Father Duffy's story

by Francis Patrick Duffy

The last notes I heard as the tail of the dusty column swung around a bend in the road, were “Herald Square, anywhere, New York Town, take me there.” Good lads, God bless them, I hope their wish comes true.

MORIVILLE

June 22nd, 1918

Our first day’s march brought us to Moyemont, our second a short hike to Moriville, where we are waiting to entrain at Châtel-sur-Moselle. I am billetted with the Curé and have sent Father McDonald, an old pupil of mine who has just been sent to me, to the 2nd Battalion. He is not well enough to stand what we will have to go through, so I have sent a telegram to Bishop Brent asking to have him kept for a time at some duty where he can regain his health.

Now I have to turn my attention to the Curé, who is also an invalid. He is living here in this big, bleak stone house, with an old housekeeper who is deaf, and the biggest, ugliest looking brute of a dog I have ever seen. He is run down and dispirited. We Americans don’t like that atmosphere so I started in to chirk him up. First I called in Dr. Lyttle, who pronounced the verdict that there was no reason why with rest and change and a new outlook on life he could not last for ten years.

Today is Sunday and I told the lads in church that I wanted a collection to give a poor old priest a holiday; and they responded nobly. For a second Mass I went down to McKenna’s town and found a new device, a green shamrock on a white background, over the door of his battalion headquarters. His is to be known as the Shamrock battalion of the regiment. After Mass and another collection I took breakfast with him. I had brought with me some money that Captain Mangan owed him. While I was at breakfast Mangan came in himself, and in his presence I handed the money over to McKenna. “If I didn’t have you around, Father, to threaten Mangan with hell-fire, I’d never get a cent of it.” “If you weren’t such a piker you wouldn’t keep a cent of it, now you’ve got it. You’d give it to Father Duffy for his poor old Curé.” “All right, I’ll give it, and double it if you cover it.” That meant forty dollars apiece for my nice old gentlemen. But McKenna was not satisfied. “Come on, Cassidy, come across,” and the Lieutenant with a smile on his handsome face came across with more than any Lieutenant can afford. McKenna shouted to the others, “Come all the rest of you heretics; you haven’t given a cent to a church since you left home,” and with a whole lot of fun about it, everybody gave generously. I could not help thinking what a lesson in American broadmindedness the whole scene presented. But the immediate point was that I was able to do handsomely for my old Curé. I went back to him, and from the different collections I poured into his hat in copper pennies, bits of silver, dirty little shin-plasters and ten franc notes, the sum of two thousand francs. He was speechless. The old housekeeper wept; even the dog barked its loudest.

“I’m giving you this with one condition,” I said. “Namely, that you spend it all at once.” “But ma foi! how can one spend two thousand francs in a short while. I never had so much money before in all my life.” “Of course you can’t spent it in this burg. I want you to go away to Vittel, to Nancy, to Paris, anywhere, and give yourself a good time for once in your life.” “But the Bishop would never permit it. He has few priests left and cannot supply the parishes with them.” “Well, he will have to do it if you’re dead, and you’ll be dead soon if you hang around here. Stay in bed next Sunday and have your parishioners send in complaints to the Bishop. Do that again the Sunday after, and by that time the Bishop will have to send somebody. Then you go off and spend that 2,000 francs on a summer holiday, and don’t come back until you have spent the last cent of it.”

The old gentleman gave a dazed assent to my entire scheme; but I am leaving here with little expectation that he will carry it all through. He may get a holiday from the Bishop, and he may spend a little of the money on it, but even if he lives for ten years I am willing to bet he will have some of our 2,000 francs left when he dies. In some ways it is a great handicap to be French.

BREUVERY

June 27th, 1918