One day, while I was making some sketch-book drawings of bursting shells down in the old water-course, the Roman Catholic padre came along.
“Sketching, Hargrave?”
“Yes, sir.”
And then: “I suppose you're Church of England, aren't you?”
“No, sir; I'm down as Quaker.”
“Quaker, eh?—that's interesting; I know quite a lot of Quakers in Dublin and Belfast.”
Who would expect to find “Father Brown” of G. K. Chesterton fame in a khaki drill uniform and a pith helmet?
A small, energetic man, with a round face and a habit of putting his hands deep into the patch pockets of his tunic. Here was a priest who knew his people, who was a real “father” to his khaki followers. I quickly discovered him to be a man of learning, and one who noticed small signs and commonplace details.
His eyes twinkled and glittered when he was amused, and his little round face wrinkled into wreaths of smiles.
When we moved to the Salt Lake dug-outs he came with us, and here he had a dug-out of his own.