‘By this time we had made our way through the crowd. The fugitives were continually passing, leaving homes and all behind. At length we arrived at the residence of the staff officers. We explained our case to one of them, who received us very courteously, and who told us the best thing to do would be to address ourselves to General Sir Douglas Haig. An orderly informed him that Sir Douglas had left for Brielen. The officer advised us to go there. It was already 8.30, and we had still a good hour’s walk before us. The road resembled that to Poperinghe. One must have seen the continual passage of troops, motor-cars, horses, fugitives, in the narrow lanes, the roads inches thick with mud, to have a true idea of it. Here and there a house struck by a shell, or bespattered with mud almost to the roof, gave an indescribable air of sadness to the surroundings; while a bouquet of flowers, or an odd bibelot discarded in a shop-window, remained as a last souvenir of the joys and prosperity of our brave little Belgium. Brielen now came in sight. We stopped before the Calvary, erected at the entrance to the cemetery, and then paid a visit to the church. On coming out, we met the Curé of the village, who interested himself in our trials and sorrows. We then asked the way to the Headquarters, where we found it was impossible to see Sir Douglas. His aide-de-camp gave us some rather vague information, but kindly offered to get us seats in a motor-car that was leaving for Poperinghe. It did not start, however, till midday, and even then I could not go without telling the community at Ypres. We set out on our way back to Ypres. Just outside the village a poor woman, all in tears, stopped us, showing us a big cavity which a shell had just made in the ground by her farm. “I should have been killed,” she exclaimed, “except for the brave English soldiers, who, seeing the shell coming in my direction, had just the time to take me up and push me into the farm, but my cow is gone! Our little farm was all our fortune!” and she wiped away the tears with a corner of her apron. Poor dear! How many are there still more unfortunate than she! As we approached the town, the whistling shriek of the shells became more distinct; the Germans were bombarding Ypres as hard as they could. We found ourselves almost alone in the streets. Here and there a few soldiers remained in the doorways of the houses. A shell flew straight over us! What a protection of Divine Providence! A few steps off a building was struck, and we just escaped getting a shower of bricks and glass on top of us. “Come to the other side!” Dame Patrick called out. We crossed over, murmuring aspirations all the time. A little farther on another shell burst, and the house we had just passed fell a heap of shapeless ruins. We hastened our steps to get out of the street, which seemed to be the chief point of attack. We then breathed more freely, till—arrived at the Grand’ Place—we were welcomed by a regular shower of shells which flew in all directions. Happily we had almost reached our destination, though, had it not been for Dame Patrick, I should never have known my way, but should probably have passed by the Monastery. At the door we met two brave Britishers whom I told to come into the parlour, where they would be more out of danger. They did not feel afraid, and said they were sent to search for some bread; for they could not get any in the town. I gave them some of the provisions which we were to take with us, with a little pot of butter, and—what I knew they liked so much—as many pears as they could carry. They were delighted, and so were we. We then talked of the war, and the old story came back again, the hope so cherished by all, and yet also not realised: “Oh! it will soon be over. We’ll be home for Christmas!”’
Our poor dinner was now served, the last we were to take in the dear old home. The reading was made aloud as usual. The subject was ‘Holy Poverty’—truly appropriate for the times and surroundings. The last words which the reader pronounced before the signal was given, were: ‘The Lord has given, the Lord has taken away! May His Holy Name be blessed!’ Had we prepared the reading beforehand, it could not have been better chosen. Our dear Lord had truly given us our Abbey, and had made it withstand the course of years, with all the changes of government, wars, and revolutions, which had swept over Belgium, especially Flanders—and now He was taking it away. May His Holy Name be blessed!
CHAPTER VI
FLIGHT
During dinner the bombardment had been at its height. In that short half-hour almost twenty shells had burst quite close to us. It was our side of the town that was being attacked—already a poor woman, begging for something to eat, had told the portress that the roof of the college was struck. Mother Prioress, deaf to all entreaties, said that everyone without exception was to be ready at 2 o’clock. We went about, looking—perhaps for the last time—at the dear old scenes, which we had thought to leave only when death should knock at our door.
We had already placed on every window of the convent a paper badge of the Sacred Heart, and lastly erected a niche outside one of the garret windows, in which we put the miraculous statue of Our Lady of the Angels, which had remained unhurt outside the Monastery in the siege of Ypres, in 1744. We had done all we could and must now abandon all, leaving everything under the double protection of the Mother and the Son.
A little after 2 o’clock the hand-cart came round to the door. All the packages could not fit in it, in spite of Reverend Mother having made us take out nearly all we had gathered together; for she had learnt by experience, in carrying the things she had prepared for Lady Abbess as far as Vlamertinghe, three days before, the difficulties of walking so far, and carrying a heavy parcel at the same time. The enclosure door was then fastened on the inside, and all other important rooms or cupboards being likewise locked, we passed with a last farewell through the long-loved choir, which had known the joys and sorrows of our whole religious life.
We then went through the outer church into the sacristy, locking the door of the grille behind us. There was but one more door which separated us from the outside world—one door more! and we should be out of our enclosure, perhaps never more to return! There was a pause in our sad procession—the key was not there. Our Lord watched over us once more; for, had we then continued in our procession, some of us would inevitably have been badly hurt, if not indeed killed. After a few minutes’ waiting, the key was brought, and already placed in the key-hole, when a loud explosion, accompanied by a terrific crash which shook the entire building, laid us all prostrate.... Bewildered, rather than afraid, we arose, and saw, through the window, a shower of bricks and glass falling into the garden. The first—though not the last—shell had struck our well-loved Abbey.
We now realised that there was no time to waste. Already Edmund was screaming out from the other side of the still-locked door. ‘Why don’t you come? I told you, you should have left long ago. The convent is struck! We shall all be killed if you don’t make haste!’ The door was opened, and with an indescribable feeling of horror, mingled with uncertainty, we went out. In the street we raised our eyes in one sad farewell to our beloved Monastery; and there, out of the cell windows, principally that of Mother Prioress, a cloud of vapour and smoke told us of the passage of the shell; while the remains of the garret windows overhead and other débris of slates, bricks, wood and glass, strewn on the pavement, proved without a doubt, that Divine Providence had truly intervened in allowing the little delay in the sacristy, but for which we should have been just on the spot when all this had happened. A cry of anguish arose from our hearts as, hurrying along the deserted street, we saw our convent thus apparently burning.
Half-way down the street, another explosion behind us made us look round to see if the Abbey had again been struck, but no! this time it was the Institut Saint-Louis, just in front. Turning the corner, we saw some ‘Tommies’ scrambling out of a house which had also been shelled. As we stumbled over the bricks which covered the road, Edmund hurrying us on for bare life, one of the soldiers caught sight of us, and calling out to another to come to help ‘the Sisters’ he threw down the bundle he was carrying, and seizing two of ours, he walked along with us, his comrade doing the same. We shall continue the narrative from the notes of Dame Patrick:—
‘As we were nearing the Rue de Lille, where the shells were falling thickly, two soldiers came forward to help us with our packages. We chatted as we hurried along, stopping every one or two minutes, to avoid a shower of bricks, as we heard a shell hiss over our heads and fall on one of the houses by us. One of us remarked to the soldiers: “It is very kind of you to help us.” To our delight they answered, “It is our same religion, and our same country.” They were both Irish Catholics—one from Kerry, the other from Belfast. When we reached the outskirts of the town they were both obliged to turn back, not having leave to quit Ypres. The Kerry man left us hurriedly; but our man from Belfast ventured a little farther, though in the end he thought it wiser to return to his regiment. So we shook hands with him, and thanked him heartily, wishing him good luck and a safe return to dear old Ireland! Our good Mother Prioress had a bag of pears in her hand, so she said to him: “Here, take these pears and eat them, and we will pray for you.” But he turned away, and said, “No, no, keep them for yourselves.” Here the poor fellow broke down and cried. He hurried away, waved his hand, and wished us God-speed. I happened, during this little scene, just to have moved on, thinking Mother Prioress was by me. However, on looking round, I saw she was some distance behind, so I walked back to join her. To my surprise, I found her weeping. I felt very shaky myself, but did not want to seem so. I jokingly said, “Oh! Mother Prioress, what is the matter?” Then she told me what had happened, and said, “I could keep up no longer when I saw that dear, kind, genuine Irish-hearted man break down—how I wish I could know his name!” “Come along,” I said, “let us hope that one day we shall find it out, but don’t cry any more or you’ll have me joining in too.” I then thought on my brave, tender-hearted countrymen who had left home and country to serve in the British army as Belgium’s friends and protectors, and I felt proud and happy that we Irish Benedictines should have fallen in so often with Irishmen, always meeting with the same kind-heartedness.’