A Communion service at that same place stands out in my memory. How freely the men came to the Table of the Lord! In the beautiful twilight they sang hymn after hymn as relays of men took their places. It was a setting solemn and impressive as any cathedral of man's building for such a service. But there was a grim reality about it too, for as they sang:
I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless!
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness:
Where is death's sting? where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still if Thou abide with me!
others, who had left the service for duty, were passing in single file up the long communication trench armed for the fray.
It seems a strange and romantic fact that when we returned to Egypt, after the evacuation of Gallipoli, our main camp was at Tel-el-Kebir. Sir Garnet Wolseley's trenches were visible on the outskirts of our camp. But what is more interesting, is that on the march to the desert front our force followed the line mainly of the sweet-water canal, which is probably the route of the Israelites under the wise generalship of Moses.
Some units took a route through the Desert to Ismailia. There was less romance about their experiences, and a reality which does not lend itself to description here. Crossing the Suez Canal, we campaigned for some months on a route which ultimately brought us to a post seventeen miles out in the desert. What an opportunity for the padre of re-telling the story of the wandering and fighting of the hordes of Israel under Moses and Joshua!
Our Arab camel convoys, on a new-made road parallel with a strategic railway, traversed by electric locomotives—East and West together!--lent an air of romance to this period of service. But it was counterbalanced by a severe reality, for on occasions we marched at 7 a.m. with the thermometer at 100 degrees. And a padre's Sunday, beginning with the first church parade at 5 a.m. and conducting others at various posts among the sand-dunes, was a day which left one more conscious of reality than romance.
An atmosphere of romantic interest hangs about our French campaign. The scene changes, and for the white-robed hosts following Saladin or Mehemet Ali, for the bronzed warriors who followed Cambyses, Alexander the Great, Rameses II, for the Red and Blue arrayed against each other under Napoleon or Abercromby, we have to exchange the chivalry and battle represented by such names as Poictiers, Cressy, or Waterloo. In our fleet of six transports, our division en route had to watch and pray, wearing a lifebelt always.