CHAPTER XI
THE RETURN JOURNEY TO POPERINGHE
‘The hand-cart being overloaded, we had to carry some of the things ourselves; and we must have looked a strange sight, carrying books and clothes, stuffed in white pillow-cases—even Mr. Walker had one, which he hoisted on his shoulder. We did not trouble about this, but silently made our way back, through the deserted streets. We left the town by a different way from that by which we had entered it, as a sinister boom from the station warned us of the presence of the enemy. Our road took us this time through the Grand’ Place. The whole back part of the hospital was destroyed; and although the walls of the façade were still standing, one could see, through the empty windows, that the interior was almost entirely demolished. The Cloth Hall, also, had not been spared, one corner being severely damaged, and the greater number of the statues maimed and mutilated. If it could have remained so, there might have been some consolation; but now everyone knows the ruthless barbarity which has prompted the Huns of the twentieth century to utterly destroy this wonderful monument of medieval architecture, of which Ypres had been so justly proud during hundreds of years. It appears that the belfry, the chimes of which were only surpassed by those of Bruges and Antwerp, was struck just twenty-four hours after we had passed it on our exit from the town. St. Martin’s, too, had also been struck. We would, nevertheless, have entered, but Mr. Walker was afraid to let us prolong our stay, as the shells were already flying over us. Our thoughts naturally turned to the much revered and esteemed M. le Doyen, who, victim of his heroic courage, had remained at his post to the last, tending the wounded, and even helping to extinguish the fires which the incendiary bombs caused in so many places; till at last, seeing the interior of his beloved church already in flames, he had fallen, struck down by a cerebral congestion, and had been carried to the Dean of Poperinghe in the ambulance car. (Since, we have heard that he is better, D. G., one of our old pupils having seen him in the church at Poperinghe.)
‘On emerging from the town, a little incident occurred.
‘We came up with a British cavalry regiment. They were coming from the trenches. They looked at us and shouted: “Who are you, Sisters, and where do you come from?” Dame Columban answered: “We are English nuns from the Benedictine Convent of the Rue St. Jacques.” This was too much for Dame Patrick, who called out: “We are no such thing. We are Irish Benedictines!” “Irish!” shouted half a dozen of them, “and so are we,” and they all began singing, “It’s a long way to Tipperary,” and, thus escorted, we took a long, last look at the dear old town. Needless to say, it was an Irish regiment—every man wore the harp and shamrock on his collar and cap.
‘We soon arrived at the house where we had taken refuge during the night, and were not sorry to have a good cup of coffee and some bread and butter and jam. Mr. Walker had told us of some of his experiences, among which was the burning of Madame la Baronne Coppens’ house, this lady being the mother of one of our former pupils. M. Vanderghote’s eldest son had been left in charge of their house, sleeping in the cellar at night. On one occasion when the bombardment was raging fiercely, Mr. Walker had offered to accompany him. They kept watch in turns. As Mr. Walker was sleeping, the son woke him suddenly crying out, “Quick! get up! the house is on fire!” Half-dazed, he had seized hold of his candlestick and followed the son to the door. All was in flames. They turned back, half-stifled with the smoke, but could find no exit. At last they managed to break the glass of the window, and jumping out, just escaped from the place as, with a loud crash, the roof fell in. Mr. Walker had his candlestick still in his hand, which he showed us among pieces of shrapnel and shells, all souvenirs of the war. They had also saved the dog, which was slightly burnt.
‘We now hurried the preparations for our departure, as time was passing quickly, and we had still a long walk before us. Our kind host accompanied us as far as the cross-roads where the French police mounted guard, for he was not allowed farther. By a strange coincidence we met once more the Belgian officer who had seen us the evening before. He was more than astonished at what we had done, and was very pleased that all had succeeded so well. We thanked Monsieur Vanderghote warmly for all that he had done for us, promising that, if it were possible, we should assuredly call on him on our return to Ypres. We then set off, two of us pushing the cart. We had taken but a few steps, when a French official stopped us once more, saying that no carts were allowed on the high-road, except those belonging to the army. We had therefore to take a country lane, which had the double inconvenience of being twice as long as the straight road and, indeed, of being also almost impassable. However, there was nothing to be done but to go forward as best we could; so off we went. Oh dear! One wanted Goliath’s strength to push the cart over the stones and ruts. After a few yards we came to a dead stop. The cart was stuck. We pushed and pushed with might and main—vain efforts. We could not move it. We were finally obliged to pull backwards, and thus managed to extricate it. Taught by experience, we took more care next time, looking where we were going to; so things went pretty well for about a hundred paces, when, glancing behind us, what was our dismay to see a number of French soldiers coming by the same road, some on horseback, others on foot, others driving carts. There was only the narrow lane in front of us, with no means of turning visible to the right or left. What was to be done? We hurried on as best we could, but what was the use?—in ten minutes they would surely overtake us. At last, turning round a corner, what was our relief to see an open gateway leading into a farmyard. We boldly pushed our precious load in, thus leaving room for the soldiers to pass. We then tried if it were possible to find some one to help us; because, judging from the difficulties we had met with so far, it was really questionable if we should arrive at Poperinghe before evening. After grumbling a bit, two men offered to come with us as far as Vlamertinghe. This was better than nothing; and, as we followed them, we fervently prayed that we should meet with some one else later on.
‘On we trudged, wondering what had happened in the convent since our departure. What if the Belgian Commandant had found a train, and everyone had been obliged to leave without us! No, surely that was not possible. We passed soldiers, men, women, children, wading through pools of mud and water, and lamenting our long detour, which had made us waste so much precious time. Vlamertinghe at last—still five long miles to Poperinghe—should we ever get there? On arriving at the village, our two good fellows set about finding some one else to push our cart, and finally succeeded. Having paid them, we set off once more on our journey, when behold! a barrier was placed across the road, and we had to come to a standstill. They told us a train was coming. We looked and looked, but saw no sign of it in either direction. Meanwhile a crowd of people assembled, who, accustomed to such proceedings, pushed past, right up to the railing, to be the first to pass, and we were left at the back. We waited and waited, still no train. What a waste of time! Then came the sound of horses’ hoofs, and up trotted a whole regiment of soldiers, who, of course, rode to the front, pushing the crowd back, and us along with them. Still no train! We now happened to look across to the other side of the barrier, and discovered another regiment, waiting on the opposite side, with again a crowd of people behind them. Should we ever get through? Still no train! Decidedly, the good man’s watch must have been considerably in advance, or else he possessed the virtue of prudence in its highest perfection. At length a feeble whistle told us that the long-expected locomotive was coming. But it must have been a train of wounded soldiers; for first it moved forward at a snail’s pace, and secondly it seemed, to our worn-out patience, to be at least one mile in length. However, it passed at last; and, the barriers being withdrawn, the two regiments crossed four abreast, then the crowds pushed through, and last but not least came the representatives of the Irish Benedictine Abbey, with their stylish-looking hand-cart. Once more, on we pushed; but the five miles must have been German ones, which, like their dreadful soldiers, never come to an end.
‘Our guide kept bravely on, from time to time stopping to wipe the perspiration off his face; for, although it was freezing, the poor fellow had no light work to try to advance through the mud and dirt. At last, passing by some houses, he left the cart in the middle of the road, and vanished. The reason soon became evident, for a moment afterwards he came out with a glass of foaming beer, wherewith to refresh himself. Once again, on we went. Would the road ever come to an end? Would we ever arrive at our destination? We scanned the horizon to find some vestige of our approaching goal, but could discover nothing but an endless succession of trees, hop-gardens, fields. Finally, however, some houses came in sight, so plucking up our courage, we pushed forward, and soon reached the convent door. At last we should get a rest. Alas, how we were deceiving ourselves! Once inside, we were soon surrounded by our Sisters, one more anxious than the other to know what had happened, and to tell us what had been decided during our absence. Parcels of every shape and dimension next met our eyes. Arrived at the room which we generally occupied, what was our astonishment to find dear Lady Abbess downstairs, surrounded by the nuns of both communities. On catching sight of us, she was more than delighted. We knelt for her blessing, and to tell her some of our adventures, and then learnt the reason of all this excitement.’
Mother Prioress will now tell what happened during the absence of Dame Columban, Dame Patrick, and Dame Placid.
‘As soon as the three nuns had set out for Ypres, we went to the chapel to recommend them to the protection of God, and by a fervent “Sub tuum” we commended them to the care of the Blessed Virgin. They had promised me to be back if possible that night, or at least the next morning, if they could remain in the convent cellars without too much danger. At 3 P.M. I was called to see Captain Liddell, who told me that the British Headquarters would place two ambulance cars at our disposal to conduct Lady Abbess and the community to St. Omer. The cars would be ready between ten and eleven next morning. He also said that, once at St. Omer, I had only to address myself to the mayor, or to the general staff. I thanked him profusely, and told him of my anxiety for the three nuns who had gone to Ypres. “It was a very imprudent thing to attempt,” he answered. “I trust they will not be allowed to enter the town, for it is being fiercely shelled.” I was very alarmed, as were the rest of the community, to whom I related what the captain had said. In the evening, we were assembled with the nuns from Oostmieunkerke in the big parlour, which the Superioress had kindly allotted for our use. The gas being cut off, we had only one pétrole lamp between us. We spent our time working and praying.
‘From time to time, on hearing a ring at the bell, we would ask if the nuns had yet come back; one of the younger nuns would go and enquire, but always returned disappointed. We looked at each other anxiously. What would become of them this night? We could only recommend them to God. Suddenly I had an inspiration. “Let us put them under the protection of St. Raphael,” I said, “and promise him a Mass to-morrow—there are several priests at the ambulance, one of them will surely be free to say it.” Everyone was pleased with the idea, and Dame Teresa went to make enquiries. She soon came back in triumph, saying that the priest from Avignon was outside. We told him our distress, and respectfully begged him to be so kind as to say the Mass in honour of St. Raphael for the safe return of our three absent ones. He willingly agreed. At the same moment the appearance of the portress brought the cry to our lips: “They are there!” “No! it is the Commandant Delporte, of the Belgian police, who wishes to speak to Mother Prioress.” I went to the parlour, fear and hope alternately taking possession of my heart. He came to ask if Captain Liddell had called, and if the decision of the Headquarters suited us. I told him of the arrangement and added, “Once at St. Omer, what shall I do with our honoured Lady Abbess? May she remain in the motor, which they say must return to Poperinghe that evening, while I go to the mayor and general staff?” He reflected a moment, and then, taking one of his cards, he wrote a few words recommending us to Major Kirke. “Take this,” he said, rising, “and give it to the major, who is a great friend of mine, and rest assured that all will be well.” I could not thank him enough, and conducted him to the door. There I found myself in presence of two men, who asked to see me. They brought me a message from our nuns, telling me not to be anxious; they would not return that night, but the next day, as soon as possible. I felt a little relieved, but again the question presented itself, at what hour would they arrive? Would they be in time? The next morning we arranged our modest parcels, which—thanks to the dexterity of Dame Aloysius—were soon ready, thinking all the time of our missing Sisters. For my part, I went to prepare Lady Abbess for our departure, for the hour was fast approaching. We must come to a decision—the three must remain at La Sainte Union until the opportunity of joining us in England should present itself. We had now to get Lady Abbess down the stairs which were narrow and steep, and it was with the greatest difficulty that we succeeded. We made her as comfortable as we could in an arm-chair in the big parlour, where the nuns of the three communities gathered round her, for everyone was filled with an affectionate respect for her, mingled with compassion for her age and infirmity. We tried to hide our perplexity and anxiety from her. It was now time to start, and the three were not yet back. At this moment the portress entered the room smiling—what was it? Captain Liddell had just called to say the motors would not be round till 1.30. “Deo gratias!” To complete our happiness, the absent ones soon arrived, covered with dust and mud, but producing in triumph the great-habits and breviaries they had been able to save.’