Part 5

“We reap a good harvest with confessions every day, at any time the men care to come, but there are many who for one reason or another cannot get away. Hence, before going into the trenches, which nearly always means death for some poor fellows, we give them a General Absolution. I do not think there can be a more touching or soul-inspiring sight than to see a whole regiment go down on their knees to hear the wave of prayer go up to Heaven, as hundreds of voices repeat the Act of Contrition in unison, ‘My God, I am heartily sorry that I have ever offended You.’ There is an earnestness and depth of feeling in their voices that tells of real sorrow, even if one did not see the tears gather in the eyes of more than one brave man. And then, the deep, reverent silence as the priest raises his hand over the bowed heads and pronounces the words of forgiveness. Human nature is ever human nature, and even Irish soldiers commit sins. You can picture the feelings of any priest standing before that kneeling throng, knowing that by the power of God his words have washed every soul pure and white. I love to picture the foul garments of sin falling from every man there at the words of Absolution. I love to watch the look of peace and happiness on the men’s faces as they lift their rifles and fall into rank, ready for anything, even ‘to meet the divil himself,’ as my friend of long ago shouted out as he marched by me. Don’t you agree with me that the consolations and real joys of my life far outweigh the hard things and privations, even if there were no ‘little nest-egg’ being laid up in a better and happier world?”

It is when we read such an extract that we most clearly realize the inner power that sustained Father Doyle amid “the hard things and privations,” that were far more irksome and painful to him than to someone less idealistic or sensitive. He was brave and untiring, not because he found life congenial, but because he found it so hard. His interests were concentrated on his mission to be “another Christ.” This was the ideal in whose consuming fire all other ideals were fused.

“I can say with all truth,” he wrote, “I have never spent a happier year. For though I have occasionally felt as if the limit of endurance were reached, I have never lost my good spirits, which have helped me over many a rough road.”

He needed all his courage. What a life it was! They went from extremes of heat to unimagined depths of cold, from many days of water above, below, and everywhere to burning sun and parching thirst. There were long tramps by day, with pack and equipment growing heavier each hour, till one became a mass of sweat and mud; nights without sleep, burying the dead, or stumbling along trenches to minister to the dying; nights too, made hideous by bursting shells or the still more terrible warning of approaching poison-gas. Our thoughts go back to Paul of Tarsus, whose life was spent ‘in journeying often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, . . . in labor and painfulness, in much watchings, in hunger and thirst, in fasting often, in cold and nakedness.’ (II Cor. xi. 26.) Yet, as Father Doyle pointed out, these physical sufferings were light in comparison with that constant sense of insecurity and suspense, the strain of never really being out of danger for miles behind the front, the oppressive feeling of waiting for the stroke of an uplifted sword.

“Pain and privation,” he writes, “are only momentary, they quickly pass and become even delightfully sweet, if only borne in the spirit with which many of my grand boys take these things.”

“Shure, Father, it’s not worth talking about; after all, is it not well to have some little thing to suffer for God and His Blessed Mother?”

“But the craven fear that at times clutches the heart and the involuntary shrinking and dread of human nature at danger and even death are things that cannot be expressed in words. An officer, who had gone through a good deal himself, recently said to me, ‘I never realized before what our Lord must have suffered in the Garden of Gethsemane when He began to fear and grow sorrowful.’ Yet His grace is always there to help one when most needed, and though the life is hard and trying at times, I have never ceased to thank Him for the privilege (I can call it nothing else) of sharing in this glorious work.”

In a letter written to his father on 25 July, he invites him to come in spirit with him on a visit to the trenches. He is thus led to describe a typical incident of his “glorious work,” that must have been as consoling to the father as it was to the son.

“There is a party coming towards us down the trench,” he writes, “and they have the right of way. We must squeeze into a corner to let them pass. A poor wounded fellow lies on a stretcher with death already stamped on his face. The bearers lay their burden gently down—these rough men have the tender hearts of a woman for the wounded—reverently uncover their heads and withdraw a little as the priest kneels behind the dying man’s head. A glance at the identity-disc on his wrist, stamped with his name, regiment, and religion, shows that he is a Catholic—for there are few men, no matter what their belief, who do not carry a rosary or a Catholic medal round their necks. I wonder what the non-Catholic Padres think of this fearful increase of Idolatry! ‘Ah, Father, is that you? Thanks be to God for His goodness in sending you. My heart was sore to die without the priest. Father’—the voice was weak and came in gasps—‘Father, oh, I am glad now, I always tried to live a good life, it makes death so easy.’ The Rites of the Church were quickly administered, though it was hard to find a sound spot on that poor smashed face for the Holy Oils, and my hands were covered with his blood. The moaning stopped. I have noticed that a score of times, as if the very touch of the anointing brought relief. I pressed the crucifix to his lips as he murmured after me, ‘My Jesus, mercy.’ As I gave him the Last Blessing, his head fell back and the loving arms of Jesus were pressing to His Sacred Heart the soul of another of His friends, who I trust will not forget, amid the joys of Heaven, him who was sent across his path to help him in his last moments.”

“It is little things like this that help one over the hard days and sweeten a life that has little in it naturally attractive. If you had come up the trench with me twelve months ago on the morning of the gas attack and watched that same scene repeated hour after hour, I think you would have thanked God for the big share you have in the salvation of so many souls.”

We are able to narrate one or two incidents of “this glorious work” which occurred during this period.

“The enemy for once did me a good turn,” he writes on 22 May. “I had arranged to hear the men’s confessions shortly before he opened fire, and a couple of well-directed shells helped my work immensely by putting the fear of God into the hearts of a few careless boys who might not have troubled about coming near me otherwise. I wonder were the Sacraments ever administered under stranger circumstances? Picture my little dugout (none too big at any time) packed with men who had dashed in for shelter from the splinters and shrapnel coming down like hail. In one corner is kneeling a poor fellow recently joined—who has not ‘knelt to the priest,’ as the men quaintly say, for many a day—trying to make his Confession. I make short work of that, for a shower of clay and stones falling at the door is a gentle hint that the ‘crumps’ are getting uncomfortably near, and I want to give him Absolution in case an unwelcome visitor should walk in. Then, while the ground outside rocks and seems to split with the crash of shells, I give them all Holy Communion, say a short prayer, and perform the wonderful feat of packing a few more into our sardine-tin of a house.”

“As soon as I got the chance, I slipped round to see how many casualties there were, for I thought not a mouse could survive the bombardment. Thank God, no one was killed or even badly hit, and the firing having ceased, we could breathe again. I was walking up the trench from the dressing-station when I suddenly heard the scream of another shell. . . . It was then I realized my good fortune. There are two ways to my dugout, and naturally, I choose the shorter. This time, without any special reason, I went by the longer way. It was well I did, for the shell pitched in the other trench, and probably would have caught me nicely as I went by. Instead of that, it wreaked its vengeance on my unfortunate orderly, who was close by in his dugout. It sent him spinning on his head but otherwise did not injure him. I found another string of men awaiting my return to get Confession and Holy Communion. In fact, I had quite a busy evening, thanks once more to Fritz’s High Explosive, which has a wonderful persuasive effect of its own. I am wondering how many pounds of H.E. I shall require when giving my next retreat!”

Before describing another of Father Doyle’s exploits in rendering spiritual aid to a raiding party, we shall give his description of a raid.

“As you might like to know,” he tells his father on 29 May, “how the game of raiding your neighbor is played, a sort of novelty for your next garden-party, I shall give you a few particulars. You dig two trenches about a hundred yards apart and fill one with the enemy who are well provided with hand bombs, machine guns, etc. Some night when you think they won’t expect your coming, a party of your men climb over the top of their parapet and start to crawl *á la *Red Indian towards the foe. It is exciting work, for star shells are going up every few minutes and lighting up No Man’s Land, during which time your men lie on their faces motionless, probably cursing the inventor of said star shells and praying for black darkness. It is part of the game that, if the enemy sees you, they promptly paste you with bombs (which hurt) or give you a shower-bath of leaden bullets. For this reason, when the game is played at garden-parties, it is recommended to place husbands in one trench and wives in the other and to oppose P.P.’s or Reverend Mothers to their curates and communities. In this way, accuracy of aim is wonderfully improved and the casualties become delightfully high, which (in these days) is a desideratum when supper hour arrives.”

“Having reached a certain distance, the raiders wait for the artillery barrage to open. That is a sight never to be forgotten. At a fixed moment, every gun opens fire simultaneously with a crash that shakes the heavens and for five minutes the enemy’s trench is from end to end a line of fire lit up by the hundreds of bursting shells. Then the barrage lifts like a curtain to the second trench to keep back reinforcements, while the attackers dash through the cut barbed wire over into the trench, sometimes to meet with a stout opposition in spite of the awful shelling, sometimes only finding the bleeding remains of what was once a brave man. Dugouts are bombed if their occupants won’t come out, papers and maps secured, prisoners captured if possible—to be questioned later for information that seems to be freely and foolishly given. Then, the raiders, carrying their own dead and wounded, get back as quickly as they can to their own lines for, by this time, the enemy artillery has opened fire and things are lively.”

He then proceeds to describe an adventure of his in which, he thinks, “there was really little danger.”

“A few nights ago,” he writes, “I had been along the front line as usual to give the men a General Absolution that they are almost as anxious to receive for the comfort it will be for their friends at home, should they fall, as for themselves. I was coming down to the advanced dressing-station, when I learned that a small party had ‘gone over the top’ on our right, though I had been told the raid was only from the left. When I got to the spot, I found they had all gone and were lying well out in No Man’s Land. It was a case of Mahomet and the mountain once more. The poor ‘mountain’ could not come back, though they were longing to, but the prophet could go out, could he not? So, Mahomet rolled over the top of the sandbags into a friendly shell-hole and started to crawl on his hands and knees and stomach towards the German trenches. Mahomet, being only a prophet, was allowed to use bad language, of which privilege he availed himself to the full, so report goes, for the ground was covered with bits of broken barbed wire, shell splinters, nettles, etc., etc., and the poor prophet on his penitential pilgrimage left behind him much honest sweat and not a few drops of blood.”

“That was a strange scene! A group of men lying on their faces, waiting for certain death to come to some of them, whispering a fervent act of contrition, and God’s priest, feeling mighty uncomfortable and wishing he were safely in bed a thousand miles away, raising his hand in Absolution over the prostrate figures. One boy, some little distance off, thinking the Absolution had not reached him, knelt bolt upright, and made an act of contrition you could have heard in Berlin, nearly giving the whole show away and drawing the enemy’s fire.”

There was really little danger, as shell-holes were plentiful, but not a little consolation when I buried the dead the next day to think that none of them had died without Absolution. I was more afraid getting back into our own trenches, for sentries, seeing a man coming from the direction of No Man’s Land, object to nocturnal visitors and do not bother much asking questions.”

The next night (24 May) another raid was made, and Father Doyle recounts how he was able to help a poor prisoner.

“One German prisoner, badly wounded in the leg, was brought in,” he writes. “He knew only a few words of English, but spoke French fluently. I try to do all I can for the unfortunate prisoners, as sometimes not much sympathy is shown them and they have evidently been drilled into believing that we promptly roast and eat them alive. I gave him a drink, made him as comfortable as possible, and then, seeing a rosary in his pocket, asked him was he a Catholic. ‘I am a Catholic priest,’ I said, ‘and you need not have any fear.’ ‘Ah, monsieur, he replied, ‘vous êtres un vrai prêtre’ (you are a true priest). He gave me his home address in Germany and asked me to write to his parents.”

“Poor father and mother will be uneasy,” he said, as his eyes filled with tears. “O mon Dieu, how I am suffering, but I offer it all up to You.” I hope to get a letter through by means of the Swiss Red Cross, which will be a comfort to his anxious parents, who seem good pious souls.”

One other quotation will give a further little illustration of Father Doyle’s ministry while his men were in reserve. Early on the morning of Sunday, 3 June, they were relieved, after a rather strenuous time of sixteen days in the front-line, more than usually trying for want of sleep. As Mass for the men was not till midday, Father Doyle had “planned a glorious soak in the convent, an unblushing gluttonous feast of blankets, for the poor old tired ‘oss.’”

Through some misunderstanding, his orderly did not turn up with his horse, so he had to trudge back with his heavy pack. On reaching his billet at 2 a.m., he found the door of his room locked. “I had not the heart to wake up the poor nuns,” he says; “and after all when one is fast asleep, is not a hard plank just as soft as a feather bed? You see I am becoming a bit of a philosopher!”

“The next morning,” he continues, “I had Mass in a field close to the camp. I wish you could have seen the men as they knelt in a hollow square round the improvised altar, brilliant sunshine overhead and the soft green of spring about them. They looked so happy, poor lads, as I went down one line and up the other, giving them the Bread of the Strong. I could not help thinking of another scene long ago when our Lord made the multitude sit down on the grass and fed them miraculously with the seven loaves. Before I got to the end of my 700 Communions, I felt wondrous pity for the twelve Apostles, for they must have been jolly tired also.”

“At present I am living in the camp that is further back even than the convent, out in the green fields of country, most peaceful and restful. I have a little tent to myself, but have Rosary, Mass, Confessions, etc., out in the open. The men have absolutely no human respect, and kneel in rows waiting for their turn ‘to scrape,’ as if they were in church at home, paying no heed to the endless stream of traffic. I am sure non-Catholics must wonder what on earth we are at.”

“To save you unnecessary anxiety,” Father Doyle wrote to his father on 11 June, “I told you in my last note that we were again on the march, which was quite true, but the march was not backwards but towards the enemy. When I wrote we were on the eve on one of the biggest battles of the war, details of which you will have read in the morning papers.”

In another confidential letter of the same date (11 June), however, he was more communicative.

“I have not told them at home,” he wrote, “and do not want them to know, but we have had a terrible time for the last three weeks, constant and increasing shelling, with many wonderful escapes. We are on the eve of a tremendous battle and the danger will be very great. Sometimes I think God wishes the actual sacrifice of my life—the offering of it was made long ago. If so, that almost useless life will be given most joyfully. I feel wonderful peace and confidence in leaving myself absolutely in God’s hands. I know it would not be right, but I would like never to take shelter from bursting-shells and up to a few days ago, till ordered by the Colonel, I never wore a steel helmet. I want to give myself absolutely to Him to do with me as He pleases, to strike or kill me, as He wishes, trying to go along bravely and truthfully, looking up into His loving Face, for surely He knows best. On the other hand I have the conviction, growing stronger every day, that nothing serious will befall me; a wound would be joy, ‘to shed one’s blood for Jesus,’ when I would gladly empty my veins for Him. Otherwise, why would He impress so strongly on my mind that this ‘novitiate’ out here is only the preparation for my real life’s work? Why does He put so many schemes and plans into my mind? Why has He mapped out several little books, one of which will do great good, I believe, because every word will be His? Then, the possibilities of the Holy Childhood have gripped me, and His little perishing souls, 10,000 a day, seem ever to be pleading for sight of Jesus! Yet, I have laid even the desire to do these things at His Feet and I strive might and main to have no will but His, for this pleases Him most. I am very calm and trustful in face of the awful storm so soon to burst. But could it be otherwise, when He is ever with me, and when I know that should I fall, it will only be into His arms of love?”

Father Doyle atoned for his previous reticence by sending his father, immediately after the battle, a rather long account of his own experiences during the few weeks prior to the attack of 7 June, as well as during the actual engagement.

“For months past, preparations on a gigantic scale were being made for the coming attack, every detail of which the Germans knew. For some reason or other, they left us in comparative peace for a long time, and then suddenly started to shell us day and night.”

“We had just gone into the line for our eight days, and a lively week it was. How we escaped uninjured from the rain of shells that fell round about us, I do not know. The men had practically no shelter, as their dugouts would scarcely keep out a respectable fat bullet, not to speak of a nine or twelve-inch shell (this is the diameter of the shell-base, not its length). The men used to run to me for protection like so many big children with a confidence (that I was far from feeling) that the ‘priest’ was a far better protection than yards of reinforced concrete. I have come back to my little home more than once in the early hours of the morning to find it packed with two-legged smoking ‘sardines.’ They are always quite happy and content, in spite of Fritz’s crumps, and I am greeted with the remark, ‘We were just saying, Father, that this is a lucky dugout and it is well for us that we have your Reverence with us.’ God bless them for their simple faith and trust in Him, for I feel I owe it to my brave boys that we were not blown sky-high twenty times. In fact, the ‘Padre’s Dugout’ was quite a standing joke among the officers, who used to come after a strafe to see how much of it was left.”

“Our next eight days in support were even worse, as the Germans had brought up more guns and used them freely. Our Headquarters was a good-sized house, which had never been touched since the war began, being well screened by a wood behind. We were in the middle of dinner the first evening, when in quick succession half a dozen shells burst close around. It was only later on we learned the reason for this unexpected attack. One of the officers, in spite of strict orders to the contrary, had gone on a raid with a map in his pocket on which he had marked various positions, our H.Q. among others. He was captured and ‘the fat was in the fire.’ Owing to someone’s carelessness, no provision had been made for protection against bombardment. We had to stand in the open with our backs against a brick wall, watching the shells pitching right and left and in front, wondering when would our turn come.”

“Three or four times each night, at a couple of hours’ interval, the torture began afresh, just as one was dozing off to sleep, sending men and officers flying for safety to the ‘shady side’ of the house. Shelling in the open or in a trench is not so pleasant, but this was horrible for we knew the guns were searching for the spot so obligingly marked on our map. One morning at about 2 a.m., I had gone down the road to look after some men when two shells smashed into the roof of the house I had left, killing five of our staff, and nearly knocking out the Colonel and two other officers. We got shelter in another Mess only to find that this was a marked spot, too, though the aim was not so accurate.”

“All during this time, our guns were keeping up the bombardment of the Wytschaete Village and Ridge, which the 16th Irish Division was to storm. I think I am accurate in saying that not for ten minutes at any time during these sixteen days did the roar of our guns cease. At times, one or two batteries would keep the ball rolling, and then with a majestic crash every gun, from the rasping field-piece up to the giant fifteen-inch howitzer, would answer the call of battle, till not only the walls of the ruined houses shook and swayed, but the very ground quivered. You may fancy the amount of rest and sleep we got during that period, seeing that we lived in front of the cannon, many of them only a few yards away, while the Germans with clock-work regularity pelted us with shells from behind. If you want to know what a real headache is like, or to experience the pleasure of every nerve in your body jumping about like so many mad cats, take the shilling, and spend a week or two near the next position we hope to capture.”

“All things come to an end, and at last we finished our sixteen days’ Limbo (Purgatory is not near enough to Hell!) and marched back to the rest camp with tongues, to vary the metaphor, hanging out for sleep. That night, a villainous enemy airman dropped bombs close to our tents and, the following day, the guns shelled us, far back as we were. We must be a bad lot, for ‘there is no rest for the wicked,’ they say. For once, my heart stood still with fear, not so much for myself as for the poor men. There we were on the side of a hill, four regiments crowded together, our only protection the canvas walls of our tents, with big shells creeping nearer and nearer.”

“Orders had been given to scatter, but it takes time to disperse some 4,000 men. One well-aimed shell would play havoc in such a crowd. Forgive me for mentioning this little incident. I want to do so in gratitude, to bring out the wonderful love and tenderness of our Divine Lord for His own Irish soldiers, not to claim the smallest credit for myself. I had brought the Ciborium to my tent after Mass, as the men were coming to Confession and Holy Communion all the day. Human beings could not help us then, but He, who stilled the tempest, could do so easily. There was only time for one earnest ‘Lord, save my poor boys,’ before I rushed out into the open, for at any moment the camp might be a shambles full of dead and dying. As I did, a shell landed a few feet behind an officer, sending him spinning, but he jumped up unhurt. A moment more, down came a second, right into the middle of a group of men, and, miracle of miracles, failed to explode. A third burst so close to another party I was sure half were killed, though I must confess, never before had I ever seen dead men run so fast. And so it went on, first on one side, then on another, but at the end of the half-hour’s bombardment, not a single man of the four regiments had been hit, even slightly.”

“The chances of a good night’s rest were at an end, for we had to turn out to sleep, as best we could, under the hedges and trees of the surrounding country. It was a big loss to the men, as once the attack (which was due in three days) began, there was little chance of closing an eye. We priests say a prayer at the end of our Office asking the Lord to grant *noctem quietam *(a peaceful night). I never fully appreciated this prayer till now and have said it more than once lately with heart-felt earnestness.”

“These few days were busy ones for us, Father Browne and myself. The men knew they were preparing for death and availed themselves fully of the opportunities we were able to give them. Fortunately, the weather was gloriously fine, so there was no difficulty about Mass in the open. There was a general cleaning up and polishing of souls (some of them not too shiny) and a General Communion on two days for all the men and officers, with the usual rosary and prayers each evening. We were consoled because we felt the men had done their best and the future might be safely left in the hands of the great and merciful Judge.”

“I fancy the feelings of most of us were the same: awe, not a little fear, and a big longing to have it all over. We knew the seriousness of the task before us, for Wytschaete Hill, the key of the whole position, was regarded, even by the General Staff, as almost impregnable. The German boast was that it would never be taken. Without detracting one bit from the dash and bravery of our Irish lads, which won unstinted praise from everyone—‘The best show I have seen since I came to France,’ said Sir D. Haig—full credit must be given to the artillery for pounding the defenses to dust, without which our troops would still be on this side of the 300 foot hill instead of a couple of miles on the other side. Everyone felt the losses would be severe, if not colossal. As we sat on our hill and gazed beyond into the valley crammed with roaring guns, and watched the shells bursting in hundreds, we knew the moment was near for us to march down into that hell of fire and smoke. It was small wonder if many a stout heart quaked and thoughts flew to dear ones at home, whom one hardly hoped to see again.”

“There were many little touching incidents during these days. One especially I shall not easily forget. When the men had left the field after the evening devotions, I noticed a group of three young boys, brothers, I think, all kneeling saying another rosary. They knew it was probably their last meeting on earth and they seemed to cling to one another for mutual comfort and strength. They instinctively turned to the Blessed Mother to help them in their hour of need. There they knelt as if they were alone and unobserved, their hands clasped and faces turned towards heaven, with such a look of beseeching earnestness that the Mother of Mercy surely must have heard their prayers. “Holy Mary, pray for us now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

In a subsequent letter (25 July) Father Doyle refers to some of the talks that he gave to his men during these days.

“Before the last big battle,” he writes, “I gave the men a few talks about Heaven, where I hope many of them are now. I have the satisfaction of knowing that what I said helped the poor fellows a good deal and made them face the coming dangers with a stouter heart. The man of whom I told you last year, who said he ‘did not care a d… for all the b. . . . German shells (please excuse the language), because he was with the priest that morning,’ expressed in a forcible manner what many others felt—that when all is said and done, a man’s religion is his biggest (and only true) consolation and the source of real courage. I reminded them of the saying of the Blessed Cure d’ Ars, ‘When we get to Heaven and see all the happiness that is to be ours forever, we shall wonder why we wanted to remain even one day on earth.’ God hides these things from our eyes, for if we saw now the things God has prepared for those that love Him,’ life on earth would be absolutely unlivable, and so, I said, the man who falls in the charge is not the loser but immensely the gainer, is not the unlucky one but the fortunate and blessed. You should have seen how the poor chaps drank in every word, for rough and ignorant as they are, they are full of Faith; though I fear their conception of an ideal Heaven, for some at least, would be a place of unlimited drinks and no closing time. There was a broad smile when I told them so!”

“On Wednesday night, 6 June,” continues Father Doyle, “we moved off, so as to be in position for the attack at 3:10 a.m. on Thursday morning, the Feast of Corpus Christi. I got to the little temporary chapel at the rear of our trenches soon after twelve, and tried to get a few moments’ sleep before beginning Mass at one, a hopeless task, you may imagine, as the guns had gone raging mad. I could not help thinking would this be my last Mass, though I really never had any doubt the good God would continue to protect me in the future as He had done in the past. I was quite content to leave myself in His hands, since He knows what is best for us all.”

It was 11.50 when Father Browne and Father Doyle reached the little sandbag chapel they used when holding the line. There they lay down for an hour’s rest on two stretchers borrowed from the huge pile waiting nearby for the morrow’s bloody work.

Leaving their aide lying fast asleep through sheer exhaustion, the two chaplains got up at 1 a.m. and prepared the altar. Father Doyle said Mass first and was served by Father Browne, who, not having yet made his Last Vows, renewed his Vows at the Mass, as he always did at home on Corpus Christi. It was surely a weird and solemn Renovation. While Father Browne unvested after his own Mass and packed up, Father Doyle and his aide (now awake) prepared breakfast. At 2:30, the two chaplains put on their battle kit and made for their respective aid posts. Up near the front line, along the hedgerows, the battalions of the 48th Brigade were massed in support position. Their task was not to attack, but to follow up and consolidate and, should the need arise, to help the leading brigades.

“As I walked up to my post at the advanced dressing-station,” says Father Doyle, “I prayed for that peace of a perfect trust that seems to be so pleasing to our Lord.”

And he repeated to himself the verses of a little leaflet that a friend had sent to him when he first became chaplain:

Oh! for the peace of a perfect trust, My loving God, in Thee, Unwavering faith that never doubts, Thou choosest best for me.

In this spirit, in which he had so often schooled himself during his years of spiritual struggle, he waited for the coming crash of battle.

“It wanted half an hour,” he continues, “to zero time—the phrase used for the moment of attack. The guns had ceased firing to give their crews a breathing space before the storm of battle broke. At least for a moment, there was peace on earth and a calm that was almost more trying than the previous roar to us, who knew what was coming. A prisoner told us that the enemy knew we were about to attack, but did not expect it for another couple of days. I pictured to myself our men, row upon row, waiting in the darkness for the word to charge and, on the other side, the Germans in their trenches and dugouts, little thinking that seventeen huge mines were laid under their feet, needing only a spark to blow them into eternity. The tension of waiting was terrific, the strain almost unbearable. One felt inclined to scream out and send them warning. All I could do was to stand on top of the trench and give them Absolution, trusting to God’s mercy to speed it so far.”

“Even now I can scarcely think of the scene that followed without trembling with horror. Punctually to the second at 3:10 a.m., there was a deep-mined roar. The ground in front of where I stood rose up, as if some giant had wakened from his sleep and was bursting his way through the earth’s crust. Then I saw seventeen huge columns of smoke and flames shoot hundreds of feet into the air, while masses of clay and stones, tons in weight, were hurled about like pebbles. I never before realized what an earthquake was like, for not only did the ground quiver and shake, but actually rocked backwards and forwards, so I kept on my feet with difficulty.”

“Before the debris of the mines had begun to fall to earth, the ‘wild Irish’ were over the top of the trenches and on the enemy, though it seemed certain they must be killed to a man by the falling avalanche of clay. Even a stolid English Colonel standing nearby was moved to enthusiasm: ‘My God!’ he said, ‘what soldiers! They fear neither man nor devil!’ Why should they? They had made their peace with God, He had given them His own Sacred Body to eat that morning, and they were going out now to face death, as only Irish Catholic lads can do, confident of victory and cheered by the thought that the reward of Heaven was theirs. Nothing could stop such a rush, and so fast was the advance that the leading files actually ran into the barrage of our own guns, and had to retire.”

“Meanwhile hell itself seemed to have been let loose. With the roar of the mines came the deafening crash of our guns, hundreds of them. This much I can say: never before, even in this war, have so many batteries, especially of heavy pieces, been concentrated on one objective. H ow the Germans were able to put up the resistance they did was a marvel to everybody, for our shells fell like hailstones. In a few moments, they took up the challenge, and soon things on our side became warm and lively.”

“In a short time, the wounded began to come in along with a number of German prisoners, many of them wounded also. I must confess my heart goes out to these unfortunate soldiers, whose sufferings have been terrific. I can’t share the general sentiment that ‘they deserve what they get and one better.’ After all, are they not children of the same loving Savior who said, ‘Whatever you do to one of these My least ones you do it to Me.’ I try to show them any little kindness I can, getting them a drink, taking off the boots from smashed and bleeding feet, or helping to dress their wounds. More than once, I have seen the eyes of these rough men fill with tears as I bent over them, or felt my hand squeezed in gratitude.”

“My men did not go over in the first wave. They were held in reserve to move up as soon as the first objective was taken, hold the position, and resist any counter-attack. Most of them were waiting behind a thick sandbag wall not far from the advanced dressing-station where I was, which enabled me to keep an eye upon them.”

“The shells were coming over thick and fast now and, at last, what I expected and feared, happened. A big ‘crump’ hit the wall fair and square, blew three men into the field 50 yards away, and buried others who were in a small dugout. For a moment I hesitated, for the horrible sight fairly knocked the starch out of me and a couple more ‘crumps’ did not help to restore my courage.”

“I climbed over the trench and ran across the open, as abject a coward as ever walked on two legs, till I reached the three dying men. Then, the ‘perfect trust’ came back to me and I felt no fear. A few seconds sufficed to absolve and anoint my poor boys, and I jumped to my feet, only to go down on my face faster than I got up, as an express train from Berlin roared by.”

“The five buried men were calling for help, but the others standing around seemed paralyzed with fear, all save one sergeant whose language was worthy of the occasion and rose to a noble height of sublimity. He was working like a Trojan, tearing the sandbags aside, and welcomed my help with a mingled blessing and curse. The others joined in with pick and shovel, digging and pulling, till the sweat streamed from our faces and the blood from our hands, but we got three of the buried men out alive. The other two had been killed by the explosion.”

“Once again I had evidence of the immense confidence our men have in the priest. It was quite evident they were rapidly becoming demoralized, as the best of troops will who have to remain inactive under heavy shellfire. Little groups were running from place to place for greater shelter and the officers seemed to have lost control. I walked along the line of men, crouching behind the sandbag wall, and was amused to see the ripple of smiles light up the terrified lads’ faces (so many are mere boys) as I went by. By the time I got back again, the men were laughing and chatting as if all danger was miles away, for quite unintentionally, I had given them courage by walking along without my gas mask or steel helmet, both of which I had forgotten in my hurry.”

“When the regiment moved forward, the Doctor and I went with it. By this time, the ‘impregnable’ ridge was in our hands and the enemy was retreating down the far side. I spent the rest of that memorable day wandering over the battlefield looking for the wounded, and had the happiness of helping many a poor chap.”

“As I knew there was no chance of saying Mass the next morning, I had taken the precaution of bringing several Consecrated Particles with me, so I should not be deprived of Holy Communion. It was the Feast of Corpus Christi and I thought of the many processions of the Blessed Sacrament that were being held at that moment all over the world. Surely, there never was a stranger one than mine that day, as I carried the God of Consolation in my unworthy arms over the bloodstained battlefield. There was no music to welcome His coming save the scream of a passing shell. The flowers that strewed His path were the broken, bleeding bodies of those

for whom He had once died and the only Altar of Repose He could find was the heart of one who was working for Him alone, striving in a feeble way to make Him some return for all His love and goodness.”

“I shall make no attempt to describe the battlefield. Thank God, our casualties were extraordinarily light, but every yard of ground had been pitched by a shell. This made getting about very laborious, sliding down one crater and climbing up the next, and increased the difficulty of finding the wounded.”

“Providence certainly directed my steps on two occasions at least. I came across one young soldier horribly mutilated, all his intestines hanging out, but quite conscious and able to speak to me. He lived long enough to receive the Last Sacraments and died in peace. Later on in the evening, I was going in a certain direction when something made me turn back. In the distance, I saw a man being carried on a stretcher. He belonged to the artillery and had no chance of seeing a priest for a long time, but he must have been a good lad, for Mary did not forget him ‘at the hour of his death.’”

“The things I remember best of that day of twenty-four hours’ work are: the sweltering heat, a devouring thirst that comes from the excitement of battle, physical weakness from want of food, and a weariness and foot-soreness that I trust will pay a little at least of Saint Peter’s heavy score against me.”

“Friday was a repetition of the previous day. In a shell-hole, I made a glorious breakfast of a piece of chocolate, a couple of biscuits picked up on the ground (I wiped the clay off first as the Belgians may want it again), and washed the lot down with a draught of water from my bottle. I am certain you did not enjoy your bacon and eggs one-half as much as I did my ‘hard tack’ and chocolate. Later on, I came in for a cup of tea—without milk, which really spoils good tea—so I did not do so badly.”

“Fighting was over for the moment, as we were hard at work bringing up the guns to support the infantry in their advanced positions. Nothing of very great interest happened during the next two days and I had only one fairly narrow escape from an eight-inch shell, which got so terrified at the sight of a Jesuit in khaki that it exploded. I threw my ‘tin hat,’ as the Tommies call the helmet, on the ground and tried to crawl under it, evidently without complete success, judging by the clods of earth that came whacking on my back till I was pretty well black and blue. Brother Fritz certainly hammered some breath out of me, but failed miserably to damp my good spirits, or diminish my trust in the Sacred Heart.”