to advance the night office, saying vespers and compline at 2.30 and matins and lauds at 4.0, it being often necessary to bring the chairs close to the window to have light to finish, if, as it sometimes happened, we were unable to keep to the given hours.
On Sunday afternoon, eleven nuns from the Rue de Lille at Ypres came to beg a refuge. They were expelled French nuns of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, who had devoted themselves since the outbreak of the war in our parts to tending the wounded soldiers. It was they who had had such a narrow escape when the Germans came to Ypres, whilst they had their convent full of Belgians. They told us afterwards how good their wounded had been, and how the greater part, as soon as they were well enough, used to come to Benediction and sing with the nuns.
Now, however, they brought sad news from the town, which was being bombarded worse than ever. They had been obliged to fly for their lives; one Sister had been killed by a bomb, a servant badly wounded, and their Superioress had stopped behind with two nuns, compelling the others to leave. They had at first taken the wrong road, going straight to the scene of battle; but being sent back by the British soldiers, they had made their way, as best they could, to Poperinghe. They had lost six of their number, not knowing what had become of them; seventeen had left the convent, and now only eleven had arrived at Poperinghe.
The next day our servant-man came round to say that he had received an invitation to go back to Ypres the following day with another man, who was willing to run the risk of returning. Needless to say we were delighted to have such a good chance of getting news about our Monastery; and all prayed for his safety. We anxiously awaited the result of this venture, hoping that he would be able to get into the convent, and that, above all, no harm would happen to him. True enough, he came back in triumph, dragging another huge parcel of things he had managed to secure for himself. The dreadful account he gave of the Monastery filled us with despair, for, according to his description, half the building seemed to have been destroyed. Happily, the person who had accompanied him called the next day, and told us that Edmund had greatly exaggerated the mischief done; and he hoped that if the Germans could be repulsed, we should be able to return in four or five days.
Mother Prioress determined to ascertain the truth of the case for herself. She accordingly made enquiries as to whether it would be possible to go to Ypres in a motor-car. M. Vander Meersch, a solicitor who lived near the Abbey, came to our help, and an officer was found who was willing to take two nuns with him. We begged our dear Prioress not to expose herself to such evident danger; but, as usual, she would not listen, and it was decided that Dame Placid should accompany her. God, Who ever protects those who put their trust in Him, arranged otherwise, and the motor-car was prevented from leaving Poperinghe. We heard afterwards that at the very time that they should have arrived, a bomb had fallen on another motor, and killed five officers.
During the next days, news poured in from Ypres. At one time, we heard that the Germans had been repulsed, and their guns captured, and that Ypres would soon be quite safe again; shortly afterwards, it was announced that the enemy was mercilessly bombarding the town, some houses were falling, others burning. We were more than ever convinced that we could believe nothing that we heard and must necessarily see for ourselves. Besides, the guns which we had only heard feebly in the distance, on our arrival at Poperinghe, could certainly be heard far more distinctly now; were we going to be bombarded a second time? It really seemed probable, for German aeroplanes appeared in sight, apparently scrutinising the movements of the Allies, and had not that been the beginning of the hostilities at Ypres?
In the streets, the regiments passed and repassed—the poor, brave fellows marching off to the battle, and the others coming back from the trenches to have a well-merited repose. It was often touching to see how those who had not been ordered out would await the return of the troops, anxiously scanning the lines as they passed, and on perceiving a comrade, perhaps a ‘chum,’ coming back unhurt, they would run forward and give a hand-shake with a joyful greeting, as the horses trotted by. But alas! there were always a number of empty saddles, belonging to those who had been taken to the ambulance, or—worse still—left dead on the battle-field. The horses themselves seemed mournful, as they followed mechanically after the others, as though they felt it must be partially their fault that their dear masters were no longer there. Often, also, numbers of German prisoners would march past between two files of British or French soldiers on their way to the station.
Our poor wounded French soldiers were not forgotten. By this time things were arranged better; nearly all had beds now, some even sheets. And this was due to the unflagging devotion of three priests attached to the ambulance as infirmarians. They certainly preached to us a silent sermon of self-forgetfulness and heroic charity; and our greatest pleasure was to hear them relate all they had gone through since the War broke out. In the French army alone, 40,000 priests mixed with the common soldiers, the greater number being combatants. The brave wounded also gave us many a lesson, never finding fault with anything, never complaining of their dreadful wounds. And yet how horribly some of them were mutilated! A great number were obliged to have an arm or leg amputated—one had his lower jaw carried away—another, his whole face from below the eyes. Most of them were wounded in the head, which made them suffer dreadfully, some even being delirious. There were some who belonged to the highest aristocracy—Counts and Barons were there, lying on straw or hard stretchers; others again were quite young, only twenty or twenty-one. Yet all were patient, all courageous, all sure that in the end the Allies would win, and the Germans be defeated. The unfortunate victims who died of their wounds were carried out to a little hut or tent erected in the garden. As we passed by, we would lift up the curtain which hid them from view, and say a ‘De profundis’ for the repose of their souls. Sometimes as many as eleven or twelve lay there, awaiting the coffins which could not be made quickly enough. One poor Zouave, who had probably been dead some time before it was found out, lay there with his arms uplifted, as though he still held the gun, with which he would, even in death, lay low his enemy.
But we cannot do better than take from the notes of Dame Teresa, who was so devoted in visiting the ambulance:—
‘At Poperinghe we spent all our time making badges of the Sacred Heart for the wounded soldiers. Almost every day we went to visit them. This gave us the greatest joy. The first time we entered the large room No. 1, where they lay, some on beds, others on stretchers, we were struck with horror and pity. There they were, young men and middle-aged, from every department of France; some had been struck on the head, others on the chest, back, or shoulders, or else wounded in the legs. And yet not one complaint escaped their lips—only one poor fellow, who was delirious, called out as we passed by: “My head, my head! oh, if you only knew what it is to have such a headache.” Another soldier, just twenty-one, said to us in the patois of the South of France, “Franche! Franche! shall I ever see thee again!” We went from one room to another, speaking to each, and cheering them up. We gave them pears, and it used to be our greatest pleasure to peel them, cut them in small bits, and now and again we would put them in their mouths, when they were unable to move. They were as simple as children, and loved our visits. “Sister, you’ll come back to-morrow won’t you? It is so nice to see you, it cheers us up!” I remember one incident, which shows their simplicity. Dame Walburge and I had been going round, distributing small bits of pear, which they much relished as very comforting to their parched lips; but there came a time when we had exhausted our last pear, and still many soldiers had not had a bit. Of course next day we would serve them the first; but Dame Walburge whispered to tell me one poor fellow had been watching me so anxiously for some time. I turned towards him to say a little word of comfort, but he interrupted me, saying in a fretful, childish way: “Oh, Sister, and you have given me no pear, and I wanted one so badly!” In vain we searched our pockets, all the while promising he should be served the first next day. He repeated: “It’s to-night I wanted it.” We left the room sadly, wishing, for once in our religious lives, that we had a penny to buy him a pear. But Almighty God, Who is all-powerful, heard the prayer of His children; for hardly had I told this story to one of the nuns of La Sainte Union, than she gave me a pear, and though it was already dark, we ran back joyfully to our poor wounded soldier, who seemed dumb for joy, but his happy face rewarded us beyond words.
‘The unselfishness of the soldiers towards each other was marvellous; once, while peeling a pear for a soldier—one who was eating a piece of bread—he said to me: “Sister, I am sure my neighbour would also like a piece.” I turned to the other, who answered timidly: “Yes, I should like it; but see, Sister, I have a little bit of meat on my bread, and he has none, so give it to him!” Needless to say, I divided it between them.
‘Sometimes they would give us a little money out of their purses to buy biscuits, or cheese, or, as they said, “something to eat.” One Zouave asked us to buy him a pair of socks.
‘At this French Ambulance we also had the joy of making the acquaintance of three soldier-priests, who daily said Mass at the convent, thus giving us the happiness of sometimes hearing five Masses a day. I do not quite remember the names of the priests. I think one was called M. l’Abbé Tecq, another M. l’Abbé Couq of Dijon, and the third was M. l’Abbé Louis Charbonnel of Avignon. This latter was very fond of Benedictines, and gave us a special blessing before leaving, assuring us that we should immediately feel “at home” among our Sisters at Oulton.
‘These priests were more than devoted to the soldiers, administering the last sacraments, and bringing Holy Communion to them, no matter at what time of the day. The little badges of the Sacred Heart also did their work; all the soldiers asked to have them, and insisted on our pinning them ourselves on their clothes; the priests wore them, and distributed hundreds, so that we could scarcely keep pace with their fervour, except by working at them every free minute we had. Some of the infirmarians even asked to have a few to send away in their letters.
‘They wrought many conversions—the soldiers all wanted to have them.’
Again there was dreadful news from Ypres. The hospital was entirely destroyed. The British soldiers had gone with their motor-cars to take away the four nuns, who still risked their lives by staying to tend the poor victims, who were daily struck down in or about the town. Four other nuns had been killed in their cellar. A priest carrying the holy oils to a dying person had been struck down in the street. The Germans had even made new bombs, bigger and more destructive than those used before. What should we do? Would it not be wiser to accept Lady Abbess of Oulton’s kind invitation, and go straight on to England while there was yet time? But our Abbey! Why leave it, if we could possibly return?
We found ourselves surrounded at Poperinghe by every attention which charity could suggest; and although the community of La Sainte Union had often the greatest difficulty to provide for the increased number of fugitives, there being two other communities as well as ourselves, still we received everything that was possible in the circumstances. However, as the officer in charge of the ambulance demanded one thing after another for his soldiers, he came at last to claim the room which had been placed at our disposal. The Superioress was obliged to yield, and the ‘chef’ soon established the supplies of food in what had been our refectory. We were now forced to take possession of the nuns’ refectory, going to our meals before or after theirs. We thus found ourselves at table not only with the two other communities above mentioned, but also with the servants of one of our old pupils, who were also stopping in the convent to help at the ambulance. We managed as best we could, and still kept up our tradition of entering in procession, saying the ‘De profundis,’ and then reciting the Benedictine grace before and after meals. This was not all. There was a door at one end, which led into the room given up to the soldiers; consequently, at any moment, one would appear in the refectory to fetch a loaf of bread, or some meat, &c., and then repass again on his way out. Once, when a priest came, Mother Prioress gave him a pear, as also to the soldier who came after him; but soon the Superioress put up a large screen, which enabled them to enter without disturbing the community. They had a very hard life. Often we saw their shadows through the mat glass as they stood at the windows, eating their dinners in the rain and snow.
And now Our Lord was preparing a cross which we had not counted on, and which added to the grief that already weighed down our hearts. Our poor dear Dame Josephine, already fifty-two years professed, now left us. Feeble and infirm, the shock had been too much for her. The want of good nourishment had also told on her—she was soon obliged to keep her bed, having caught cold. The doctor, on seeing her, declared the case dangerous, and proposed that she should receive the last sacraments. This took place on Friday, November 13, Feast of all the Saints of the Benedictine Order. Alas! we little expected that another one would so soon increase their happy company. Saturday, our dear patient seemed to rally a little, and none of us believed the infirmarian, when, in the evening, she told us she was dying. However, Mother Prioress remained some time alone with Dame Josephine, helping her to renew her vows, and offer up holy aspirations. She herself did not think she was so bad; but, always ready to obey, she followed the prayers suggested by her whom she had known when she had been Sister Maura—a lively, fervent, eighteen-year-old postulant, and whom she had always cared for as a mother. Now that her dearly-loved little novice had grown into her Superioress, she submitted herself with child-like simplicity, asking her blessing morning and evening, thus edifying greatly the whole community. She therefore now made, when Dame Maura proposed it, her act of resignation, should God demand the sacrifice of her life.
Two of us offered to divide the night between us to watch by her bedside. After 1 A.M. she slept a little, though her breathing was difficult. At 2.30 she awoke, and seemed rather restless. Before going down in the morning, Mother Prioress paid Dame Josephine another visit; but we could no longer distinguish what she said. We replaced each other during the Masses; but about 7.30 everyone was called out of church, there being now no more doubt. The Superioress of the house knelt with Mother Prioress close by the bed, and several nuns of both communities joined their prayers to ours, during which our dearest jubilarian breathed forth her innocent soul. It was the Feast of the Dedication of the Churches. Our Lord had chosen the day Himself, for had she not passed her whole religious life in the service of the altar as sacristine? And by a curious coincidence, in which we may again detect the loving attention of the Divine Master, the burial, settled at first for Tuesday, was put off till Wednesday, Feast of the Dedication of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. Sad at any time, the loss of our dear Dame Josephine now appeared doubly so—in exile, and in the midst of so many other trials. She had truly ‘chosen the better part,’ and we felt a sort of relief to know that she had been spared the horrors which we should, in all probability, live to see. Every one showed us the kindest sympathy in our loss. Dame Aloysius and Dame Columban performed the last duties to the dear departed one, and laid her out in the same little parlour where she had come to welcome us, just nine days before, on the evening of our arrival. Every one came to pray by her corpse, all the nuns, the chaplain, even several of our old pupils, who, having taken refuge in Poperinghe, heard of our sad loss—and last of all, poor old Edmund who for a moment forgot his own troubles to grieve over dear Dame Josephine whom, like everyone else, he had esteemed and respected. Each, as they left the little room, where such a peaceful silence reigned, declared they had never before seen such a holy and happy death.
Thanks to the intervention of M. Vander Meersch, already mentioned, and who was a personal friend of the burgomaster of Poperinghe, Mother Prioress obtained permission to place the dead body, having previously secured it in a double coffin, in a private vault in the cemetery; so that if—which God grant—we are able to rebuild our Monastery at Ypres, we shall then lay dear Dame Josephine with her other religious Sisters.
We recited the Office of the Dead round the holy remains, in the convent chapel, and sang the Requiem Mass at the funeral. This latter should have really taken place in the parish church, but the Curé, kindly sympathising with our numerous trials, offered to perform it at the convent so that we should be thus enabled to keep our enclosure as much as possible. We sang the Mass (at which all attended) with great devotion, in spite of the severe colds we had all caught. At the moment of consecration, when, in deepest recollection, we adored ‘Our Lord and our God,’ Who thus deigned to come down from Heaven among His sorrowing children, the well-known hiss of a descending bomb made itself heard, and in the same moment a formidable explosion took place quite close to us. The Holy Sacrifice continued without interruption. It was only afterwards we heard that the Germans had aimed at the ambulance established, as has been said, in La Sainte Union. Missing us by a few yards only, the bomb had struck the house next door, doing, however, but little damage. Four girls of the Congregation of Our Blessed Lady carried the coffin to the cemetery, while the nuns of the house accompanied our community. The sad little procession wound its way along the muddy streets, amidst troops of civilians and soldiers. Nearly all saluted as it passed. The prayers being sung at the grave, the coffin was deposited in the vault, and we returned silently, stopping to recite ‘De profundis’ at the little portion of ground allotted to the dead nuns of La Sainte Union.