The people were strange, but the religion was not.
At half-past three, sharp, the procession left the church. It was led by a white-surpliced, red-cinctured sanctuary boy, carrying the processional cross. Behind him walked about a dozen confrères similarly clad; then came the young boys of the parish, with white ribbons on their arms. A lad perhaps eleven years of age followed, clad in the skins of animals and carrying a small cross on which were the words “Ecce Agnus Dei.” The little girls, in snow-white dresses, came next, and a few feet behind the column walked a young girl of perhaps fifteen or sixteen, wearing a long cream-colored dress with white, gold-bordered wings coming out from her shoulders; a band of gold encircled her head, to which was attached a gold star which shone above her forehead; her right hand was raised and the index finger pointed always towards the sky. Then came four young girls in white carrying on a pedestal the statue of Our Lady, and four others, bearing on high the statue of the Sacred Heart. The women of the parish, most of them wearing a kind of light-blue badge, were next, followed by the men of the parish, with here and there the blue uniform of a French soldier home on leave. A few khaki-clad lads also walked, but I think they were strangers. (I wondered where my lads of the Thirteenth were.) Then came the choir of middle-aged men singing hymns that today were being sung over all the world, “Lauda Sion Salvatoris,” “Pange Lingua” and “Panis Angelicus.” Behind these walked six little girls strewing flowers in the way and two sanctuary boys swinging censers. Lastly, came four old men, no caps on their venerable heads, bearing on high the white and gold canopy over Jesus Host in the great gold monstrance, carried by a Canadian priest in the beautiful Benediction vestments.
The vari-colored procession went slowly down the village street, banners carried aloft and the beautiful old Eucharistic hymns sounding on the summer air, while very old people and others who for one reason or another could not take part in the procession knelt reverently in the dust on the roadside, as Jesus passed.
Then something happened that had never before happened in that little village during a procession of the Blessed Sacrament. Lining each side of the road for quite a distance were men of the Thirteenth Battalion, Catholic and Protestant, and as the procession moved slowly along in all the sweet simplicity of the deep faith of these French peasants, the soldiers stood reverently to attention.
I felt proud of these lads. We had met together in many strange places; but I am sure I shall never forget those gay, light-hearted lads standing so quietly and reverently as we passed—Jesus and I!
Chapter LXIX
On Leave
I had now been in France about one year and had had no “leave.” During this period of the war officers were entitled to leave every six months. I had not applied when the first six months were up, as I was too busy at the time. Now I had applied and daily I was awaiting my warrant. The Sunday following the procession I had just returned home after Mass when a runner from headquarters arrived to tell me that my warrant had come from brigade headquarters and that if I would call at the battalion orderly room and sign the necessary papers, I could procure it.
I left a little place called Tinques at five o’clock and although the distance was only fifty miles, it was six o’clock the following morning when we arrived at Boulogne. The “Pullman” was of the side-door variety; sometimes it held eight horses and at other times forty men. It seemed to me, as we sat so closely packed on the floor of the car, as if there were more than forty of us. I sat the whole night long with my chin almost resting on my knees. It would not do to stand, for the space thus made would be quickly filled, so that it would be almost impossible to sit down again. Although many miles away from the sound of the guns and cheered, furthermore, by the thought of fourteen days’ leave, I have always felt that that night-ride was one of the hardest of the war, for sitting in that cramped position became actually painful. I longed to stretch my limbs, but this was impossible. It was cold in the car, for the doors were kept open so that we could have air. It is almost incredible how that boxcar bumped us about. But even through these hardships we were compelled to laugh from time to time at some witty joke or at some incident that was funny, though not meant to be so. Once quite an altercation arose between an officer and a private; the officer was accusing the soldier of actually putting his feet in the officer’s face. The soldier thus accused was protesting in a very high-pitched voice: “They ain’t my feet! They ain’t my feet!”
Everybody was laughing. Then came the gruff voice of the officer, demanding: “Well, whose feet are they?” But nobody seemed to know whose feet they were.