One day I told the Retreat Master that I had read a description of Parkminster in one of the late Monsignor Benson’s novels, “The Conventionalists.”
The monk smiled reminiscently. He recalled the day that Mr. Benson—he was an Anglican at the time of his visit—in company with another minister, had called. Mr. Benson had seemed very much interested. The other had made some strange remark. Monsignor Benson had never visited the Monastery as a priest, nor had he ever brought any one there to join the community. The monk assured me of this, and he had been Guest Master for many years. Yet when I had read “The Conventionalists” I had been almost convinced that the story related was a personal experience. It may have been to some other monastery that the young man had gone, although Monsignor Benson had said Parkminster.
Shortly before I left the monastery the Retreat Master came to have a last chat. “When you reach the front,” he said, “tell your men that we are praying for them day after day, night after night.”
I felt a strange feeling of security on hearing these words, but as I left the monastery gates and turned to say farewell to the old monk, I felt a distinct sinking of my heart. “Perhaps,” he said rapturously, “you’ll be a martyr!”
Chapter XXII
Orders For France
Not a week had passed after my retreat, when one morning a runner from divisional headquarters came into my hut, saluted and passed me a paper. I was ordered to France. This was good news, for I had now been in the Army over a year. The battalion had been recruited to full strength early in 1916, and I had hoped to be in France before the end of that year. It was now June, 1917.
The following morning I left Witley Camp for London, where I was to receive further orders and equip myself with bed-roll, trench boots, etc. At headquarters, in London, I learned that I was to go to No. 2 Canadian Infantry Base Depot, at Etaples. From there, after a while, I would be sent to the trenches.
Etaples is a quaint little fishing village on the Canche River, about two miles from its mouth. Before the war it had been a famous resort for artists; quite a colony had lived in the little town. Apart from its quaintness and the picturesque costumes of the townsfolk, its chief interest for artists lay in its beautiful sunsets. It was a glorious sight to look down the Canche, widening between the jack-pine-crested sand dunes, as it flowed nearer the sea, to the great golden sun sliding down towards the merry dancing blue waves of the Straits of Dover, slowly turning red and redder as it sank among the long pencils or banks of reddening clouds fringed with gold. When the sun would sink into the waves the water would be crimsoned for miles, and for a long time after the great red disc had disappeared the distant sails of the fishing boats made a very pretty picture as they moved silently over the waves.
Etaples, besides being quaint, was a very dirty little town. At any hour of the day one might see a good housewife come to the door and empty a tub of soapy water that had served its use into the cobbled-street, where it was mingled with other soapy waters that ran continuously along the gutters. Every morning piles of garbage appeared in the streets before the houses.
During the war almost every house bore a sign nailed to the door upon which was written or printed the word “Estaminet,” which signified that within one might purchase wine, beer, coffee and other refreshments. Sometimes accompanying the sign was a smaller one, bearing the English words, “Eggs and chips.”