I found the Belgian priests very hospitable and very much interested in conditions in America. They were filled with gratitude to the people of the United States.
In many shop windows we saw a picture representing the ocean, and Columbia passing bread across the waters to an emaciated woman sitting on the shore with two starving children near her. In the upper part of the picture were insets of President Wilson and Brand Whitlock, and underneath was written: “Grateful Belgium.”
I was in a little town not far from Brussels the day the king came back. Most of the broken railways had not yet been repaired, and as the Germans had taken the horses away from the people, many walked from ten to twenty miles to see the king come back to his kingdom.
We marched by Waterloo and through an old monastery called Villers L’Abbey, built by St. Bernard. In one place where we halted over night was a tiny three-nave church of grey granite, which had been built in the ninth century. Napoleon had stopped here once in passing and had given a crown of gold for one of the statues. It was the finest three-nave church in the world. It was pure Roman architecture.
Gradually we were drawing nearer the German border.
Chapter XCIX
Through the Rhineland
Shortly before we reached the frontier one of the officers came into the mess and said to me: “It may be a little exciting crossing the line, Padre. I hear there are some revolutionists who are going to snipe at us.”
I did not care for this kind of excitement. I felt I had seen all I wanted of shooting for the rest of my life. There was no need to worry, however, for our march into Germany was a very peaceful one. But nobody cheered us; no flags waved; everything was silent in the land as our khaki swung through the winding road. We passed through a very hilly country, and we soon had evidence that it was a Catholic country, for all along our march were little wayside shrines.
Our first billet was a low, white farmhouse, very comfortably furnished. On the wall of our mess was an oleograph of the Holy Family; a similar copy had hung in my bed-room when I was a boy. Presently an old lady came in, looked at me and said something. I replied in French, but she shook her head. I pointed to the oleograph and said, “Katholisch?”
The old lady looked at me, beaming. I pointed to myself and said, “Katholisch,” and then added, “Prester,” as I thought this was the German word for priest. During my stay in that house I was treated as the Catholic priest is always treated by the humble.