Part 1

(Author Unknown)

Father William Doyle, S. J., never abandoned the hope of laying down his life for Christ. In 1914, he wrote to a friend saying, “What I am going to tell you now may pain you. I have volunteered for the Front as Military Chaplain, though perhaps I may never be sent. Naturally, I have little attraction for the hardship and suffering the life would mean, but it is a glorious chance to make the “ould body” bear something for Christ’s dear sake. However, what decided me in the end was a thought that flashed into my mind when in the chapel: the thought that if I am killed I shall die a martyr of charity, and so the longing of my heart will be gratified. This much my offering myself as chaplain has done for me: it has made me realize that my life may be very short and that I must do all I can for Jesus now.”

A similar thought occurs in his private diary under next day’s date (10 November 1914). He writes, “My offering myself as war chaplain to the Provincial has had a wonderful effect on me. I long to shed my blood for Jesus and, if He wills it, to die a martyr of charity. The thought that at any moment I may be called to the Front, perhaps to die, has roused a great desire to do all I can while I have life. I feel great strength to make any sacrifice and little difficulty in doing so. I may not have long now to prove my love for Jesus.”

He waited a year before the sacrifice was asked of him. On 15 November 1915, he makes this brief entry:

“Received my appointment from the War Office as chaplain to the 16th Division. *Fiat voluntas Tua.” *

“What the future has in store I know not,” he writes to a correspondent on the same day, “but I have given Jesus all to dispose of as He sees best. My heart is full of gratitude to Him for giving me this chance of being really generous and of leading a life that will be truly crucified.”

A few letters survive to tell us his impressions of camp life. On 15 December 1915, he writes, “I cannot say I am quite in love with camp life, which in many respects is very repellent. Even in these disagreeable things, there is a joy and secret pleasure, since it means all the more merit and, let us hope, a richer harvest of souls. My eyes have been opened still more to the awful godlessness of the world and the need, the immense need, there is for us who owe so much to our Blessed Lord to try and make up to Him for all this by greater love and generosity. It will never equal, I fear, the worldly generosity of these men. For example, this morning a regiment marched out of

camp at 5 a.m. in torrents of rain merely for exercise. When they return tonight, they will dry their wet underclothing by sleeping in them!”

On New Year’s Day, Father Doyle with his regiment (8th Royal Irish Fusiliers) moved from Whitely Camp to Borden Camp. The change was welcome to him for the reason given in the following letter four days later:

“Before I thank you for your letter, which was doubly welcome in my exile, I want to tell you the New Year’s gift our Lord gave me. We had an awful time of storm and rain coming over here, but the first thing I saw on reaching the barrack square was a hut marked R. C. Church. I took it for granted that it was just the usual hut set apart for Sunday Mass, but on trying the door you can imagine my delight to find a small but beautifully furnished chapel with a lamp burning before the altar, which made my heart leap with joy.”

“I felt as if all the hardships of my life had vanished, for I had found Him again Who makes the hard things easy and the bitter things sweet. What did anything matter now since I could go and tell Him all about it and get help and consolation from Jesus? I really think that this month’s privation of the Blessed Sacrament has taught me the true value of the Tabernacle. But, His goodness did not stop here. The other priest who had the key gave it to me without my even suggesting it, so I can go to Him at any hour of the day or night if I want to; do you think I shall? Is He not good to have put the little chapel where He did, as it might have been in any other part of the camp, miles away? I do not think there is a happier man in England than I today. I am writing this, sitting on a piece of wood—no chairs in our quarter. There are about 1,200 Catholics in our brigade now. I get a few “big fish” each evening.”

The reference to soul-fishing will remind us that Father Doyle’s life was by no means contemplative at this time except so far as he was able to be Martha by day and Mary by night. His work was very arduous and grew more so as the day of departure drew near. It was the last great chance for the soul of many an Irish lad.

“There is nothing like the prospect of a German shell for putting the fear of God into one; and many an old rooster whom no mission ever moved has been blown out of his nest by the news of our departure.”

“I cannot help thinking,” he adds, “that when the final reckoning day comes, in spite of all the misery and suffering caused, this war will turn out to have been the biggest act of God’s love, saving the souls of scores of poor fellows, certainly among my men.” “We are having desperate work these days,” he told a friend on 14 February 1916. “The good God is simply pouring out His grace on these poor fellows and reconciling them before they die. It has to be quick work, no time for “trimmings.” I have positively a pain in my arm giving Absolution and Communions in the morning. I was able to manage Exposition all day last Sunday, which brought in many an erring sheep. I realize that, from this day on, my life will be a martyrdom in a way I never thought of. I love my brave lads almost like my own brothers and sisters. They are all so wild and reckless, and at the same time so full of faith and love of God and His blessed Mother. Yet, soon I shall have to see the majority of them blown to bits, torn and mangled out of shape. Our brigade is leaving tomorrow for France. I am waiting till Friday night, so as to get in all the confessions I can. Do pray I may be able to say daily Mass. I shall carry everything necessary on my back, and so may manage the Holy Sacrifice in the train.”

“Whilst here, I have given Jesus two things for which He often asked, but which I refused through “prudence and a fear of interfering with important work”—a very old trick of the devil, which my eyes are open to see now. The first was to fast strictly all day—once I did a hard day’s work, ending up with a fifteen-mile march, on a cup of tea. The second was to spend the whole night in prayer. Including confessions, I was able one night to pass eleven hours with Jesus—telling Him every five minutes I was going after five more.”

On 17 February, Father Doyle received unexpected orders to proceed overseas. He wrote to his father a brief description of the crossing, which indirectly revealed some of his characteristic traits.

One passage stated, “The moon was surrounded by a magnificent halo or crown, which I promptly bagged for myself. I was fortunately able to get some tea on shore, for though they served us out with lifebelts, nothing in the shape of a dinner or rations came along. There were only a few bunks, which I left to the other officers, and as there was no place to sleep except the stoke-hole, which I was not having this journey, I picked a comfortable(?) corner on deck and prepared for a snooze, when, alas, down came the rain. Providence, however, came to my rescue. The second engineer was passing by and very kindly offered me a share of his cabin. I slept like a top on the settee. He was awfully kind to me, even offering me a share of his bunk, and this morning he had hot coffee and buns ready when I awoke, but as I was hoping to be able to celebrate Mass on shore, I had to postpone that luxury. At present, there seems little prospect of either Mass or breakfast, as it is now nine and we have been lying off shore since four this morning.”

“1.30 p.m. Just landed. Seeing there was no chance for Mass, I rooted up a Chinaman and secured a welcome cup of tea. He brought me also a plate of cold liver and potatoes, likewise cold—a dish to tempt one’s appetite after a Channel crossing!”

“After a tiresome day at Havre, the rain never for a moment ceasing, the men entrained for their base. After twenty-one and a half hours in the train, there was a march of twelve miles. “I shall not try to describe that march,” writes Father Doyle, “but you can gather what it was, with strong, big men falling down now and then

from sheer exhaustion. Under other circumstances I should not have minded the tramp, but I was near the end of my tether, and was carrying a great coat, pack, and water-bottle.”

After about two hours’ plodding, an officer, seeing Father Doyle’s exhaustion, induced him to get on an artillery limber. It was only when the wagons stopped at 2 a.m. that he discovered he was separated from the infantry and his regiment had gone to its unknown destination. He was lost. After three hours sleep under a cart, he walked on for a couple of miles and found himself in a good-sized town. Though he had not tasted food for thirty-five hours except for two sandwiches, he deferred breakfast until he could say Mass. Finding there were no passenger trains, he boarded a slow-moving, goods train and, sitting on uncomfortable explosive shells, was taken a good way on his journey. Finally, a Catholic officer whom he chanced to meet, motored him to his destination—Amettes, the birthplace of Saint Benedict Joseph Labre, to whom, since his college days, Father Doyle had a special devotion. Father Doyle had a comfortable room in the little convent. Since he had a bad chill as the result of his three-night exposure, he was lucky to have come under the kindly care of the good Sisters.

On 26 February, the men left their comparatively snug quarters and began moving in easy stages towards the trenches. The grim reality of war grew nearer.

It was not long before Father Doyle experienced real danger. On Sunday, 5 March, he said Mass for the 8th Fusiliers, who were stationed at Noeux-les-Mines. After he had finished (about 9 o’clock), he mounted his bicycle to go to the 8th Inniskillings, of whom he also had charge, and say Mass at eleven for them. They were stationed about four miles away near the ruined village of Mazingarbe. Father Doyle described his adventure in his own words.

“On the way I noticed that heavy firing was going on ahead, but it was only when I reached a bend in the road that I realized the enemy was actually shelling the very spot I had to pass. Some soldiers stopped me, saying it was too dangerous to go on. At that moment, I was wondering what had become of the side of a vacant house that had suddenly vanished in a cloud of smoke and I was painfully aware of the proximity of high-explosive shells.”

“Here was a puzzle! I knew my regiment was waiting in the village for Mass and that half of them were going to the trenches that afternoon for the first time. If I did not turn up, they would lose Confession and Holy Communion. Yet, the only way to reach them was by the shell-swept road. What really decided me was the thought that I was carrying the Blessed Sacrament. I felt that, having our Lord Himself with me, no harm could possibly come to me. I mounted the bicycle and faced the music. I do not want you to think me very brave and courageous, for I confess I felt horribly afraid. It was my baptism of fire, and one needs to grow accustomed to the sound of bursting shells. Just then, I was wishing that my regiment was in Jericho, and that every German gun was at the bottom of the Red Sea or any other hot place. Call it a miracle if you will, but the moment I turned the corner, the guns ceased firing, and not a shell fell till I was safely in the village Church. My confidence in God’s protection was not misplaced. Naturally, I did not know this was going to happen and it was anything but pleasant riding down the last stretch of road, listening for the scream of the coming shell. Have you ever had a nightmare in which you were pursued by ten mad bulls, while the faster you tried to run, the more your feet stuck in the mud? These were just my feelings as I pedaled down that blessed road which seemed to grow longer and longer the farther I went.”

“At last I turned the corner, reached the Church, and had just begun Mass when down came the hail of shells once more. One or two must have burst very close, judging by the way the walls shook, but I felt quite happy and quite ready to be blown from the altar, for I saw a fine plump Frenchwoman just behind me; she might have been killed, but I was quite safe!”

Father Doyle described some of his activities on Sunday 19 March.

“I started at seven in the morning by giving Holy Communion to the men whose Confessions I had heard the previous evening, a goodly number I am glad to say. This was followed by a number of Confessions in French for the townspeople and some French soldiers. I am quite ready to face any language at the present moment! This brought me up to nine, when my men had Mass Parade.”

“By chance the whole regiment was in the village, which meant of course that the Church would not hold them, so I had arranged for Mass in the open. The spot I selected was a large courtyard in front of the school—whereby hangs a tale. Armed with the Mayor’s permission, I approached the schoolmaster for his sanction. I must say, I found him most obliging and very gracious, even helping to get things ready. It was only afterwards that I discovered that this man was a red-hot anticlerical, anti-everything that was good, in fact, quite a bad lot; so that my request was about the same as asking the Grand Master of the Orange Lodge in Belfast for permission to have Mass in his hall! He was so staggered, I suppose, by my innocent request, that he could not find words to refuse. But the good folk of the town are wild with delight, and immensely tickled by the idea of Mass in the porch of his school above all people; needless to say, they have rubbed it into him well.”

“I had never celebrated Mass in the open before, and I think the men were as much impressed as I was. It was a glorious morning, with just a sufficient spice of danger to give the necessary warlike touch to the picture by the presence of a German aeroplane scouting nearby. I was a wee bit anxious lest a bomb might come down in the middle of the men, but I fancy our unwelcome visitor had quite enough to do dodging the shells from our guns, which kept booming all during Mass. Besides, I felt confident that, for once, our guardian angels would do their duty and protect us all till Mass was over.”

“When I finished breakfast, I found a big number of men waiting for Confession. I gave them Communion as well, though they were not fasting, as they were going to the trenches that evening and, as they were in danger of death, could receive the Blessed Sacrament as Viaticum. It was the last Communion for many poor fellows who, I trust, are praying for me in Heaven now.”

“Having polished off all who came to the Church, I made a raid on the men’s’ billets, and spent a few hours in stables, barns, and, in fact, anywhere, shriving the remainder, who gladly availed themselves of the chance of settling up accounts before they started for the front. The harvest, thank God, was good and consoling. Just before they marched at six in the evening, I gave the whole regiment—the Catholics, at least—a General Absolution. So, the men went off in the best of spirits, light of heart with the joy of a good conscience. ‘Goodbye, Father,’ one shouted, ‘we are ready to meet the *divil *himself now!’”

“I dined with the two transport officers who bring up the rations and ammunition to the soldiers, and then mounted my horse and rode up to Headquarters at the communication trenches.”

“I have a good old beast of a mare, quiet but with plenty of pace, who simply turns up her nose at a bursting shell with supreme contempt. All went well till suddenly six of our guns, hidden by the roadside, went off with a bang. This was not playing the game, and Flunkibrandos (the mare’s name) stopped dead, or rather reversed engines, and began to go astern. I tried to think of all the maneuvers and was wishing I had a bridle tied to her tail, for Flunki backed and backed until she pulled up with a bump against a brick wall the Germans had kindly spared—one of the few, it must be confessed, left in that town. Then, she sailed ahead again as if nothing had happened. I am bringing home a brick of that wall, for if it had not been there, I certainly should be half way across Germany now.”

“My work done, I mounted again and made for home. It was rather weird riding past the shattered houses in the dark, with the ping of a stray bullet to make you uncomfortable, while every few minutes a brilliant star shell would burst overhead and the guns would spit viciously at each other. I reached my billet and tumbled in just as the clock struck midnight.”

Father Doyle was chaplain to half the 49th Brigade, that is, to two regiments (the 8th Royal Irish Fusiliers and Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers), who were billeted four or five miles apart. To train them, the newly arrived men were sent to hold the trenches with other troops. Hence, half of each regiment remained behind, while the other was at the firing line. The chaplain’s position was therefore, rather difficult, for he could not be at the dressing station to look after the wounded and at the same time minister to the men at the base. “Up to this,” he says, “I stayed behind, as practically nothing can be done in the trenches themselves. While at the rear, I had my hands full, with just an odd visit to my absent men to cheer them up in their mud and slush.”

Then, at 6 p.m. on 31 March, the whole four regiments of the 49th Brigade left their quarters in Noeux-les-Mines and moved forward to the firing line. On this occasion, Father Doyle accompanied the men. Nearly all had been to Holy Communion that morning or the morning before, and they now received General Absolution. The town of Loos was in a salient* and, as the road to it was commanded by the German guns, it could be entered only at night.

“Single file, no smoking,” came the order as the danger zone was reached. After another mile, came the second order, “Men will advance by twos, twenty paces apart.”

Stray bullets were buzzing about and, fortunately, there were no shells. Suddenly, down the line came the command, “Every man lie flat.” The road was being swept by a machine gun. After the leaden hail had stopped, the men moved on again into the town—where the Staff remained—and then moved out to man the trenches.

That night, Father Doyle slept in a dugout for the first time. “I had rather an amusing experience the first night I spent in the trenches,” he writes. “On arriving here, I found two officers in the dugout that was intended for me. As they were leaving the next day, I did not care to evict them. After some searching, I came across an unoccupied, glorified, rabbit-hole—any port in a storm. It was not too inviting, looking rather damp; but I got a trench board that made a capital foundation for a bed and spread my sleeping bag over it. Let me say here that I do not recommend a trench board for a bed. A trench board is simply a

* Military: Part of a military front, line, or fortification that projects outward into enemy-held territory or toward the enemy.

kind of ladder with flat steps. It is laid at the bottom of the trench and, as it is very narrow, requires great skill to stop oneself from rolling off during the night. In addition, the sharp edges of the steps have a trick of cutting into your back and ribs, making you feel in the morning as if you had been at Donnybrook fair the night before.”

In spite of it all, I slept soundly till I was awakened by feeling a huge rat sitting on my chest. The rats round here beat anything I have ever seen. If I told you they were as big as sheep you would scarcely believe me, so let me say a lamb. In any case, this fellow was a whopper, weighing fully seven pounds, as I proved afterwards. As I gradually awoke more fully, I felt his weight and could dimly see his black outline. Before I quite realized what was happening, a warm, soft tongue began to lick my face and I recognized my old friend—the dog!”

Father Doyle’s further references to this dugout are not without humor and horror. “When introducing you to my friends the rats,” he writes, “I made a serious omission in forgetting another class of most attentive friends, smaller in size but much more active in a close personal way. They are not called teas, but something very like that. You must remember that the unwashed German lived in our cellar for months, and, upon departing, left behind him a large number of small fierce warriors from across the Rhine. Next, the French moved in. There is not much picking on a Frenchman, so it is small wonder that, when they in turn departed, their small companions remained in hope of better things to come. Tommy Atkins then appeared and, not to be outdone, left a legacy also. Fortunately, these visitors were natives of different countries, speaking different tongues; otherwise, had they been friends and united in policy, we should have been literally pulled out of bed.”

In a letter written the following January, Father Doyle mentions more gruesome details. “One end of the dugout had been blown in by a big shell, burying two men whom it was impossible to get out. We lived at the other end. They, poor chaps, were covered with clay, but were not deep enough to keep out the smell of decaying bodies—which did not help one’s appetite at mealtime. When your nerves were more jumpy than usual, you’d swear the dead man’s boot was moving as if he were alive.”

The next morning (which he notes was the twenty-fifth anniversary of his entrance into the Society) Father Doyle emerged to view the havoc and ruin of what was once a town. He discovered a tiny wayside chapel, “Our Lady of Consolation.” The altar was still standing and here, amid the inferno of shot and shell, he celebrated Mass.

That afternoon Father Doyle had “the most exciting experience of his whole life.” He and the doctor set out to visit the Field Ambulance Station at the other end of the town, where the wounded were sent at night from the Regimental Aid Post. Without knowing it, they walked along a road in broad daylight in full view of the German trenches and escaped only by a miracle. Father Doyle joined some officers in the cellar, who were having a tea party enlivened by a gramophone.

“McCormack,” says Father Doyle, “had just finished the last bars of ‘She is far from the Land,’ which brought back old memories, when suddenly Berths Krupp opened her mouth in a most unladylike way, let out a screech you could hear in Dublin, and spat a huge shell right into our courtyard. It was a six-inch gun, so the artillery officer who was present said, but I am certain that sixty inches would be nearer the mark. I shall not easily forget the roar as the shell burst only a few feet from where we sat. A moment later, there was a deafening crash. A second shell had hit what was left of the upper wall and brought it tumbling down, half smothering us with the dust that came through the open slit that served as window and chimney combined. This was not bad shooting so far. The next shot went wide, but did useful work among the stables and out-houses. Then came a fearful dull thud. The walls quivered, I was nearly knocked off my chair by the concussion, and the cup in the officer’s hand sitting next me was sent flying—a shell had landed clean on top of our cellar. That was too much for the rats. Out they came—from hole and corner, scores of them, scurrying for the open. Evidently, they thought our poor ship was in a bad way. I said a fervent prayer for the Germans who had formerly occupied the house. They had done their work well, propping up the cellar roof with huge beams. Otherwise, we might have all been buried in the ruins. Shell after shell kept raining down—at least six fell upon our heads. We were perfectly safe, as the battered-in roof and walls on top of our cellar made a natural dugout, but we all knew there was a chance that a shell could come

through and possibly smash the cup and gramophone. It was an exciting half-hour—one that none of our party had any great anxiety to repeat for some time at least.”

“As we went home in the dusk of the evening,” he adds, “I came to the conclusion that there are worse places to live than poor old Ireland. I also concluded that I had quite enough thrills for one day.”

It was not to be, however, for still another adventure awaited him. Upon returning, he found that a dead man had been brought in for burial.

“The cemetery, part of a field, was outside the town in the open country. It was so exposed to shell and rifle fire that it could not be approached by day. As soon as it was dark, we carried the poor fellow out on a stretcher, just as he had fallen. As quietly as we could, we began to dig the grave. It was weird. We were standing in front of the German trenches on two sides, though a fair distance away, and every now and then a star shell went up, which we felt certain would reveal our presence to the enemy. I put my Ritual in the bottom of my hat and, with the aid of an electric torch, read the burial service. The men screened the light with their caps, as a single flash would have turned the machine guns on us. I cannot say if we were seen or not, but all the time bullets came whizzing by, though more than likely stray ones and not aimed at us. Once I had to get the men to lie down as things were rather warm; but somehow, I felt quite safe, as if the dead soldier’s guardian angel was sheltering us from all danger, till the poor dust was laid to rest. It was my first war burial though assuredly not my last. May God rest his soul, and comfort those left to mourn him.”

Burials soon became more frequent, and Father Doyle had many gruesome experiences. A few days later, two bodies fell to bits when lifted off the stretcher and he had to shovel the remains of one poor fellow into the grave—a task that taxed his endurance. On 1 April, he had a rather vivid experience of the horrors of war:

“Taking a short cut across country to our lines, I found myself on the first battlefield of Loos, the place where the French had made their attack. For some reason, this part of the ground had not been cleared, and it remained more or less at it was the morning after the fight. I had to pick my steps carefully for numbers of unexploded shells, bombs, and grenades lay all round. The ground was littered with broken rifles, torn uniforms, packs, and so forth, just as the men had flung them aside while charging the German trenches. Almost the first thing I saw was a human head torn from the trunk, though there was no sign of the body. The soldiers had been buried on the spot where they fell. That is, if you can call hastily throwing a few shovelfuls of clay on the corpses a burial. There was little time, I fancy, for digging graves, and, in war, there is not much thought or sentiment for the slain. As I walked along, I wondered if they had made certain each man was really dead. One poor fellow had been buried before the breath had left his body, for there was every sign of a last struggle and one arm was thrust out from its shroud of clay. A large mound caught my eye. Four pairs of feet were sticking out, a German, judging by his boots, and three Frenchmen—friend and foe are sleeping their long last sleep in peace together. They were decently covered compared with the next I saw. A handful of earth covered the wasted body, but his legs and arms and head were exposed to view. He seemed quite a young lad, with fair, almost golden hair. “An unknown soldier” was all the rough wooden cross over him told me about him. Yet, I thought of the sorrowing mother, far away, thinking of her boy who was ‘missing’ and hoping against hope that he might one day come back. Thank God, one day Heaven will reunite them both. I found a shovel nearby and, after a couple of hours’ stiff work, was able to cover the bodies decently, so they might rest in peace at least on earth.”

These few weeks in Loos were a time of great strain; but, of course, there were intermissions. After three days and nights in the front trench, for the next three days the men moved back to a village out of range of rifle fire. Here though, they were not immune from occasional shells. After this triduum* of comparative rest, they moved up to the support trench and then three days later moved back once more to Loos.

“It was a memorable six days for us all,” he writes on 16 April, “living day and night literally face to face with death at every moment. When I left my dugout to go up or down the street, which I had to do scores of times daily, I never knew if I should reach the end of it without being hit by a bullet or a piece of shell.”

“In the comparative safety of the cellar, at meals or in bed, there was always the pleasant prospect of being blown to bits or buried alive if the shell came in a certain direction. Life there was a big strain on the nerves, for it does make one creepy—as happened to myself yesterday. I heard the rattle of shell splinters on the walls on either side of the road, almost feeling the thud of a nice jagged lump right behind and seeing another fragment go hopping off the road a few yards in front. Why, Daniel in the lions’ den had a happy time compared to a walk through the main street of Loos.”

* A period of three days of prayer before a Roman Catholic feast.

The secret of his confidence can be guessed from the description of the Cross of Loos that he saw on 3 April.

“I had an opportunity, a rare one, thanks to the fog, of examining closely in daylight one of the wonders of the war, the famous Crucifix or Calvary of Loos. This is a very large cross standing on a mound in a most exposed position, the center of fierce fighting. One of the four trees standing by it has been torn up by a shell, the branches of the others smashed to bits, a tombstone at its feet lies broken in half, and the houses on either aide are a heap of ruins. Yet, neither cross nor figure has been touched. I looked closely and could not see even one bullet hole. Surely if the Almighty can protect the image of His Son, it will be no great difficulty to guard His priest also, as indeed He has done in a wonderful way.”

Father Doyle was curé of this parish of trenches, his church being his dugout situated in the support trench near the doctor’s dressing station. He also humorously included innumerable rats, insects, and vermin among his parishioners! Of his men, he was really proud.

“Our poor lads are just grand,” he says. “They curse like troopers all the day, they give the Germans hell, purgatory, and heaven all combined at night, and next morning come kneeling in the mud for Mass and Holy Communion when they get a chance. They beam all over with genuine pleasure when their Padre comes past their dugout or meets them in the trench.”

It may be added that he was often in the front trench to encourage and bless the rain-sodden, mud-stained, weary watchers. On Easter Sunday, 23 April, he celebrated his first Mass in the trenches. He had quite a congregation, chiefly of officers, as the men were unable to leave their posts.

“My church was a bit of a trench,” he writes, “the altar a pile of sandbags. Though we had to stand deep in mud, not knowing the moment a sudden call to arms would come, many a fervent prayer went up to heaven that morning.”

On the evening of Wednesday, 26 April, the Germans began a slight bombardment that was the prelude to a formidable attack. It was Father Doyle’s first experience in a battle and proved to be almost his last. Having met an officer who, though only slightly scratched, was badly shaken by an exploding shell, Father Doyle brought him to his dugout, tended to him, and made him sleep in his own bunk. Later on when he himself tried to sleep, he found he could not do so as the night was cold and he had given up his own blanket. His subsequent adventures may be best given in the words of his own vivid narrative.

“About four o’clock the thought struck me that it would be a good thing to walk back to the village to warm myself and say an early Mass for the nuns, who usually have to wait hours for some chaplain to turn up. They have been very kind to me, and I was glad of this chance of doing this little service to them. The village is about two miles behind our trench, in such a position that one can leave cover with perfect safety and walk there across the fields. As I left the trench about 4:45, the sun was just rising. It was a perfect morning with a gentle breeze blowing. Now and again came the crack of a rifle, but all was unusually calm and still. Little did I think of the deadly tempest about to burst and hurry so many brave men into eternity. I had just reached a point half way between our trenches and the village when I heard behind me the deep boom of a German gun quickly followed by a dozen others. In a moment, our gunners replied and before I could realize what was taking place, the air was alive with shells. At first I thought it was just a bit of the usual “good-morning greeting” and that after ten minutes of “artillery strafe” all would be quiet once more. I soon saw this was a serious business, however, for gun after gun, and battery after battery, was rapidly coming into action, until at the lowest number, 500 guns were roaring all round me. It was a magnificent if terrifying sight. The ground fairly shook with the roar of the guns, for the “heavies” now had taken up the challenge, and all round the horizon I could see the clouds of smoke and dust from the bursting shells as both sides kept searching for their opponents’ hidden cannon.”

“There I stood in the very center of the battle; the one man of all the thousands engaged who was absolutely safe, for I was away from the trenches. There were no guns or troops near me to draw fire and, though thousands of shells went over my head, not even a splinter fell near me. I felt that the good God had quietly “dumped” me there till all danger had passed.”

“After a while, seeing that this heavy shelling meant an attack of some kind, and that soon many a dying man would need my help, I turned round and made my way towards the ambulance station. As I approached, I noticed smoke from the bursting shells was hanging thickly over the trenches and was drifting towards me across the fields. For once, I said to myself, I am going to smell the smoke of real battle, and I stepped out quite envigorated. The next moment, I turned and was running back for my life—the Germans had started a poison-gas attack that I had mistaken for shell smoke and I had walked straight into it!”

“After running about 20 yards I stopped to see what was to be done, for I knew it was useless to try to escape by running. I saw (again providentially) I had struck the extreme edge of the gas and the wind was blowing it away, towards my left and a hundred yards in the opposite direction. I was safe.”

“I must confess, for a moment I was shocked, as a gas attack was the very last thing I was thinking about—in fact, we thought the Germans had given it up. Fortunately, too, I had not forgotten the old days of the chemistry room at Ratcliffe College and its “stink bottles,” so I knew at the first whiff it was chlorine gas and time for this child to make tracks.”

“However, I was not yet out of the wood. Even as I was congratulating myself on my good fortune, both right and left from where I stood, I saw the green wave of a second gas attack rolling towards me like some huge specter, stretching out its ghostly arms. As I saw it coming, my heart went out to God in one fervent act of gratitude for His goodness to me. As probably you know, we all carry a case slung over our shoulders containing ‘smoke helmets,’ to be used against a gas attack. That morning as I was leaving my dugout, I threw my helmet aside. I had a long walk before me, the helmet is a bit heavy on a hot day, and, as I said, German gas was most unlikely. So, I made up my mind to leave it behind. In view of what happened, it may appear imagination now, but a voice seemed to whisper loudly in my ear, ‘Take your helmet with you. Don’t leave without it.’ I turned back and slung it over my shoulder. Surely, it was the warning voice of my guardian angel, for if I had not done so, you would never have had this letter.”

“I wonder can you picture my feelings at this moment? Here was death in its most awful form sweeping down towards me. Thank God I had the one thing that could save me, but with a carelessness for which I ought to be scourged. I had never tried the helmet on and did not know if it was in working order. In theory, with the helmet on, I was absolutely safe, but it was an anxious moment waiting for the scorching test, and to make things more horrible, I was absolutely alone. Yet, I had the companionship of One who sustained me in the hour of trial and, kneeling down, I took the Pyx from my pocket and received the Blessed Eucharist as Viaticum. I had not a moment to spare and had just fixed my helmet when I was buried in a thick green fog of poison gas. In a few moments, my confidence returned, for the helmet worked perfectly and I found I was able to breathe without any ill effects from the gas.”

“By the time I got down to the dressing-station, the guns had ceased fire, the gas was blown away, and the sun was shining in a cloudless sky. Already a stream of wounded was coming in and I soon had my hands full, when an urgent message reached me from the front trench. A poor fellow had been desperately wounded. A bullet had cut him like a knife across the stomach, with results you can best imagine. He was told he had only a few minutes to live, and asked if they could do anything for him. ‘I have only one wish before I die,’ he answered. ‘Could you possibly get me Father Doyle? I’ll go happy then.’ It was hard work to reach him, as parts of the communication trench were knee deep in water and thick mud. Then I was misdirected and sent in the wrong direction, but I kept on praying I might be in time. At last, I found the dying man still breathing and conscious. The look of joy that lit up his face when I knelt beside him was reward enough for the effort I had made. I gave him Absolution and anointed him before he died. Occupied as I was, I did not notice that a third gas attack had begun. Before I could get my helmet out and on, I had swallowed a couple of mouthfuls, which did me no serious harm beyond making me feel rather sick and weak.”

“As I made my way slowly up the trench, feeling altogether ‘a poor thing,’ I stumbled across a young officer who had been badly gassed. He had got his helmet on, but was coughing and choking in a terrible way. ‘For God’s sake,’ he cried, ‘help me tear off this helmet—I can’t breathe, I’m dying.’ I saw if I left him, the end would not be far. So catching hold of him, I half carried, half dragged him up the trench to the medical aid post. I shall never forget that ten minutes, it seemed hours. I seemed to have lost all my strength. Struggling with him to prevent him killing himself by tearing off his helmet made me forget almost how to breathe through mine. I was almost stifled, though safe from gas, while the perspiration poured from my forehead. I could do nothing but pray for help and set my teeth, for if I once let go, he was a dead man. Thank God, we both at last got to the aid post and I had the happiness of seeing him in the evening out of danger, though naturally still weak.”

“Fortunately, this last attack was short and light, so I was able to take off my helmet and, after a cup of tea, was all right. The best proof I can give you of this lies in the fact that I have since put in three of the hardest days work of my life, which I could not possibly have done had I really been gassed, as its first effect is to leave one as helpless as a child.”

Father Doyle made this last remark to relieve his father’s anxiety. However, it was, to say the least, a meager summary of his heroic work and almost miraculous escape. A year later, he lifted the veil somewhat. “I have never told you,” he then confessed, “the whole story of that memorable April morning or the repetition of it the following day. I have never told you when I was lying on the stretcher going to ‘peg out’ as the doctor believed, God gave me back my strength and energy in a way that was nothing short of a miracle to help many a poor fellow die in peace and perhaps to open the gates of heaven to not a few.”

“I had come through the three attacks without ill results, though having been unexpectedly caught by the last one. As I was anointing a dying man, I did not see the poisonous fumes coming. Thus, I had swallowed some of the gas before I could get my helmet on. It was nothing very serious, but left me rather weak and washy. There was little time to think of that, for wounded and dying were lying all along the trenches and I was the only priest on that section at the time.”