The Irish Nuns at Ypres: An Episode of the War

by Dame M. Columban

On Sunday afternoon, eleven nuns from the Rue de Lille at Ypres came to beg a refuge. They were expelled French nuns of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, who had devoted themselves since the outbreak of the war in our parts to tending the wounded soldiers. It was they who had had such a narrow escape when the Germans came to Ypres, whilst they had their convent full of Belgians. They told us afterwards how good their wounded had been, and how the greater part, as soon as they were well enough, used to come to Benediction and sing with the nuns.

Now, however, they brought sad news from the town, which was being bombarded worse than ever. They had been obliged to fly for their lives; one Sister had been killed by a bomb, a servant badly wounded, and their Superioress had stopped behind with two nuns, compelling the others to leave. They had at first taken the wrong road, going straight to the scene of battle; but being sent back by the British soldiers, they had made their way, as best they could, to Poperinghe. They had lost six of their number, not knowing what had become of them; seventeen had left the convent, and now only eleven had arrived at Poperinghe.

The next day our servant-man came round to say that he had received an invitation to go back to Ypres the following day with another man, who was willing to run the risk of returning. Needless to say we were delighted to have such a good chance of getting news about our Monastery; and all prayed for his safety. We anxiously awaited the result of this venture, hoping that he would be able to get into the convent, and that, above all, no harm would happen to him. True enough, he came back in triumph, dragging another huge parcel of things he had managed to secure for himself. The dreadful account he gave of the Monastery filled us with despair, for, according to his description, half the building seemed to have been destroyed. Happily, the person who had accompanied him called the next day, and told us that Edmund had greatly exaggerated the mischief done; and he hoped that if the Germans could be repulsed, we should be able to return in four or five days.

Mother Prioress determined to ascertain the truth of the case for herself. She accordingly made enquiries as to whether it would be possible to go to Ypres in a motor-car. M. Vander Meersch, a solicitor who lived near the Abbey, came to our help, and an officer was found who was willing to take two nuns with him. We begged our dear Prioress not to expose herself to such evident danger; but, as usual, she would not listen, and it was decided that Dame Placid should accompany her. God, Who ever protects those who put their trust in Him, arranged otherwise, and the motor-car was prevented from leaving Poperinghe. We heard afterwards that at the very time that they should have arrived, a bomb had fallen on another motor, and killed five officers.

During the next days, news poured in from Ypres. At one time, we heard that the Germans had been repulsed, and their guns captured, and that Ypres would soon be quite safe again; shortly afterwards, it was announced that the enemy was mercilessly bombarding the town, some houses were falling, others burning. We were more than ever convinced that we could believe nothing that we heard and must necessarily see for ourselves. Besides, the guns which we had only heard feebly in the distance, on our arrival at Poperinghe, could certainly be heard far more distinctly now; were we going to be bombarded a second time? It really seemed probable, for German aeroplanes appeared in sight, apparently scrutinising the movements of the Allies, and had not that been the beginning of the hostilities at Ypres?

In the streets, the regiments passed and repassed—the poor, brave fellows marching off to the battle, and the others coming back from the trenches to have a well-merited repose. It was often touching to see how those who had not been ordered out would await the return of the troops, anxiously scanning the lines as they passed, and on perceiving a comrade, perhaps a ‘chum,’ coming back unhurt, they would run forward and give a hand-shake with a joyful greeting, as the horses trotted by. But alas! there were always a number of empty saddles, belonging to those who had been taken to the ambulance, or—worse still—left dead on the battle-field. The horses themselves seemed mournful, as they followed mechanically after the others, as though they felt it must be partially their fault that their dear masters were no longer there. Often, also, numbers of German prisoners would march past between two files of British or French soldiers on their way to the station.

Our poor wounded French soldiers were not forgotten. By this time things were arranged better; nearly all had beds now, some even sheets. And this was due to the unflagging devotion of three priests attached to the ambulance as infirmarians. They certainly preached to us a silent sermon of self-forgetfulness and heroic charity; and our greatest pleasure was to hear them relate all they had gone through since the War broke out. In the French army alone, 40,000 priests mixed with the common soldiers, the greater number being combatants. The brave wounded also gave us many a lesson, never finding fault with anything, never complaining of their dreadful wounds. And yet how horribly some of them were mutilated! A great number were obliged to have an arm or leg amputated—one had his lower jaw carried away—another, his whole face from below the eyes. Most of them were wounded in the head, which made them suffer dreadfully, some even being delirious. There were some who belonged to the highest aristocracy—Counts and Barons were there, lying on straw or hard stretchers; others again were quite young, only twenty or twenty-one. Yet all were patient, all courageous, all sure that in the end the Allies would win, and the Germans be defeated. The unfortunate victims who died of their wounds were carried out to a little hut or tent erected in the garden. As we passed by, we would lift up the curtain which hid them from view, and say a ‘De profundis’ for the repose of their souls. Sometimes as many as eleven or twelve lay there, awaiting the coffins which could not be made quickly enough. One poor Zouave, who had probably been dead some time before it was found out, lay there with his arms uplifted, as though he still held the gun, with which he would, even in death, lay low his enemy.

But we cannot do better than take from the notes of Dame Teresa, who was so devoted in visiting the ambulance:—

‘At Poperinghe we spent all our time making badges of the Sacred Heart for the wounded soldiers. Almost every day we went to visit them. This gave us the greatest joy. The first time we entered the large room No. 1, where they lay, some on beds, others on stretchers, we were struck with horror and pity. There they were, young men and middle-aged, from every department of France; some had been struck on the head, others on the chest, back, or shoulders, or else wounded in the legs. And yet not one complaint escaped their lips—only one poor fellow, who was delirious, called out as we passed by: “My head, my head! oh, if you only knew what it is to have such a headache.” Another soldier, just twenty-one, said to us in the patois of the South of France, “Franche! Franche! shall I ever see thee again!” We went from one room to another, speaking to each, and cheering them up. We gave them pears, and it used to be our greatest pleasure to peel them, cut them in small bits, and now and again we would put them in their mouths, when they were unable to move. They were as simple as children, and loved our visits. “Sister, you’ll come back to-morrow won’t you? It is so nice to see you, it cheers us up!” I remember one incident, which shows their simplicity. Dame Walburge and I had been going round, distributing small bits of pear, which they much relished as very comforting to their parched lips; but there came a time when we had exhausted our last pear, and still many soldiers had not had a bit. Of course next day we would serve them the first; but Dame Walburge whispered to tell me one poor fellow had been watching me so anxiously for some time. I turned towards him to say a little word of comfort, but he interrupted me, saying in a fretful, childish way: “Oh, Sister, and you have given me no pear, and I wanted one so badly!” In vain we searched our pockets, all the while promising he should be served the first next day. He repeated: “It’s to-night I wanted it.” We left the room sadly, wishing, for once in our religious lives, that we had a penny to buy him a pear. But Almighty God, Who is all-powerful, heard the prayer of His children; for hardly had I told this story to one of the nuns of La Sainte Union, than she gave me a pear, and though it was already dark, we ran back joyfully to our poor wounded soldier, who seemed dumb for joy, but his happy face rewarded us beyond words.

‘The unselfishness of the soldiers towards each other was marvellous; once, while peeling a pear for a soldier—one who was eating a piece of bread—he said to me: “Sister, I am sure my neighbour would also like a piece.” I turned to the other, who answered timidly: “Yes, I should like it; but see, Sister, I have a little bit of meat on my bread, and he has none, so give it to him!” Needless to say, I divided it between them.