In one place a young woman, learning that I was a priest, came to me with her brother, who spoke excellent English; he had been a waiter in the Savoy Hotel, in London, previous to the war. The husband of the young woman had been killed in the war, and passing me her offering, she asked if I would say Mass for the repose of his soul the following morning in the village church. This I did, and while I said Mass the village choir sang two hymns. It was a low Mass I said, and in the color of the day. I asked the young man the name of the hymns and he told me. I cannot recall the name of the first one: but I think the second was entitled “O Komm O Komm Emanuel.” It must have been an Advent hymn, for I heard it almost every morning as I said Mass in those little churches of the Rhineland.
I have never seen such excellent Catholics: every morning the village church would be crowded as if it were Sunday. Sometimes I gave communion to German people who came reverently to the rails.
The time passed quickly and at last on December 12th, we arrived in the city of Cologne. The following morning we marched across the Rhine, while the band played the “Regimental March” and “The British Grenadier;” the men with fixed bayonets marched rigidly to attention. Some officers near me sang softly the words: “When we wind up the watch on the Rhine.”
We marched about twelve miles beyond the Rhine to a little place called Altenbruick. Here we halted. And it was here that I said good-bye to the battalion on Christmas Day.
We had Midnight Mass in the German church on the hill overlooking the village. Father Madden, who had returned to his battalion after being discharged from hospital, came to help me with confessions. My lads were scattered over different parishes, but I had arranged for church parades for all who could come. I heard confessions from seven p. m. till midnight, and as the clock struck the midnight hour one of my lads from the Fourteenth began to sing that beautiful Christmas hymn which was being sung that night in French churches all over Canada, “Minuit, Chretiens” (Holy Night). Every Christmas, just at midnight, I had heard it sung in the basilica of old Quebec, where I had made my studies for the priesthood. And as the clear, strong voice sang those beautiful notes of Gounod’s famous composition, memories of peace swept over my soul. I had seen horrible things; but now they were past and this was the night of the Christ Child, when the angels sang “peace on earth to men of good will.”
I was fully vested, and was about to proceed to the altar for the last time before these lads, when the German parish priest came in to the sacristy. He spoke quickly in French, telling me that at the communion I need not descend to the rails; that he would give communion to my men.
For an instant I seemed dazed. I had brought the Bread of Life so often to many of those soldiers and officers who now waited for me to draw near to the altar of God. Very likely I should never have the opportunity of again ministering to them. But, then, I thought, this German priest wishes to give communion to my lads. Centuries before, the angels had sung: “Peace to men of good will.” I must show good will. Yet how hard it was! Then, mastering a great reluctance, I said quietly: “Very well, Father, you will give communion to my men.”
So this is the last memory I hold of those wonderful soldier lads—the Midnight Mass at Altenbruick. The sound of the voice of the German priest, “Corpus Domini Nostri Jesu Christi,” etc., as he dispensed the mysteries of God to my soldier lads! And, above all else, the presence in our midst of Jesus of Nazareth, the Saviour of the world—The Prince of Peace!
Chapter C
L’Envoi
It is all over now, yet often I think of those wonderful days; of long night marches; of long days of weary waiting; of quiet resting-places, with their rows and rows of “little green tents” and small white crosses, landmarks of our warfare in France and Flanders. Sometimes I think of all those lads who answered so quickly the final roll-call; and my thoughts go back to those nights in France where such great numbers knelt to ask pardon of God, and to become fortified with the Bread of the Strong. Many of those lads I ushered up to the gates of heaven, which swung open to them so soon after they had left me. Now “they are numbered amongst the children of God and their lot is with the saints.”