In our case the priest was morally and physically present and he gave Sacramental Absolution to all, using the plural, "Ego vos absolvo a peccatis vestris."
Whether on the battlefield or in hospital wards filled with men dying of disease or wounds, the priest has a divine message to deliver and a sacramental duty to perform from which no manner or danger of death can deter him. "Is any man sick amongst you," says St. James in the 24th Chapter of his Epistle (Douay or King James version) "let him call in the priests of the Church, and they shall anoint him with oil in the Name of the Lord." It was in the fulfillment of this Divinely imposed duty that 1600 priests of America voluntarily turned aside from their parochial work, and, reconsecrating their hearts to the Greater Love, entered the National service as Chaplains during the war.
Seriously the boys studied the hill. On its rugged side was about to be staged a tragedy in which every soldier knew he was to take part. The training of months past was but rehearsal. The leaving home, the oath of military service, the weary grind of march, and weapon drill, the rigid discipline, all these were but evolving phases, making for the formation of the seasoned soldier. And now they had reached the high altar of National service on which they were prepared to sacrifice their young lives.
"Morituri salutemus!" Look closely into the faces of those heroic boys: approach with reverence the sanctuary of their thoughts.
In long, regular lines they lie, immediately at the base of the hill. Most are still and motionless, helmeted, and with bayoneted rifles, like figures some Bartholdi or Rodin might have chiseled from bronze. Some, with free hand, are molding from the yellow, slimy clay, quaint little images, suggested, possibly, by thought of the little tin soldiers of boyhood days. Some, lying prone, are dreamily observing the blue sky showing here and there through billowy clouds. Some have made of their helmet a pillow and appear to sleep. Some with jest and story are radiating a subdued merriment. Some, with eyes staring straight ahead, seem as in a trance.
In that tragic hour I looked with their eyes and saw with the vision of their soul. The picture we all in common saw was painted on the canvas of memory.
Where St. Joan of Arc Made Her First Communion.
It represented any American town; preferably one bowered with maple and elm, and cast in a setting of emerald landscape. Just back from the winding road, a cottage, trellised with moss roses and forget-me-nots. Framed in the doorway, a sweet-faced mother, silver threads amid her gold of hair, is looking across distant fields. A path leads over the hill, and it would seem she watched and waited for someone!
Last night she knelt beside a vacant chair, and, in the lonely vigil of her tears, prayed that God would bless and spare her boy. In the window hangs a service flag. Tomorrow, My God! there shall a message come from overseas changing its silver into gold!