Part 2

“The fumes had quite blown away, but a good deal of the gas, being of a heavy nature, had sunk down to the bottom of the trench, and gathered under the duck-boards or wooden flooring. It was impossible to do one’s work with the gas helmet on, so, as I knelt down to absolve or anoint man after man for the greater part of that day, I had to inhale the chlorine fumes till I had nearly enough gas in my poor inside to inflate a German sausage balloon.”

“I did not then know that when a man is gassed his only chance (and a poor one at that) is to lie perfectly still to give the heart a chance of fighting its foe. In happy ignorance of my real state, I covered mile after mile of those trenches until at last in the evening, when the work was done, I was able to rejoin my battalion in a village close to the Line.”

“It was only then that I began to realize that I felt ‘rotten bad,’ as schoolboys say. I remember the doctor, who was a great friend of mine, feeling my pulse and shaking his head as he put me lying in a corner of the shattered house. Then, he sat beside me for hours with a kindness I can never forget. He told me afterwards he was sure I was a ‘gone coon,’ but, at that moment, I did not care much. Then I fell asleep only to be rudely awakened at four the next morning by the crash of guns and the dreaded bugle call, ‘gas alarm, gas alarm.’ The Germans had launched a second attack, fiercer than the first. It did not take long to make up my mind what to do. Who would hesitate at such a moment, when the Reaper of Death was busy? Before I reached the trenches, I had anointed a number of poor fellows who had struggled back after being gassed and then had fallen dying by the roadside.”

“The harvest that day was a big one, for there had been bloody fighting all along the Front. Many a man died happy in the thought that the priest’s hand had been raised in Absolution over his head and the Holy Oils anointing had given pardon to those senses that he had used to offend the Almighty. It was a long, hard day, a day of heartrending sights, a day with the consolation of good work done in spite of the deadly fumes. I reached my billet wet and muddy, pretty nearly worn out, but perfectly well, with not the slightest ill effect from what I had gone through, nor have I felt any since. Surely, God has been good to me. That was not the first of His many favors, nor has it been the last.”

This was written a year later. In his first letter, while concealing the extreme risks he had incurred, he gave his father a brief consoling account of his two days’ work amid the ghastly battlefield.

“On paper, every man with a helmet was as safe as I was from gas-poisoning. Now, it is evident many of the men despised the ‘old German gas,’ some did not bother putting on their helmets, others had torn them, and others (like myself) had thrown them aside or lost them. From early morning till late at night I worked my way from trench to trench single-handed the first day, with three regiments to look after, and could get no help. Many men died before I could reach them; others seemed just to live till I anointed them and were gone before I passed back. There they lay, scores of them (we lost 800, nearly all from gas) in the bottom of the trench, in every conceivable posture of human agony. The clothes were torn off their bodies in vain efforts to breathe; while from end to end of that valley of death came one low unceasing moan from the lips of brave men fighting and struggling for life.”

“I don’t think you will blame me when I tell you that more than once the words of Absolution stuck in my throat and the tears splashed down on the patient suffering faces of my poor boys as I leant down to anoint them. One young soldier seized my two hands and covered them with kisses; another looked up and said, ‘Oh! Father, I can die happy now, sure I’m not afraid of death or anything else since I have seen you.’ Don’t you think, dear, father, that the little sacrifice made in coming out here has already been more than repaid? If you have suffered a little anxiety on my account, you have at least the consolation of knowing that I have, through God’s goodness, been able to comfort many a poor fellow and perhaps to open the gates of Heaven for them.”

After this terrible experience, Father Doyle was glad to have a few days’ rest at the rear. For the first time in a fortnight, he was able to remove his clothes and he slept for thirteen continuous hours in a real bed. He had, as he himself said, “nearly reached the end of his tether.”

For his conduct during that time, he was mentioned in dispatches. His Colonel recommended him for the Military Cross, but was told that Father Doyle had not been long enough at the Front! So he was presented with the Parchment of Merit of the 49th Brigade. On which he remarked, “I hope that the angels have not forgotten me, and that I shall get a little corner in their report to Headquarters above.” Fortunately, there is no doubt about the latter point! Not angels only, but human souls speeding heavenwards bore tribute to the self-sacrificing zeal of the soldier of Christ.

During the comparative lull that followed this attack, Father Doyle was kept busy by the men, “scraping their kettles,” as they expressed it. “I wish mine were half as clean as some of theirs,” he adds. Thus, on Sunday, 14 May, between 0600 and 0700, the men went to Holy Communion. Once more, Father Doyle eulogizes his little flock. “One cannot help feeling proud of our Irish lads,” he writes. “Everyone loves them—the French girls, naturally, that goes without saying, and the shopkeepers love them for their simplicity in paying about five times the real value of the goods they buy. Monsieur le Curé would hug them each and every one if he could, for he has been raking in the coin these days. Many a one put three and five-franc notes in the plate, to make up, I suppose, for the trouser-buttons of the knowing ones. Surely, our Blessed Lord loves them best of all for the simple unaffected piety that brings crowds of them at all hours of the day to visit Him in the Tabernacle. Need I add that the Padre himself has a warm corner in his heart for his boys, as I think they have for him, judging by their anxiety when the report spread that I had got knocked out in the gas attack. They are as proud as Punch to have the chaplain with them in the trenches. It is quite amusing to hear them point out my dugout to strangers as they go by. ‘That’s our priest,’ with special stress on the ‘our.’” For which, assuredly, the Fusiliers had good reason.

What did he think of it all? The following little description of another Crucifix will help show us where his thoughts lay.

“I paid a visit recently to another wonder of the war, the Church of Vermelles. Little remains of it now, for the town has been held in succession by the Germans, French, and ourselves, and every yard of ground was lost and won a dozen times. The church is just a heap of ruins: the roof has been burnt, the tower shot away, and the statues and Stations are smashed to dust. Yet, hanging still on one of the broken walls is a large crucifix absolutely untouched. The figure is beautiful, a work of art, and the face of Our Lord has an expression of sadness such as I have never seen before. The eyes are open, gazing as it were upon the scene of desolation and, though the wall upon which the crucifix hangs is riddled with bullet holes and shell splinters, the image is untouched save for one round bullet hole just through the heart. The whole thing may be only chance, but it is a striking sight and cannot fail to impress one and bring home the fact that, if God is scourging the world as it well deserves, He is not indifferent to the sorrows and sufferings of His children.”

A few intimate letters written at this time give us a precious glimpse of Father Doyle’s inner life. We are thus enabled to see a little of that inner soul world, so calm and undisturbed, so perfectly hidden beneath the multifarious activities and cheerful vigor of a military chaplain. He felt that his present life, so repellent to his natural self, was at once the fulfillment and the test of all his previous aspirations for the foreign missions and martyrdom. His experience seemed to him a purifying preparation for some great task, the consummation of all his striving and sacrifice.

“Life out here,” he writes, “has had one strange effect on me. I feel as if I had been crushed under some great weight and that the crushing had somehow got rid of much that was bad in me and brought me closer to Jesus. If it should be God’s holy will to bring me safe out of this war, life will be too short to thank Him for all the graces He has given me here. I am already dreaming dreams of the big things I shall try to do for Him, but I fancy he wants to crush me still more before I get out of this. I read a passage recently in the letters of Pere Libermann, which is consoling. He says that he found from long experience that God never filled a soul with an ardent and lasting desire for anything; e.g., love, holiness, etc., without in the end gratifying it. Has He not in the lesser things acted thus with me? You know my desire for the foreign missions because I realized that the privation and hardships of such a life, the separation from all naturally dear to me, would be an immense help to holiness. And, here I am, a real missioner, if not in the Congo, at least with many of the wants and sufferings and even greater dangers than I should have found there. The longing for martyrdom God has gratified times without number, for I have had to go into what seemed certain death, gladly making the offering of my poor life, but He did not accept it, so the ‘daily martyrdom’ might be repeated. How I thank Him for this keenest of all sufferings, the prospect of death when life is bounding within one, since it makes me a little more like the Savior shrinking from death in the Garden! Even my anxiety to have more time for prayer has been gratified, because, while waiting for one thing or another or going on my rounds, I have many opportunities for a little talk with Him.”

“I have seen very clearly since I came out here,” he writes in a hurriedly penciled note on 16 April, “that Jesus wanted to teach me one lesson at least. I think the want of absolute submission to His will has been the cause of much I have suffered. He asked me to make the sacrifice of my life, but I was unwilling. Not that in any sense I fear death—would not heaven be a welcome exchange? Yet, knowing what I do about the state of the world, the millions to be saved, and how little He is known or loved or thought about, I feel it hard, very hard, to leave all that work there, and go to enjoy the happiness of His company. Then, too, my mind is full of plans for His glory and, perhaps more than all, I know well that I have not done the work He gave me to do, that is, I have never fully lived the life He has so often asked for, and made clearly known to me. I was too ungenerous and cowardly. That life, to put it in a word, was to be one in which I should ‘refuse Him no sacrifice He asked.’ However, grace has won the day. I think I can say with truth that I have now no desire or wish except His. I have told Him He may do just as He pleases with me and take all, even my life. This has brought great peace and a sense of great security in the midst of danger, since I know I am in His hands. In return, He has made me see that without this absolute abandonment to His pleasure, without the breaking of my own will, a life of immolation as His victim is a farce. The ‘perfect renunciation’ may be easy, but ‘without murmur or complaint’ is the real test of the true lover.”

Seen in its practical outcome of fearless and selfless service, this ideal of a life of immolation can be appreciated even by those who value holiness only by its direct social worth. It was no merely human ideal, however, but rather Father Doyle’s constant union with our Lord that gave him strength and consolation. What he especially valued was the privilege of being a living Tabernacle, of always carrying the Blessed Sacrament around with him. To Father Doyle, this was not only a constant source of consolation, but it also enabled him to overcome his natural loathing for the scenes of strife and slaughter around him and to manifest an amazingly serene courage that he was really far from feeling. “I have been living in the front trenches for the last week,” he says in another letter, “in a sea of mud, drenched to the skin with rain, and mercilessly peppered with all sorts and conditions of shells. Yet I realize that some strange purifying process is going on in my soul and that this life is doing much for my sanctification. This much I can say: I hunger and thirst for holiness and for humiliations and sufferings, which are the shortcut to holiness. I find however that, when these things do come, I often pull a long face and try to avoid them. Yet lately, I have come to understand, as never before, that it is only ‘through many tribulations’ we can hope to enter the Promised Land of sanctity. I think, when this war is over (about twenty years hence), I shall become a hermit! I never felt so utterly sick of the world and worldlings. All this bustle and movement has wearied my soul beyond measure. I am longing for solitude, to be alone with Jesus, for He seems to fill every want in my life. All the same, as the days go by, I thank our Blessed Lord more and more for the grace of getting me here. Not exactly because of the consolation of helping so many poor fellows or because of the merit the hard life must bring with it, but because I feel this experience has influenced my whole future, which I cannot further explain except by saying that God has given me the grace of my life since I came.”

“Then, there is also the great privilege and joy of carrying our dear Lord next to my heart day and night. Long ago, when reading that Pius IX carried the Pyx around his neck, I felt a foolish desire, as it seemed to me, for the same privilege. Little did I think then that the God of holiness would stoop so low as to make me His resting place. Why, this favor alone would be worth going through twenty wars for! I feel ashamed at times that I do not profit more by His nearness, but I know He makes allowances for weak, inconstant nature and, even when I do not directly think of Him, He is silently working in my soul. Do you not think that Jesus must have done very much for Mary during the nine months she bore Him within her? I feel that He will do much, very much, for me too whilst I carry Him about with me.”

Writing on 7 May, he lets an intimate correspondent clearly see the source of all his strength and courage.

“Sometimes God seems to leave me to my weakness and I tremble with fear,” he confesses. “At other times I have so much trust and confidence in His loving protection that I could almost sit down on a bursting shell, feeling I could come to no harm. You would laugh, or perhaps cry, if you saw me at this moment sitting on a pile of bricks and rubbish. Shells are bursting a short distance away on three sides and occasionally a piece comes down with an unpleasantly close thud. But what does it matter? Jesus is resting on my Heart and whenever I like I can fold my arms over Him and press Him to that heart that, as He knows, beats with love of Him.”

With what wonderful literalness does this attitude reproduce the message of our Lord Himself: “I say to you, My friends: Be not afraid of them who kill the body and after that have no more that they can do. . . . Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings and not one of them is forgotten before God? Yea, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows” (Luke. 12.4).

The convent of Mazingarbe, reference to which was made earlier, did not long survive. “You will be sorry to hear,” says Father Doyle in his letter of 22 May, “that I have lost the good nuns and my little chapel. I call it mine, as it was associated with so many stirring events in my life at the Front. I was on my way there on that famous Sunday morning when the shells miraculously stopped falling on the road I had to pass. I was going to the same little chapel when the bombardment and gas-attack of April 27 began. Further, several times I have said Mass at the altar that is now in fragments. A few mornings ago, a big shell hit the chapel, burst inside, and literally blew it to bits, not a brick was left standing on another. It was the most complete bit of destruction I have ever seen. I remember the poor nuns telling me that they had become so accustomed to

the shelling that they did not bother taking shelter in the cellar. For some reason or other—God’s providence over them no doubt—they had gone down to the lower regions on that morning and, thus, escaped without a scratch. I am very sorry to lose them, for we had become great friends. More than once, they bound up my wounds, internal ones be it noted, pouring in hot rolls and strong coffee. I think I never met four pluckier women. They were sent away three times by the military authorities and came back three times. I should not be a bit surprised to find them some morning encamped once more on the ruins of their convent.”

In the same letter, he announced that he had applied for a much needed leave of absence. “I do not think,” he says, “in my life, that I ever looked forward to a holiday with such keenness before.”

Though outwardly he was as joyous and happy as ever, much had told severely on Father Doyle. He had endured the nerve-racking, ear-splitting, ceaseless warfare; the constant stream of soldiers to be helped, shriven, anointed, or buried; the physical discomforts; the rats and the vermin; the intense cold and knee-deep slush followed by the aching glare of the chalk trenches; the poison gas working on his body, and the nauseating scenes of bloodshed working on his mind. He endured all this, quite apart from his self-imposed martyrdom of prayer and penance. His all too short holiday of ten days was soon over, however, and, once again, he was back in the trenches.

He was hardly back when a new adventure befell him. “It seems right,” he tells his father, “that I should not keep from you this last mark of the good God’s wonderful protection that has been so manifest during the past four months.”

“I was standing in a trench, quite a long distance from the firing line, a spot almost as safe as Dalkey itself. I was talking to some of my men, when we heard in the distance the scream of a shell. It was evidently one of those random shots that Brother Fritz sends along from time to time, as no other came after it. We very soon became painfully aware that our visitor was heading for us and, if he did not explode in front of our trench, his career would certainly come to an end close behind us. I did not feel uneasy, for I knew we were practically safe from flying fragments that would pass over our heads, but none of us had calculated that this gentleman had made up his mind to drop into the trench itself, a couple of paces from where I stood.”

“I cannot say what really took place in the next ten seconds. I was conscious of a terrific explosion and the thud of falling stones and debris. I thought the drums of my ears were split by the crash. I believe I was knocked down by the concussion but, when I jumped to my feet, I found that the two men who had been standing at my left, the side where the shell fell, were stretched on the ground dead, though I think I had time to give them Absolution and anoint them. The poor fellow on my right was

lying badly wounded in the head but I myself, though a bit stunned and dazed by the suddenness of the whole thing, was absolutely untouched, though covered with dirt and blood.”

“My escape was nothing short of a miracle. A moment before, I was standing on the very spot the shell fell and had just moved away a couple of paces. I did not think it was possible for one to be so near a high explosive and not be killed. Even now, I cannot account for my marvelous escape. In saying this, I am not quite truthful, for I have no doubt where the protection came from. I had made up my mind to consecrate some small hosts at my Mass the following morning and put them in my Pyx as usual. However, as I walked through the village on my way to the trenches, the thought came to me that, with so much danger about, it would be well to have our Blessed Lord’s company and protection. I went into the church, opened the Tabernacle, and, with the Sacred Host resting on my heart, set out confidently to face whatever lay before me. Little did I think I was to be so near death or how much depended on that simple action. That is the explanation of the whole affair. I trusted Him and I believe He just allowed this to happen on the very first day I got back to make me trust Him all the more and have greater confidence in His loving protection.”

Even a week’s rest in billets, though a change from life in the trenches, meant no cessation of work or risk. It was a busy time for Father Doyle, as the men availed of the opportunity for Confession and Holy Communion. Even here, well behind the firing line, danger was not absent, for the German long-range guns often sent unwelcome visitors.

“One shell hit this house,” he said. “It came slick through the brick wall into my poor bedroom of all places. Very shabby, I call it, missed my bed by just an inch, took a dive through the floor into the room below, and, having amused itself with the furniture, coolly waltzed out through the opposite wall without condescending to burst, in indignation, I suppose, because I was not there. No one was hurt and not much harm done. I have put the head of my bed in the hole in the wall, for it is a point of honor among shells not to come twice through the same spot. In consequence, I sleep securely.” “With all these prayers going on,” he added to reassure those at home, “a fellow has no chance of getting hit. It’s not fair, I think!”

At any rate, it was not Father Doyle’s fault that he was not hit, for when there was question of ministering to his men, he was absolutely heedless of danger. Further proof of this is unnecessary, but one or two more instances occurring at this time (July 1916) may be recorded. He wanted to go quickly to a certain village that his men were holding. The journey by “the underground,” otherwise known as “Trench Street,” would take a couple of hours, whereas a fifteen-minute bicycle ride over the high road would bring him to the village. That shorter route, however, was in full view of the German trenches, which were quite near, and no one ever ventured along it in daylight. Father Doyle was the exception. He cycled the whole way without one bullet being fired. Moreover, he had to slacken speed several times to avoid the shell holes with which the road was pitted and he had to dismount once to pick up his bicycle pump, which had bounced off the carrier.

“Judging by some remarks that have reached me since,” he concludes, “people cannot make up their minds whether I am a hero or a fool—I vote for the second. However, they cannot understand what the salvation of even one soul means to a priest. So I just laugh and go my way, happy in the thought that I was in time.”

“My second adventure, if I may so style it (says Father Doyle) was of a different kind. Preparations had been made to blow up a gigantic mine sunk under the German trenches, while at the same time our men were to make a raid or night attack on the enemy. The fixed hour was eleven o’clock, so shortly after ten I made my way up to the firing fine, where the attacking party was waiting. The men were grouped in two bodies, one on either side of the mine, waiting for the explosion so they could rush over the parapet and seize the newly-formed mine-crater.”

“As I came along the trench I could hear the men whisper, ‘Here’s the priest.’ I also noticed that the faces that a moment before had been marked with the awful strain of waiting, now lit up with pleasure. As I gave the Absolution and the blessing of God on their work, I could not help thinking how many a poor fellow would soon be stretched lifeless a few paces from where he stood. Though I should have been hardened by that time, I found it difficult to choke down the sadness that filled my heart. ‘God bless you, Father, we’re ready now,’ was reward enough for facing the danger, since every man realized that each moment was full of dreadful possibilities.”

“It was well known that the Germans were countermining and, if they got wind of our intention, they would certainly try to explode their mine before we had the chance to explode it. It was strange walking along, knowing that at any moment you might find yourself sailing skywards, wafted by the gentle breath of four or five tons of explosive. Fortunately, nothing happened, but the moments were running out, so I hurried down the communication trench to the dressing-station that was located in a dugout about a hundred yards away. There, I intended to wait for the wounded to be brought in.”

“On the stroke of eleven, I climbed up the parapet and out of the trench. As I did so, there was a mighty roar in the bowels of the earth; the ground trembled, rocked, and quivered; and a huge column of clay and stones was shot hundreds of feet in the air. As the earth opened, dense clouds of smoke and flames burst out, an awful and never-to-be-forgotten sight. God help the poor fellows, even though they were our enemies, who were caught in that inferno and buried alive or blown to bits.”

“For a second, there was a lull. Then, it seemed as if hell were let loose. Our artillery was in the rear and standing ready, waiting for the signal. The moment the roar of the explosion was heard, every gun opened fire with a deafening crash. With a yell that must have terrified the enemy, our men were over the parapet, up the side of the crater, and digging themselves in for their lives. Under cover of our guns, the raiding party had raced for the enemy’s trench, fought their way in, and fought their way back out again, as our object was not to gain ground.”

At this stage, the German guns had come into action and Father Doyle retired to the dugout and, soon, he was busy with the wounded and dying.

“It was nearly four,” he concludes, “when I got back to my cellar, tired I must confess, and sad at heart after the scenes I had just witnessed. I was, however, happy and thankful to God that I had the chance to speed many a brave fellow on his way to eternity.”

On this occasion, as on others, Father Doyle was able to show kindness to a prisoner.

“One German prisoner had been slightly wounded in a couple of places and was carried in,” he writes. “Poor beggar, he was certain his last hour had come. He was only a young lad and his teeth chattered with fear. I tried to get him to take a drink but he pushed it away, thinking, I suppose, it was poison. My knowledge of German is limited to ‘der Hund’ but a repetition of this word only increased his terror and convinced him we had sent for the dogs of war to tear him to pieces. By degrees, I calmed him and (with the help of a few French, Flemish, and Latin words) found out that he was a Bavarian and a Catholic. I gave him a rosary, which he devoutly kissed and hung round his neck. Then, evidently reassured that no harm would come to him with a priest by his side, he fell asleep. Next morning he asked to see the “Pastor” and seemed anxious to thank me for the little I had been able to do for him.”

Still, here is another adventure. On the afternoon of 15 August 1916, the men were out of the trenches and most were engaged in athletic sports in a field outside the village of Mazingarbe. Suddenly, the Germans began shelling the village. Needless to say, Father Doyle at once started for the scene of danger.

“August 15 has always been a day of many graces for me,” writes Father Doyle. “It is the anniversary of my consecration to

Mary and of my vows in the Society. This particular August 15 very nearly made me surpass our Lady herself by sending me higher up than she ever got in her life.”

“Knowing a good number of my boys were about (he writes), I hurried there as quickly as I could, making my way up the long narrow street. The shells were all coming in one direction, across the road, not down it, so, by keeping close to the houses on the shady side there was little danger. There were, however, occasional thrills of excitement—enough to satisfy Don Quixote himself. I reached the village cross roads in time to lift up the poor sentry, who had been badly hit. With the help of a couple of men, we carried him to the side of the road. He was unconscious, but I gave him Absolution and was halfway through the anointing when, with a scream and a roar that made our hearts jump, a shell whizzed over our heads and crashed into the wall directly opposite on the other side of the street, covering us with brick-dust and dirt. Bits of shrapnel landed thud, thud, on the ground and against the wall around us, but neither the men nor I were touched.”

“Begorra, Father, that was a near one, anyhow,” said one of them, as he brushed the dust off his tunic, and started to fill his pipe. It was well we had your Reverence with us when Jerry sent that one across.”

“You must not thank me, boys,” I said, “don’t you know it is our Lady’s feast and Mary had her mantle spread over us to save us from all harm?”

“True for you, Father,” came the answer.

“But I could see by their faces that they were by no means convinced that I had not worked the miracle.”

“Though it was 15 August, I was taking no risks, especially with this reputation to maintain! So, the poor boy being dead, I bundled the rest of them down a cellar out of harm’s way, and started off again. Heavy as the shelling was, little damage was done, thanks to the fact that the sports had emptied the village. One man was beyond my aid, a few others were slightly wounded, and that was all. As I came round the corner of the Church, I met four of my boys calmly strolling along in the middle of the street as if they were walking on Kingstown pier. I will not record what I said, but my words, helped by the opportune arrival of an unpleasantly near H.E. (High Explosive), had the desired effect and we all took cover in the church. It was only then that I realized my mistake, for it soon became evident that the Germans were firing at the church itself. One after another, the shells came in rapid succession, first on one side and then on the other, dropping in front and behind the building, which was a target with its tall, white tower. It was madness to go out and I do not think the men, some score of them, knew of their danger, nor did I tell them. But ‘man of little faith’ that I was, I cast anxious eyes at the roof and wished it were stronger, even though Mary’s mantle was stretched over it, for I thought perhaps there might be a hole in the garment that she had forgotten to patch. All’s well that ends well, they say. Not a shot hit the church, though the houses and road got it hot. Our fiery ordeal ended at last, safely and happily for all of us. And August 15, 1916, went down on my list as another day of special grace and favor at Mary’s hands.”

Quite apart from these special escapes, Father Doyle’s ordinary days were filled with thrilling dangers, and exhausting toil.

“I often congratulate myself,” he says, “on my good fortune in being appointed to the Irish Brigade, more especially as the last vacancy fell to me. The vast majority of the chaplains at the Front seldom see anything more dangerous than the shell of an egg of doubtful age. They are doing splendid work along the lines of communication, in the hospitals, or at the base. Even those who are attached to non-Catholic Divisions have little time to get to the trenches, their men are so scattered, but we with the Irish Regiments live in the thick of it. We share the hardships and dangers with our men and, if we have less polish on our boots and belts than other spruce padres, let us hope we have something more to our bank account in a better world.”

Almost before daybreak, Father Doyle was up and had the happiness of offering the Holy Sacrifice. In August 1916, he was able to fit up a room in a deserted house, and here from time to time he was able to celebrate Mass for the men, calling it, “a privilege that the poor fellows appreciate.” In one corner were the cellar steps down which, when occasion required, priest and congregation vanished with marvelous haste. Once a shell came through the wall and fell on the floor without bursting, covering the little altar with bricks and plaster. When in the trenches, Father Doyle celebrated Mass in his dugout. The mornings were spent in visits to five dressing-stations in various parts of the trenches, saying some of his Office, hearing Confessions, or chatting with the men.

“Quite often,” he says, “an officer will drop in for a friendly controversial talk, resulting, thank God, in much good. There is no doubt that the faith and sincere piety of our men have made an immense impression on non-Catholics and have made them anxious to know more about the true Church.”

“In the afternoon,” he continues, “I make a tour of the front-line trenches. To be candid, it is a part of my work that I do not like. We chaplains are not bound to go into the firing line. In fact, we are not supposed to do so, but the officers welcome us warmly, as a chat and a cheery word bucks the men up so much. It is not that the danger is very great. In fact, I think it is much less than in other parts of the trenches because the track is built in a zigzag. Thus, you are perfectly safe, in a ‘bay’ of sorts, owing to the walls of clay on either side, unless a shell fell on the very spot where you are standing. Yet, it is the uncanny feeling that comes over one, knowing that the enemy is only thirty yards away, which makes the trip unpleasant. I have often come to a ‘bay’ blown in shortly before by a shell from a mortar (a gentleman weighing 200 lbs). You can see him coming in the air and when you do, well, you slip into the next ‘bay’ and try to feel as small as you can. I have had to crawl past a gap in the trench, but I can honestly say I have never had anything approaching a near shave. The Lord does not forget His goats when He is minding His sheep.”

Night did not mean rest for Father Doyle for it was then that he usually conducted burials. Moreover, as most of the ordinary fighting was done at night, it was then that he was most liable to “sick calls.”

“Often the morning light is breaking,” he says, “before I get the chance of lying down. For example, the other night I had to bury one man at 11:30 and a second man after 2 a.m. and I had barely turned in when word came that one of my poor boys had his leg shot off in a distant part of the trench. I was directed the wrong way, which added an extra half-hour to my walk and a great deal to my anxiety lest the lad should be dead. Thank God, he was alive when I reached him, a comfort surely to us both.”

“Let me introduce you to my house and home,” he writes to his father. “It is nothing very grand, just a hole dug in the side of the trench, the entrance made as small as possible to keep out stray splinters of shell, not to speak of the cool night breezes, for my house does not boast of doors or windows. I am fortunate, however, in that I am just able to stand upright, though at times I forget my surroundings and bang my head against the beams of the roof. At present, I have 972 bruises on various parts of my skull but am expecting to have more later on. The German officer who lived here before my arrival was evidently a man of taste. He put planks on the floor and lined the walls with boards, making it very dry and comfortable, for which I bless the dear man; but it makes my ‘appy ‘ome’’ look like a respectable packing case. In one corner is my bed (?), just a couple of planks raised off the ground, not too soft, but welcome as any couch of down to a dead-tired man.”

“I am never lonely at night, for I have many visitors—a stray dog, a trench cat or two who stroll in to say “bon jour,” and, of course, my never-failing friends the mice and rats. I never knew till I came out here that rats sing! It is a fact. They have built their nests behind the boards of my mansion walls—which, I may add, does not add to the sweetness of my abode—and many a time I have heard them singing to one another for ever so long, quite a sweet musical note. From time to time, they poke their heads out and look at me, as much as to say, ‘You are a queer sort of rat, you are.’”

“The rats and fleas have recently been making things uncommonly lively,” he wrote a little later, referring to his period in Loos.

“My last dugout was evidently their council chamber, and they resented my intrusion. They literally danced on me. I woke up the first night to find King Rat calmly sleeping on my feet. Before I quite realized it, he ran along my legs and over my face; a procedure that I do not recommend, as the sensation is quite horrible. I gave one yell, which must have startled the Germans for miles round. Twice the same night I woke up again with one of his wives sitting on my head, which is about the limit, I think. I am not exaggerating or dreaming. As I jerked my head, I heard their ladyships go plop against the wall. I hope the King lost a couple of his wives that night; for, without being uncharitable, he seems, like King Solomon to have a warm corner in his heart for the ladies. I know our Lord says to turn the other cheek; but I know no text saying we should be walked on by rats.”

He had other companions. “We have fleas by the million,” he writes, “and innumerable flies that eat the jam off your bread before you can get it into your mouth. We have wondrous and varied smells not to speak of other unmentionable things.” He also alludes to “scratches, many and deep, made by the loving embraces of the ‘Misskitties,’ (mosquitoes) who are absolutely shameless in this part of the world.”

Amid all these hardships, the severity of which we must not be blinded to by Father Doyle’s humorous descriptions, he was consoled by the thought of how much his presence and ministrations meant to the poor fellows around him.

“Though the life is at times rough and hard enough (at least the floor feels so at night), there are many consolations for a priest, not the least of which is the number of converts, both officers and men, coming into the Church. Many of them had never been in contact with Catholics before and knew nothing about the grandeur and beauty of our religion. Above all, many were immensely impressed by what the Catholic priests, of all the chaplains at the Front, are able to do for their men, both living and dying. It is an admitted fact, that the Irish Catholic soldier is the

bravest and best man in a fight, but few know he draws that courage from the strong Faith with which he is filled and the help that comes from the exercise of his religion.”

Among his own flock, of course, he had a few straying sheep, and he has some amusing stories to tell concerning their capture.

“One of the men not too famous himself for piety,” he writes, “brought in a black sheep to Confession. He was a brawny boy, and I fancy he helped his argument with a little physical force. Seeing a good opportunity for landing another fish, I said to him, ‘What about yourself, were you with a priest recently?’ ‘Oh, Father,’ he answered, ‘I’m all right, I was at my duty three years ago.’ I believe the poor chap was really sincere; but I am glad to say he is ‘righter’ now.”

He was naturally solicitous for his men, especially as the months dragged on with no intermission save a few brief days spent in reserve amid the ruins of a village behind the lines. It was customary for a division that had been in the line for three months to get back to the base for a month’s rest. The other divisions round the Sixteenth went back and returned, but the Irishmen were now six months without relief.

“I suppose,” writes Father Doyle, “it is a compliment to the fighting qualities of the 16th Division, for we are holding the most critical sector of the line; but it is a compliment all of us would willingly forgo.”

“As a matter of fact,” he adds, “the very night we handed over a certain portion of the Front to another regiment, the Germans—how did they know of the change?—came over and captured the trenches. So we had to go back again.”

Still, the unfortunate Irishmen could not be kept in the trenches forever. On 25 August, the welcome order came to move to the rear. Sudden and secret as the order was, the Germans knew all about it, and put up a board with the message, “Good-bye, 16th Division, we shall give it hot to the English when they come.” The Irish did their work well in Loos. In those six months, they did not lose a trench or a yard of ground. Out of the Division of 20,000, over 15,000 men (including, of course, many sick and slightly wounded) had passed through the doctor’s hands.

They went back through Amiens to the rear, away from the sounds and sights of war. These long marches, made more trying by official incompetence, were exhausting. As usual, Father Doyle was where his Master would have been, following the Ignatian ideal of *mecum laborare *in the Kingdom of Christ.