Of all the lads of different nationalities who visited the little chapel in the evening and who came so often to Holy Communion in the early morning, I think I liked the best the New Zealanders. They were nearly all tall, lithe men, dark-haired, with long, narrow faces, and eyes that had a strange intensity of expression: perhaps one might call them piercing. They were quiet-voiced men and spoke with rather an English accent. They were the gentlest, finest men it was my good fortune to meet in the army. They were excellent Catholics, many of them daily communicants. The Maoris, the aborigines of New Zealand, were treated by the white men with the same courtesy that they showed one to another. The Maoris were the most intelligent looking men of the yellow race I had ever met. In fact, it was only by their color—which was almost chocolate—that one could distinguish them from the New Zealanders themselves. Those of the Maoris who were Catholics were excellent ones.
I recall one incident which impressed me very much with New Zealand courtesy. I had come to a segregation camp, just outside the little village of Etaples, to arrange for the Sunday church parade of the soldiers on the following day. The soldiers who were quartered in the segregation camp were men who had come in contact with those suffering from contagious diseases. They usually stayed in this camp about three weeks. If after this period no symptoms of any contagious disease appeared they returned to their different units. The day I speak of, three officers were sitting in the mess when I went to announce the services, two Englishmen and one New Zealander. I told the officer in charge that I should like to have the Catholic men paraded for Mass the following day, suggesting to him to name the hour most suitable. He, an Englishman, said eleven o’clock. I was about to say, “Very well,” when the New Zealand officer interposed gently but firmly. “You will have to make the hour earlier than that, Captain,” he said. “You know the Father will be fasting till after his Mass.”
The English officer looked at me quickly. “Why, Padre,” he said, “it did not occur to me that you would be fasting. Certainly, we’ll have it earlier. How about nine o’clock?” Nine would suit perfectly, I assured him. As I was to say an early Mass for the nurses at 7:30, I would just have time to move my altar to the dunes, where I was to celebrate Mass, before the soldiers would arrive.
The Mass was finished very early that Sunday, and there was no long fast. I was very grateful to the New Zealander for his thoughtfulness. As I have said before, they were the gentlest, finest men I had ever met.
Chapter XXV
The Workers
There was one thing about the natives of Etaples that impressed me particularly, and that was the respect each artisan seemed to have for his work. In the little village were candle-makers, bakers, boot-makers, makers of brushes, etc., and all these workmen seemed to be interested in their work and to have a great respect for it. They worked slowly, patiently, and always thoroughly. I noticed the same spirit in the fields. Just beyond the hill and the giant windmill that overlooked the village, unfenced green fields sloped downward to green valleys, then up over the hills again. Through this open countryside wound the white roads of France; and always the great main roads were arched by ancient elms. Unlike England, not even a hedge divided the property of owners. Here every day crowds of farm laborers, mostly women and girls, came early to work. One noticed a total absence of all modern farm implements. The women still used the old-fashioned reaping hook that was used long before the coming of Christ. What they cut they bound carefully into tiny sheaves. The women, for the most part, were dressed as the woman in Millet’s picture, “The Angelus,” from hood to wooden shoes. Here, again, the work was done patiently, quietly, and thoroughly. The modern idea of saving labor seemed never to have come to them. Sometimes when not very busy I would take a walk through the long white roads, leading into a white-housed red-roofed village, the Norman tower of the little church piercing the tree-tops; then out again through more green unfenced fields to another little village two, or three, or sometimes four miles away.
Often while on these walks, I used to think of the rugged strength of these sturdy French peasants who went so steadily and quietly about their work. They were strongly built people, well developed, and their faces were deep red—I suppose from so much work out of doors.
Chapter XXVI
Orders Again
I had come down to my tent one evening a little later than usual to find a D. R. L. S. letter from the Chaplain Service awaiting me. D. R. L. S. meant “Dispatch Riders’ Letter Service.” I opened it quickly, as a letter from headquarters, brought by a dispatch rider, might contain very important orders. This was an order to report for duty at No. 7 Canadian General Hospital the following day.
I looked at my watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. It was very dark outside and the rain was beating on my tent. No. 7 was at least two miles distant, but I must see the chaplain before he would leave. I put on my trench coat and stepped out into the rain.