BREST
November 13th, 1917
We moved out of Camp Mills on the night of October 29th and took trains at the nearby station—off at last for foreign service. Parts of Companies L and M were left to guard the camp. We found at Hoboken that we were to sail on a fine ship—the converted German liner Amerika which had been re-christened with the change of the penultimate letter. Our trip was uneventful. The seas were calm, and sailing on the America was like taking a trip on the end of a dock—you had to look over the side to realize that she was in motion. No submarines, though we were on constant watch for them. “What are you doing here?” asked one of the ship’s officers of big Jim Hillery, who stood watch. “Looking for something Oi don’t want to foind,” answered Jim with a grin.
We did not know where our journey was to end but finally on November 12th we made port in the beautiful harbor of Brest, where we have been idling all week because we have been the first convoy to put in here, and no preparations have been made to land us and our equipment, and afford transportation to our destination.
November 15th, 1917
This morning I told Colonel Hine that I wanted a day in town to get some necessaries for my church work, and permission was readily granted. I inquired the way to the nearest church, timing my visit to get in around the dinner hour, so as to get an invitation for a meal. As I rang the bell of the rectory, the door opened and a poor woman with two children came out carrying a basket into which the housekeeper had put food. I said to myself: Where charity exists, hospitality ought to flourish. I waited in the customary bare ecclesiastical parlor for the Curé, and at last he came, a stout middle-aged man, walking with a limp. I presented myself, very tall and quite imposing in my long army overcoat, and told him I came in search of altar breads. He immediately proposed to take me to a convent some distance away where my wishes might be satisfied. As I followed him along the cobbled streets I said to myself, “I had thought these Bretons were a kind of Irish, but they lack the noblest of the traditions of the Celtic race, or this old gentleman would have asked me to dinner.” It was only later that I found that my tremendous presence had embarrassed him and he had therefore decided to bring me to somebody whom nothing would embarrass. One need not say that this was a woman—the Mother Superior of an institution which was school, orphanage and pension in one.
She was of a type not unusual in heads of religious communities—cultivated, balanced, perfectly serene. After supplying my needs she asked gently, “Monsieur has dined?” “No, Monsieur has not dined.” “Perhaps Monsieur would accept the humble hospitality of the convent.” “Monsieur is a soldier, and soldiers have but one obligation—never to refuse a meal when they can get it.” She smiled and brought me to the dining room, where I met the old chaplain and two equally elderly professors from some college, who pumped me about America and myself and Wilson and myself and Roosevelt and myself until the meal was over. Then I sallied forth with my stout Curé who evidently had absorbed, as he sat silent through the meal, all the information I had been giving out, particularly about myself. For he brought me into forty stores and stopped on the street at least a hundred people (and he knew everybody in town) to introduce proudly his prize specimen of an American priest in uniform. The introduction invariably took this form:
“Monsieur is an American.” “He is an officer.” “Monsieur, though one would not know it, is a priest. He has a large parish in the City of New York. He has been a Professor in the Seminary—of Philosophy, mind you. Monsieur has a parish with three vicaires. He receives from the noble government of the United States a stipend of ten thousand francs a year. That is what this great country gives their Chaplains. He is a Chaplain. He has crosses on his collar. Also on his shoulders. If I were taller I could see them. I saw them when he was sitting down.”
And at the end, and always with a little break in his voice as he fumbled with the button of my tunic, “M. L’Aumonier wears the tricolor of our country with the badge of the Sacred Heart, which was pinned there by the great Cardinal of New York.” And this was the man that I thought at first to be cold and unfriendly.
I had to break away finally to get back to my ship as evening was beginning to gather. I started for the dock, interested all the way to observe the Celtic types of the passers-by and giving them names drawn from my Irish acquaintance, as Tim Murphy or Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. Feeling that I was not making for the dock from which I left, I turned to a knot of boys, introducing myself as a priest and telling them that I wanted to get back to the American transports. They jumped to help me as eagerly as my own altar boys at home would do. One alert black-eyed lad of fourteen took command of the party, the rest of them trailing along and endeavoring to give advice and support. But from the beginning this one youngster was in undoubted command of the situation. I tried once or twice to ask where he was bringing me, but received only a brief “Suivez-moi, Monsieur.” Our journey ended in an alley where the calls of my guide brought out two fishermen who needed only red night-caps and knives in their teeth to bring up associations of Stevenson’s pirate-mutineers. But they were ready to ferry me over to my ship for a compensation, a compensation which became quite moderate when my Mentor explained their obligation as Catholics and as Frenchmen to a priest and an ally.
I was about to embark in their fishing smack when a French marine came along the dock and said that under no circumstances could a boat cross the harbor after sunset. My fishermen argued; I argued; even my irresistible young guide stated the case; but to no avail. Finally I said to the youngster, “Why waste my time with this creature of a marine. Lead me to the person the most important in Brest, the Mayor, the Governor, the Master of the Port, the Commander of the Fleet. From such a one I shall receive permission.” The youth gave me a quick look and I think he would have winked if my face were not so sternly set with the importance I had assumed. He led me off to the office of the Harbormaster. It was closed. I could find no person except the janitor who was sweeping the front steps. I was so put out at the prospect of not getting back from my leave on time that I had to talk to some person, so I told the janitor my worries. He insinuated that something might be arranged. I had traveled in Europe before and had learned how things get themselves arranged. So I produced from my pocket a nice shiny two-franc piece; and in a moment I discovered that I had purchased for thirty-five cents in real money the freedom of the Port of Brest. My janitor descended upon the faithful marine with brandished broom and bellowed objurgations that such a creature should block the way of this eminent American Officer who wished to return to his ship.
I stood in the prow of the smack as we made our way across the dark and rainy harbor and I felt for the first time the touch of romance as one gets it in books. I thought back over the day, and I had the feeling that my adventures had begun, and had begun with a blessing.