Later in the morning I said Mass back at Camp New York for the 2nd Battalion in a grove of young birch trees on the hill slope, the men being scattered singly over the slope and holding very still when the bugler sounded the alert for an enemy aeroplane over head. I described former St. Patrick days to them and told them they were better here. New York would talk more of them, think more of them than if they were back there. Every man in the town would be saying he wished he were here and every man worth his salt would mean it. The leading men of our country had called us to fight for human liberty and the rights of small nations, and if we rallied to that noble cause we would establish a claim on our own country and on humanity in favor of the dear land from which so many of us had sprung, and which all of us loved.
In the afternoon we had a fine concert under the trees. Sergeants Frye and Tom Donahoe played for Tommy McCardle’s funny songs, and for John Mullin’s serious ones. McManus and Quinn played the fife for Irish dances, and Lieutenant Prout, by special request, recited John Locke’s poem, “Oh Ireland, I Bid You the Top of the Morning.”
In the middle of the concert I read Joyce Kilmer’s noble poem, “Rouge Bouquet.” The last lines of each verse are written to respond to the notes of “Taps,” the bugle call for the end of the day which is also blown ere the last sods are dropped on the graves of the dead. Sergeant Patrick Stokes stood near me with his horn and blew the tender plaintive notes before I read the words; and then from the deep woods where Egan was stationed came a repetition of the notes “like horns from elfland faintly blowing.” Before I had finished tears had started in many an eye especially amongst the lads of Company E. I had known it was going to be a sad moment for all, and had directed the band to follow me up with a medley of rollicking Irish airs; just as in military funerals the band leads the march to the grave in solemn cadence and departs playing a lively tune. It is the only spirit for warriors with battles yet to fight. We can pay tribute to our dead but we must not lament for them overmuch.
CROIX-MARE
March 18th, 1918
I buried a soldier of the 117th Signal Battalion in Croix-Mare today with unusual honors. Private Wilkerson had been killed in action and as he was a Catholic Major Garrett had asked me to perform the ceremony. The French were most kind in participating, but that is no new thing. Colonel Dussauge always has his Chasseurs take part with us in funerals, though it is a distraction to me to see them trying to accommodate their short choppy gait (“like soldiers in the Movies” according to Bandsman McGregor) to the air of a Dead March. I said to the Colonel: “There is one thing your men can’t do.” “What is that?” “Walk to a funeral march.” “Thank you for the compliment, Monsieur l’Aumonier.” The Curé, too, always came to our funerals. And we had a fine grizzled old Oblate Division Chaplain who has been in all the French wars from Madagascar to Tonquin. The Government tried to put him out of France when the law against Religious was passed, but he refused to go, saying he would live his life in France if he had to live it in jail. I met a number of these religious in the army, most of them returned from exile to offer their lives in defense of their country. If the French Government puts them out after the war is over they will deserve the scorn and enmity of mankind as a rotten set of ingrates.
At the grave we found we had other spectators. I saw General Menoher and General Lenihan with a short spare-built civilian whom I took for a reporter. He had a French gas mask with a long tape, which hung down between his legs like a Highlander’s sporran. There were Moving Picture cameras too, which seemed to spell a Presence. I whispered to the old Curé that his picture would be put on the screen in every town in America, at which he was, I could see, somewhat shocked and altogether pleased. After the ceremony a number of the Signal Battalion took advantage of the opportunity to go to confession; and I was standing by the side of a truck performing my pious duties when General Lenihan approached with the slim reporter. They did not intrude, so I missed my chance of making the acquaintance of the energetic Newton W. Baker, Secretary of War of the United States.
LUNÉVILLE
March 21st, 1918
For the past twelve days volunteers from the 1st Battalion have been preparing, under command of Lieutenants Henry A. Bootz and Raymond H. Newton, for a coup de main in connection with the 41st Battalion of Chasseurs. They have been training with the French at Croix-Mare and I find it interesting to watch them. They go through all sorts of athletic stunts to get into perfect condition, study the ground through maps on the blackboard showing just what each man’s position is to be, and then work out the whole thing over a ground which is very much like the Ouvrage Blanc, where the raid will take place.