The Irish Nuns at Ypres: An Episode of the War

by Dame M. Columban

‘But we durst not stop; the thought ever uppermost in our hearts was our own beloved Abbey. How should we find it? We pushed on as quickly as we could, but the loose stones, bricks, beams and glass made walking a difficult matter, and twice, having passed half-way down a street, we were obliged to retrace our steps, owing to the road being entirely blocked by overthrown buildings. Here and there, we saw some poor creature looking half-frightened, half-amazed at seeing us, while suddenly turning a corner we came to a pool of frozen water, where three street boys were amusing themselves sliding on the ice. Their mirth seemed almost blameful among so many trophies of human misery! We now came in sight of St. Peter’s Church, which at first glance appeared untouched; but coming round, past the calvary, we saw that the porch had been struck.

‘One moment more, and we were in La Rue St. Jacques—nay, in front of our dear old home. The pavements were covered with débris of all kinds, but the other buildings had largely contributed to the pile. We hardly dared to raise our eyes; yet the Monastery was there as before, seemingly untouched, save for the garrets over the nuns’ cells, where the shell had burst before we had left. We were now greeted by a familiar voice, and looking round found the poor girl, Hélène, who was anxiously enquiring if we were returning to the convent. But there was no time to waste. The Germans, who had stopped bombarding Ypres at about 3 A.M., might recommence at any moment, and then we should have to fly; so we went to the door of the Director’s house to try to get into the Abbey. What was our astonishment to find Oscar, our old servant-man, there. Probably he was still more astonished than we, for he had never dared to come to the convent since he had left, and would surely feel, at the least, uncomfortable at our unexpected arrival. However, it was certainly not the moment to think of all these things, so we went in. The whole building seemed but one ruin. In the drawing-room, where the priest’s breakfast things—laid a fortnight before—were still on the table, the ceiling was literally on the floor; the staircase was quite blocked with cement, mortar, wall-paper, and bricks; the sacristy, where we were assembled when the first shell fell, was untouched. The church, except for some five or six holes in the roof, was as we left it; but the altar, stripped of all that had once made it so dear to us, spoke volumes to our aching hearts. Mounting the seven steps which led into the choir, we found ourselves once more in that beloved spot. The windows on the street side were in atoms; otherwise, all was intact. Our dearest Lord had watched over His House, His Royal State Chamber, where He was always ready to hold audience with His Beloved Spouses. We tore ourselves away, and flew to secure our breviaries, great-habits, and other things which the other nuns had recommended to us. Everywhere we went, dust and dirt covered the rooms, while a great many windows were broken. The statues of Our Blessed Lady and St. Joseph were unharmed, as also those of Our Holy Father St. Benedict and our Holy Mother St. Scholastica. Little Jesus of Prague had His crown at His feet, instead of on His head; one crucifix was broken in two! The cells were almost quite destroyed, big holes in the ceilings, the windows broken, the plaster down, frozen pools of water on the floor. We hastened to the garrets, where things were still worse. The roof in this part was completely carried away, leaving full entrance to hail, snow, and rain; strong rafters and beams, which seemed made to last unshaken till the end of the world, were rent asunder or thrown on the floor; the huge iron weights of the big clock had rolled to the other end of the garrets; the scene of destruction seemed complete. We turned away; the other part looked secure, the apples and pears lying rotting away on the floors, where we had put them to ripen. In the noviceship, the ceiling was greatly damaged; whilst down in the cloisters, by the grotto of our Lady of Lourdes, a bomb had perforated the roof, the grotto remaining untouched. These seemed to be the principal effects of the invaders’ cruelty, as far as our Abbey was concerned.

‘We now came across our old carpenter, who had also come into the house with Oscar, and who had already put up planks on the broken windows in the choir, promising to do all he could to preserve the building. He also told us that one of the biggest German bombs had fallen in the garden, but had not exploded, so the French police had been able to take it away—another mark of God’s loving care over us; for, had the bomb burst, it would have utterly destroyed our Monastery. We were now obliged to leave. When should we see the dear old spot again? and in what state would it be if we ever did return?’

CHAPTER XI
THE RETURN JOURNEY TO POPERINGHE

‘The hand-cart being overloaded, we had to carry some of the things ourselves; and we must have looked a strange sight, carrying books and clothes, stuffed in white pillow-cases—even Mr. Walker had one, which he hoisted on his shoulder. We did not trouble about this, but silently made our way back, through the deserted streets. We left the town by a different way from that by which we had entered it, as a sinister boom from the station warned us of the presence of the enemy. Our road took us this time through the Grand’ Place. The whole back part of the hospital was destroyed; and although the walls of the façade were still standing, one could see, through the empty windows, that the interior was almost entirely demolished. The Cloth Hall, also, had not been spared, one corner being severely damaged, and the greater number of the statues maimed and mutilated. If it could have remained so, there might have been some consolation; but now everyone knows the ruthless barbarity which has prompted the Huns of the twentieth century to utterly destroy this wonderful monument of medieval architecture, of which Ypres had been so justly proud during hundreds of years. It appears that the belfry, the chimes of which were only surpassed by those of Bruges and Antwerp, was struck just twenty-four hours after we had passed it on our exit from the town. St. Martin’s, too, had also been struck. We would, nevertheless, have entered, but Mr. Walker was afraid to let us prolong our stay, as the shells were already flying over us. Our thoughts naturally turned to the much revered and esteemed M. le Doyen, who, victim of his heroic courage, had remained at his post to the last, tending the wounded, and even helping to extinguish the fires which the incendiary bombs caused in so many places; till at last, seeing the interior of his beloved church already in flames, he had fallen, struck down by a cerebral congestion, and had been carried to the Dean of Poperinghe in the ambulance car. (Since, we have heard that he is better, D. G., one of our old pupils having seen him in the church at Poperinghe.)

‘On emerging from the town, a little incident occurred.

‘We came up with a British cavalry regiment. They were coming from the trenches. They looked at us and shouted: “Who are you, Sisters, and where do you come from?” Dame Columban answered: “We are English nuns from the Benedictine Convent of the Rue St. Jacques.” This was too much for Dame Patrick, who called out: “We are no such thing. We are Irish Benedictines!” “Irish!” shouted half a dozen of them, “and so are we,” and they all began singing, “It’s a long way to Tipperary,” and, thus escorted, we took a long, last look at the dear old town. Needless to say, it was an Irish regiment—every man wore the harp and shamrock on his collar and cap.

‘We soon arrived at the house where we had taken refuge during the night, and were not sorry to have a good cup of coffee and some bread and butter and jam. Mr. Walker had told us of some of his experiences, among which was the burning of Madame la Baronne Coppens’ house, this lady being the mother of one of our former pupils. M. Vanderghote’s eldest son had been left in charge of their house, sleeping in the cellar at night. On one occasion when the bombardment was raging fiercely, Mr. Walker had offered to accompany him. They kept watch in turns. As Mr. Walker was sleeping, the son woke him suddenly crying out, “Quick! get up! the house is on fire!” Half-dazed, he had seized hold of his candlestick and followed the son to the door. All was in flames. They turned back, half-stifled with the smoke, but could find no exit. At last they managed to break the glass of the window, and jumping out, just escaped from the place as, with a loud crash, the roof fell in. Mr. Walker had his candlestick still in his hand, which he showed us among pieces of shrapnel and shells, all souvenirs of the war. They had also saved the dog, which was slightly burnt.

‘We now hurried the preparations for our departure, as time was passing quickly, and we had still a long walk before us. Our kind host accompanied us as far as the cross-roads where the French police mounted guard, for he was not allowed farther. By a strange coincidence we met once more the Belgian officer who had seen us the evening before. He was more than astonished at what we had done, and was very pleased that all had succeeded so well. We thanked Monsieur Vanderghote warmly for all that he had done for us, promising that, if it were possible, we should assuredly call on him on our return to Ypres. We then set off, two of us pushing the cart. We had taken but a few steps, when a French official stopped us once more, saying that no carts were allowed on the high-road, except those belonging to the army. We had therefore to take a country lane, which had the double inconvenience of being twice as long as the straight road and, indeed, of being also almost impassable. However, there was nothing to be done but to go forward as best we could; so off we went. Oh dear! One wanted Goliath’s strength to push the cart over the stones and ruts. After a few yards we came to a dead stop. The cart was stuck. We pushed and pushed with might and main—vain efforts. We could not move it. We were finally obliged to pull backwards, and thus managed to extricate it. Taught by experience, we took more care next time, looking where we were going to; so things went pretty well for about a hundred paces, when, glancing behind us, what was our dismay to see a number of French soldiers coming by the same road, some on horseback, others on foot, others driving carts. There was only the narrow lane in front of us, with no means of turning visible to the right or left. What was to be done? We hurried on as best we could, but what was the use?—in ten minutes they would surely overtake us. At last, turning round a corner, what was our relief to see an open gateway leading into a farmyard. We boldly pushed our precious load in, thus leaving room for the soldiers to pass. We then tried if it were possible to find some one to help us; because, judging from the difficulties we had met with so far, it was really questionable if we should arrive at Poperinghe before evening. After grumbling a bit, two men offered to come with us as far as Vlamertinghe. This was better than nothing; and, as we followed them, we fervently prayed that we should meet with some one else later on.

‘On we trudged, wondering what had happened in the convent since our departure. What if the Belgian Commandant had found a train, and everyone had been obliged to leave without us! No, surely that was not possible. We passed soldiers, men, women, children, wading through pools of mud and water, and lamenting our long detour, which had made us waste so much precious time. Vlamertinghe at last—still five long miles to Poperinghe—should we ever get there? On arriving at the village, our two good fellows set about finding some one else to push our cart, and finally succeeded. Having paid them, we set off once more on our journey, when behold! a barrier was placed across the road, and we had to come to a standstill. They told us a train was coming. We looked and looked, but saw no sign of it in either direction. Meanwhile a crowd of people assembled, who, accustomed to such proceedings, pushed past, right up to the railing, to be the first to pass, and we were left at the back. We waited and waited, still no train. What a waste of time! Then came the sound of horses’ hoofs, and up trotted a whole regiment of soldiers, who, of course, rode to the front, pushing the crowd back, and us along with them. Still no train! We now happened to look across to the other side of the barrier, and discovered another regiment, waiting on the opposite side, with again a crowd of people behind them. Should we ever get through? Still no train! Decidedly, the good man’s watch must have been considerably in advance, or else he possessed the virtue of prudence in its highest perfection. At length a feeble whistle told us that the long-expected locomotive was coming. But it must have been a train of wounded soldiers; for first it moved forward at a snail’s pace, and secondly it seemed, to our worn-out patience, to be at least one mile in length. However, it passed at last; and, the barriers being withdrawn, the two regiments crossed four abreast, then the crowds pushed through, and last but not least came the representatives of the Irish Benedictine Abbey, with their stylish-looking hand-cart. Once more, on we pushed; but the five miles must have been German ones, which, like their dreadful soldiers, never come to an end.