The Red Vineyard

by B. J. Murdoch

He looked at me with his shrewd, kind eyes, and there was not the shadow of a smile in them as he said: “Never mind, now, who sent me here. What can I do for you?”

I asked him which he preferred, to say Mass or to hear confessions. He said he had already said Mass and had taken his breakfast. So I asked him if he would kindly hear confessions.

I walked up the aisle towards the altar, past row and row of those great-hearted Catholic lads, and as I went I thanked the Blessed Virgin for what she had done. But it was a little too early: she had not yet finished answering my prayers, for just as I entered the sanctuary I noticed one of the French soldiers sitting on a bench reading his Breviary. I touched him on the shoulder and asked him if he were a priest.

He was.

Then I asked him if he would hear the French confessions, for more than half the men of the Fourteenth Battalion were French. He closed his Breviary, after he had marked the place with a colored ribbon. Then he bowed and said he would.

About two years after the Armistice had been signed I was travelling in New Brunswick when a young man came down the car to shake hands with me. He had been one of the officers of the Fourteenth Battalion assisting at Mass in the church at Boves that Sunday. After we had talked a little while, he remarked: “Father, I have often thought of that Sunday at Boves. It seemed to me a beautiful thing to see officers of high rank going over and kneeling down at the feet of one clad in the uniform of a French private of the ranks to have their sins absolved.”

Just before Mass I announced that during the celebration of the Holy Sacrifice Father MacDonnell would hear confessions in English while the French Father would hear the French confessions, and that after Mass, if there were still some who had not gone to confession, the two priests would continue to hear and I would help them. I added that confessions would be heard and communion given again that afternoon.

I said my Mass slowly and preached about twenty minutes. During my sermon I saw something that gratified me very much. Among the officers of one of the battalions was one whom I had never seen at the sacraments. I had approached him some time before, and had met the greatest rebuff I had ever received from a Catholic: he told me quite gruffly that he had no time for that kind of thing. His words had actually struck me dumb for a few seconds, so that I walked away from him without saying anything further. But as I preached that Sunday at Boves, looking out over that sea of reverent faces, I saw the officer stand up and walk reverently to the confessional, and when I gave Holy Communion I saw him at the rails.

As I write these words there stands on the little table before me a tiny plaster statue of the Immaculate Conception. Since I began writing this story it has been always present on the table. It was given to me by a soldier of the Fourteenth Battalion just after the Battle of Amiens. Cut into the base of the statue is the one word “Boves,” and the dents made by the letters are filled with the red clay of France. I will keep this statue always, for it brings back memories of a town where great things were done for God among my Canadian soldiers, and of her who brought these things about.

That evening, as I entered the class-room that was my billet, two figures looked up quickly: one was George, who had a right to be there; the other was one of the assistants in the veterinary section. There was a very strong odor of iodoform in the room. On a bench between the two soldiers was my wash-basin filled with some solution, and the little dog, who had broken his paw, was having it washed in the solution.