Although I had many letters to write, this did not keep me from having a little enjoyment. We had not been very long in rest billets when it was announced that the Sixteenth Canadian Battalion concert party was to put on soon the play entitled “A Little Bit of Shamrock.” This was the play the soldiers were practising while we were at Monchy Breton, and because of the fact that one of the characters was a priest I was very anxious to see the play.
The concert party was to be with us three nights, so I hoped to be able to attend at least one performance. The company had been playing for the large base hospitals while we were taking part in the recent heavy fighting. I had met a Presbyterian chaplain in Arras who told me that he had seen the play and that it was one of the finest in France. They had been furnished with hundreds of dollars’ worth of scenery and costumes. So we looked forward with pleasure to seeing it.
I noticed as I worked among the men that the rest was doing them very much good. The village streets used to ring with laughter and merry jokes, especially in the evening. It was wonderful how much like boys those soldiers would become, given a few days’ rest.
I remember one day, while sitting in the mess waiting for lunch to be served, listening to an animated conversation going on among a group of soldiers, of which George was the dominating spirit. George held in his hand a pair of German field-glasses which evidently he wished to barter for something some other soldier had. The other soldier thought George had placed a too high valuation on the glasses, and their voices rose and fell in debate. Finally, all the voices were silent; then the voice of George sounded clear and distinct, as he said impressively: “Gentlemen, I tell you, these glasses are so powerful that they will bring a church, miles distant, so near that you can actually hear the church bells ringing in the tower!”
Although a few derisive groans greeted this statement, the great bursts of merry laughter that accompanied them did my heart good and showed me how light-hearted were the troops.
A day or two following the episode of the field-glasses, I was again sitting in the mess waiting for lunch to be served. The transport officer and quartermaster were with me. Suddenly the lieutenant who had been billeting officer when we were at Ecoivres walked in and sat down. He had a little business with the quartermaster, and as he stated it his eyes turned towards the table, which was set for lunch, and rested longingly on a dish of cold bread-pudding with raisins in it. The pudding was cut in pieces resembling in size and shape an ordinary helping of Washington pie; there were three slices in all. Now, I never liked bread-pudding, not even in war time; neither did the other two officers of the mess. So when the billeting officer made known to us his weakness for bread-pudding we gave him a most pressing invitation to have a piece. He took one piece, and as he ate it with great relish we could not help smiling. He stopped for a second or two and looked around on us. “My,” he said, “I like this! Our cook never thinks of giving us anything like this.” Then he continued earnestly to devote his attention to the pudding.
We offered him another piece, and with boyish delight he accepted it. When he had finished this, I offered him the remaining slice. The other two officers were now laughing.
“Ah, Padre!” he said reproachfully, but his eye wavered and his hand without any apparent reluctance reached out and took the third piece.
He stayed for a little while longer, and I wondered if he could be quite well after eating so great a quantity of such soggy food. I began, indeed, to feel a slight twinge of conscience. Perhaps I should not have offered him that last thick slice of heavy bread-pudding. He was now quiet, and for a second or two a far-away look came into his eyes. Then, suddenly, he seemed to recollect something. He stood up quickly.
“Well,” he said, “I think it is about time for me to be going home to lunch.”