One afternoon, just when I entered, my eyes fell on a bright face looking up over the blankets. I knew he was a Catholic, an Irishman, from the Munster Fusiliers, though I judged from the manner in which the large blue eyes regarded me that he was not so sure about my religion. I thought that there was also a hint of battle in the glint of his eye, so I walked quickly over to his bed, without the faintest flicker of a smile, and said: “Let me see now, you’re a Baptist, aren’t you?”
The blue eyes of the Munster lad blazed as he looked up at me. “No, sir, I’m not! I’m a Roman Catholic!” he said, and as he panted for breath, I said to him quietly: “Well, now, I’m glad to hear that. I’m a Roman Catholic, too!”
Then swiftly the vindictive look faded out of the blue eyes of the Irish lad and a smile floated over his face as he said, somewhat shamefacedly: “Excuse me, Father—I didn’t know, Father—I’m glad to see you, Father,” (pronouncing the “a” in Father like the “a” in Pat), and a big red, brown-freckled hand was shyly offered me. It was only three days since Father Gleason gave him and all his comrades Holy Communion, but he would be pleased, if it would not be too much trouble to His Reverence, to go again in the morning. I wrote his name in the little book and promised to come in the morning with the Blessed Sacrament.
Chapter XXX
The Two Brothers
I had been visiting the two brothers for over a week—indeed one of them for over two weeks, before I knew they were brothers. One was in No. 1 hospital; the other in No. 7: one had been wounded in the chest or shoulder; the other in the knee. I carried messages one to the other, and they looked forward eagerly to my coming, for it was three years since they had seen each other. They used to anticipate with great pleasure the day when they would be convalescent and could see each other. Then one evening the lad who was wounded in the knee told me that the following morning there was to be an evacuation for England and that he was among the number. Although he was glad to hear this good news, still he regretted very much not being able to see his brother before leaving. “It is so long since I’ve seen him, Father, and he is so near,” he said wistfully.
I looked at the young fellow for a few moments, wondering silently what I could do to bring about a meeting of the brothers. First, I thought I might obtain permission for the ambulance to stop at No. 1 on its way to the siding, and that the young fellow might be carried in on a stretcher. But on second thought I felt it would be very difficult to obtain such a permission. Finally, I decided to ask the adjutant for permission to have him taken up to No. 1 on a wheel stretcher. The adjutant was very kind, granting my request. That evening the two brothers met for the first time in three years and passed two hours together.
This little act of kindness did not pass unnoticed, for I learned afterwards that it had met with the warm approval of many in both hospitals—I suppose because it was just one of those little human touches that everybody loves. But I could not help thinking of the numerous other meetings in the early morning, or often at any hour of the day or night, when through my ministrations two others were brought together, sometimes after a much longer separation than that of the brothers. One would be some poor broken lad who sometimes was a little bashful or shy about the meeting; the other was Jesus of Nazareth, the Saviour of the world. Not many concerned themselves about these meetings, but—there was “joy among the angels.”
Chapter XXXI
An Unexpected Turning
It was now November. The days were passing very quickly for I was kept busy; convoys were coming daily. Passchendael was being fought. I had to visit the D. I.’s and S. I.’s very often, for many were being admitted. One morning I stopped just long enough to prepare an Australian for death. He had been wounded through the throat and could not swallow, so that it was impossible for me to give him Holy Communion. I absolved him and anointed him quickly, then I told him I must pass on as I had many more to visit. It was almost impossible for him to speak, and he did so with great pain, but as he gave me his hand and his dying eyes looked at me, he made a great effort. “Cheerio,” he whispered. Truly these wonderful lads were not downhearted!
During the month of November thousands of patients passed through the hospital. Everybody was working extremely hard. Sometimes during the night, convoys arrived. The anaesthetist, who sat next me at mess, told me that he was beginning to feel that he could not continue very much longer; for days he had been giving chloroform almost steadily, as there were very many operations. We were both longing for a little lull in the work so that we might get a few hours’ rest.