We had planned to have midnight Mass in one of the large moving-picture huts at Chateau de la Haie, for here in reserve were four full battalions: one belonging to Father MacDonnell, one to Father Murray, a young chaplain whom I met just before Christmas, and two, the Fourteenth and Sixteenth, belonging to me. My other battalions were only about two miles beyond these, the Thirteenth at Petit Servans and the Fifteenth at Grand Servans. But First Divisional Headquarters, which was then at Chateau de la Haie, reconsidered the matter. They thought the Catholic soldiers coming in at such an early hour might disturb others who would wish to sleep; and, also, that there might be too many lights used, so that some aerial Santa Claus from across the line might wing his way above the camp, dropping a few Christmas bombs in passing. We then decided to have two Masses in the large hut at Chateau de la Haie and one in the church at Petit Servans. Fathers Murray and MacDonnell were to say the Masses at Chateau de la Haie and I was to go to Petit Servans.
I found that not only had I to notify the men of my own battalions, but also all the units in my area. As there were about ten other units—labor groups, engineers, divisional trains, etc.—this took me quite a while. In fact, it took all Monday afternoon. But the following morning, which was Christmas, when I turned around after the gospel to say a few words to the lads, I felt more than repaid for any inconvenience, including my four mile walk from Carency to Petit Servans before Mass, for the church was filled. All the seats were occupied and the large space in the rear was packed with standing soldiers—kilted laddies from the Thirteenth and Fifteenth, with their officers; soldiers from the engineers; members of the labor groups; stretcher-bearers from the First Field Ambulance. With a full heart I thanked the Christ Child for bringing together all my Catholic men. It was the first time in four months that I had been able to assemble such a large number. At the hospital, naturally, the groups were small. And as I looked at the sea of faces, so reverently attentive, many bearing marks of the terrible conflicts through which they had passed, I felt a twitching at the throat, so that it was a few seconds before I could begin to speak.
It was a long while that Christmas Day before I finished giving Holy Communion, for nearly all the men in the church came.
On my way home I learned from Father Murray that the Fourteenth and Sixteenth had attended Mass in a body in the moving-picture hut at Chateau de la Haie, and that great numbers had gone to Holy Communion.
My Christmas dinner was a piece of dry roast beef, almost burnt, some potatoes, bread and margarine, with a little apricot jam and a cup of tea; that was all. Yet I think it was the happiest Christmas I ever spent, for, as I thought of that first wonderful meeting with those Canadian Catholic soldiers on the Western Front, I felt that in their midst those words, written so long ago, “There was no room in the inn,” could not be said that Christmas Day.
Chapter XLIV
Back to Rest
Every morning for a week or two I was in the little church where I had said Mass on Christmas Day, and every evening while I was there men came to confession. Then one morning the young soldier who had been so attentive to my wants, and whose name I had learned was George, came into the burlap room in a state of evident excitement and said: “We’re going back to rest, sir.”
I did not know exactly what “back to rest” really meant, but I judged from George’s sparkling eyes that it was something very good. “That’s good news,” I said. But one had to be a soldier of the line to realize what good news it really was. One must be actually in the trenches when the word comes to comprehend fully what those words “back to rest” mean.
“We’re going back to rest, chummy,” somebody says, and the word is relayed quickly down the front line trench. And tired-faced lads, many of them with faint, dark rings around their eyes, smile broadly as they stand half-crouching in the muddy trench. Onward the glad tidings go, whispered or uttered in low voices: “Out to rest, Bo; the relief’s coming in tonight at half-past ten. Hooray!” But the “hooray” does not express adequately the feelings of the speaker. It must do, however, as a loud cheer is not permitted in the front line trench.
When it is dark, the relief comes in very quietly and takes over the different posts; then, as quietly, the lads go down the support trenches till they slope up to the great wide road that seems so spacious and airy after the deep, narrow trench they have been standing in for days. On they go, past long rows of broken trees that once were majestic, full-leafed elms, then through masses of ruined buildings and broken stone walls, with here and there a small corrugated iron hut or shack, built just lately. At times, not very far away, a long yellow flash, followed by a thundering report, tells them that our heavies are at work.