Aye! a true soldier's funeral, and the one which he would perhaps have preferred to any other.
Bishop Taylor-Smith, who tells the story of the funeral, also says that the very next day the same chaplain (Mr. Macpherson) had gathered the men of a battery into a musty old barn for a short service, when, in the midst of the service, the roof of the barn was lifted right off by a shell which, however, failed to explode. The service came to a summary conclusion, not because of fear, but because the battery must stop that sort of thing, and gallop away into action.
Further stories by Bishop Taylor-Smith of the period to which this chapter relates show under what weird circumstances the sacrament of the Lord's Supper is sometimes administered.
A jute factory near Armentières was being heavily shelled, but down in the cellar, while the shelling was proceeding, the chaplain calmly distributed the elements to one hundred and twenty-eight officers and men of the Monmouth regiment. The only light was that supplied by the chaplain's flash lamp. The battalion went into action next day, and several of those who had taken part in the Holy Communion were killed.
On another occasion a celebration was taking place in a house at Houplines when shells demolished the houses on either side, and no sooner was the service over than a shell struck that self-same house. Close by was the crackling of rifle fire, for a shed in which the ammunition of the West Yorks was stored had been fired by a German shell.
In the same district an ordinary service—lasting about twenty-five minutes—was held at the O.C.'s request in a barn round which shells were dropping every moment. And yet so powerful was the singing of the men that it almost drowned the din of the bombardment. The chaplain, as he stood there conducting the service, thought how fearful it would be if a big shell dropped into the midst of that company of praying men.
After this who will call parsons cowards? I do not wonder that already one of them, the Rev. P.W. Guinness (Church of England), has won the D.S.O., and that Mr. Macpherson was among those "mentioned in despatches." I shall tell the story of Mr. Guinness' brave deed in another chapter.
One more funeral and this chapter shall draw to a close. The scene is too beautiful to leave out, even if it does mean bringing three funerals into one chapter. It dates from the battle of the Marne, and the story is narrated by our old friend the Rev. O.S. Watkins.
No men are braver, and very few render more important service, than the motor cycle scouts. They are, many of them, students from Oxford and Cambridge. Their intelligence, knowledge of languages, and general resource are a great asset to the British Army. Their work, however, is perilous in the extreme. One of these had lost his way and had actually ridden through two villages occupied by Germans when, at Douai, a bullet found its way to his heart.
When the Germans retired from the village, the villagers carried him tenderly into a cottage, straightened the fine young limbs, and covered him with a clean white sheet. They placed a bunch of newly gathered flowers upon his heart. He was carried to his last long rest by the old men of the village—the young men had all gone to the war—and as they passed through the village, the women came from the houses and laid flowers upon the bier.