There was one scene that was almost uncanny in its faithful reproduction of one of the little dialogues that take place often in the office of a country parish priest. Old Mrs. Nolan—off the stage “she” was Private M. Dawes, No. 1 Platoon, Sixteenth Battalion, and in civil life an actor who had taken parts with the great Du Maurier—had come to call on Father O’Flynn concerning her husband, who was not working, and who for reasons known only to himself had no inclination to work. She spoke quietly at first, but gradually, animated by righteous indignation, a certain piquancy and forcefulness colored her words. She had just begun rightly to denounce “himself” when Father O’Flynn, with a gentle raising of one hand from his knee, where it had rested palm downwards, said softly: “There, now, Mrs. Nolan! There, now! Don’t mind, it will be all right! It will be all right. In a little while Timmy’ll be at work again.”
Then Mrs. Nolan, somewhat mollified, would concede: “Yis, Father! Yis, Father! Perhaps you’re right, Father. Indade, he’s not so bad; if he would stay away from that Dinny O’Shea, he might be better. And look, Father dear, I wouldn’t be mindin’ what that Liz of his would ever be saying. Look here, Father, if she’d stay at home and look after her man and not go galavantin’ over the parish! Look here, Father, she’s one of the worst—”
Then with a gentle smile Father O’Flynn would again quiet the indignant Mrs. Nolan. But she was irrepressible. And as she continued her rapid-fire talk, the house roared with laughter, so that we forgot that we were in a building on the Western Front into which at any minute a long-distance shell might fall, killing and wounding half the people there. We forgot this completely as we continued to enjoy one of the finest plays ever staged on the Western Front.
As I looked on, laughing heartily, another emotion began to manifest itself; gradually, as I listened to the dialogue, the whole setting before me took on a certain familiarity: it was a priest’s room, my own language was being spoken, a scene was being enacted with which every priest is familiar. I felt as if I saw my Catholic people at home; then a kind of mist seemed to pass over me, and my eyes filled up—yes, gentle reader, I was lonesome!
The old curé and his sister had waited up for me, to hear about the play. I had told them before leaving that I was going to see a non-Catholic take the part of a Catholic priest, and they had been very interested. They were like two children in their delight when I came bursting in on them with the news of the play. They rejoiced with me when I told them how splendidly the part of Father O’Flynn had been taken by one of the lads. The old lady seemed the more enthusiastic of the two, until I told the story of Mrs. Nolan, then the curé broke into rippling laughter; but Madame just smiled quietly. We talked for a long time that evening for the three of us were very pleased. I had told them before going that I had my fears lest the actor assigned the part of the priest should not interpret it according to the best traditions of the priesthood. But now they were quite relieved, and very joyful when I told them that the play would be shown wherever there were Canadian soldiers in France.
Chapter LXXXVIII
Left Behind
I was well satisfied with my work among the soldiers during these evenings and we were all benefiting very much by our rest. But we did not know just how soon we would be going into action. One evening towards seven o’clock, on coming back to Berneville after having attended a meeting at corps headquarters, I found men of the Fourth Division walking up and down the street. I was somewhat surprised at this, for when I had left in the morning the village had been occupied only by First Division troops. Now I saw no men of the Third Brigade. I stopped the first soldier I met and asked him where was the Sixteenth.
He told me he did not know, that the Sixteenth had “pulled out” about four o’clock and that another battalion had “taken over” these lines.
I went quickly to the place our mess had been, only to find other officers occupying it. They were just about to sit down to dinner, and invited me to remain, but I was too eager to have news of my troops. This was the first time they had ever stolen a march on me.
I opened the gate of the old curé’s garden, hoping to see George standing in the twilight somewhere among the roses; but there was no khaki-clad figure there. In fact, there was no one in the garden; everything was very quiet. Knocking on the door which led to the office and dining-room combined, I advanced into the lamp-lit room to find the curé and his sister just about to sit down to their evening meal. They welcomed me warmly. It was good to see the kindly, beaming faces of my old friends; and as my eyes wandered from them to the table I saw that places had been set for three.