War Days in Brittany

by Elsie Deming Jarves

Let me quote a notice from the Tablet of October 30th, about an English priest. The following account of the devotion to duty shown during the fighting hound Hill 70, by Father John Gwynn, S. J., who died of wounds received in a dug-out, is given in a letter from an Irish Guardsman:

"Father Gwynn was known among the boys as 'the brave little priest.' Early in the war he was seriously wounded but refused to return to England. During the terrible fighting recently, Father Gwynn was again at his post. I saw him just before he died. Shrapnel and bullets were being showered upon us in all directions. Hundreds of our lads dropped. Father Gwynn was undismayed, he seemed to be all over the place trying to give the last sacrament to the dying. Once I thought he was buried alive, for a shell exploded within a few yards of where he was, and the next moment I saw nothing but a great heap of earth. The plight of the wounded concealed beneath was harrowing. Out of the ground came cries, 'Father! Father! Father!' from those who were in their death agonies.

"Then, as if by a miracle, Father Gwynn was seen to fight his way through the earth. He must have been severely wounded, but he went on blessing the wounded and hearing their confessions. The last I saw of him he was kneeling by the side of a German soldier. It was a scene to make you cry. The shells continued to explode about the wounded, but they could not stop a little English priest from doing his duty, even to a dying German."

One more item to add to these vignettes of our soldiers. I have told you of the volunteer, the lieutenant, the zouave and the priests. Now of a soldier (by profession) of the Colonial infantry. He had served nine years, having received two medals for the Moroccan campaign.

Last October, the 30th, a very dangerous reconnaissance was necessary before a certain action in the Argonne. The colonel called for volunteers, Petit immediately volunteered. He was given ten men, warned of the desperate nature of his work, and wished God-speed. The Germans were supposed to be intrenched behind a small wood over the crest of a hill There was a long slope to climb, a road to cross, another abrupt ascent to the wood.

It was brilliant moonlight. The men crept forward, seeking every shadow or bush or hollow to cover them.

They had climbed the first slope, crossed the road and were well up the second hill when they were suddenly swept by German rifle fire.

Petit glanced behind. All but two were lying bleeding and dead. He called to the other two to race back to their trenches, if possible, but he himself continued to creep through the straggling undergrowth up the crest. After some minutes, having discovered what he came to seek, the position and force of the enemy, he hastily retreated down the hill. Of the two survivors, one had already cleared the road and escaped. The other was lying, a moaning heap, on the white moonlit highway.

The Germans were firing at his flying figure, but a few steps more and he would have crossed the road—when he fell. Presently he picked himself up. One eye was gone, the blood streaming down his cheeks. But he determined, as he said, to revenge his comrades and himself. Staggering to the road he, with great difficulty, dragged his wounded companion off the road and to the shelter of some bushes. Fortunately, at that moment, a cloud passed over the moon, and they were able to lie hidden for a while. Then, with many struggles, he succeeded in getting his one remaining companion on his shoulders, and dragged himself back to the French lines. His information was of importance, but he did not know of it, for he lost consciousness immediately on delivering it.

The next day his company went into action and was annihilated. Of the 200 men, he and the man whose life he saved were the only survivors.