Part 6

Early on Sunday morning, the exhausted battalions were relieved. After the battle, the men marched back by easy stages to the rear for a few weeks of rest and training—the only rest that was allowed to the 18th Division in the two years and three months that it was in the field.

“After the battle,” writes Father Doyle on 26 June, “we marched back to the rear by easy stages. We spent the rest of the week billeted in farmhouses, the weather being ideal if on the hot side, and the peaceful country seeming a paradise after the din of battle. It was only when the strain was taken off that we realized how utterly tired we were. Yet, rest had come at last and we took it night and day. Then, just as we were settling down to enjoy a long well earned repose, urgent orders reached us to return at once to the trenches. I shall not easily forget that day’s march (Sunday, 17 June). The heat was terrific and the road long and hilly. The men stuck it magnificently, in fact too much so, for several of them fainted from exhaustion and all were fairly done up by the time camp was reached. That night at 1 a.m., word was received that the order was cancelled and we were to return to the place we had come from. Someone had blundered, or perhaps it had dawned upon the minds of those in power that the endurance of even Irish soldiers has a limit.”

“We spent the next few days marching back further and further to the rear. We are now settled down in quite a nice part of France, very comfortable in fine farmhouses. Best of all, here we stay for some weeks at least, resting and training. It is delightfully peaceful and quiet and if the weather did give us a good drenching on the march, it is now on its best behavior—plenty of sun with a cool breeze.”

“My present habitation,” he writes a month later, “is a tiny room in an equally tiny cottage. The only big thing in it (barring the fleas) being the bed which occupies nine-tenths of the space. A beautiful dung-heap under my window sends me alternately odoriferous whiffs and savage mosquitoes. One can cheerfully put up with these small inconveniences instead of German shot and shell.”

“Our week of special training contained nothing of interest except my two battalions were again very far apart and much scattered. However, I did not object to this, as riding about the country in this beautiful weather was quite enjoyable, and I could arrange my own hours as I pleased.”

“An amusing incident took place the first morning we arrived. One old French lady was horrified, on looking out her window, to see a column of soldiers in extended order advancing calmly through her field of oats. Arming herself with a stout stick, she rushed out and started to wallop the leading files, declaring that they might trample on her but not on her precious corn. Hearing a noise behind her, Madame turned round, only to see six huge tanks advancing up the hill, literally making hay of her cornfield. With a scream of rage, the old lady made for the tanks, waving her stick and defying them to come further at their peril. It was only when two of them made for her (in fun) that she realized the battle was a one-sided affair and retreated to her fort. The English Government had warned the people that this ground would be needed for maneuvers, had given them full compensation, and told them if they sow their crops, it would be at their own risk. However, like true French people, they wanted to get the money and the corn as well.”

At this time, everyone was talking of unknown things being planned for a “Hush Army” somewhere in the dunes and there was great excitement. One day, Father Doyle chanced upon a fresh unsoiled copy of the Daily Mail for a Friday in October 1914. It described the German capture of Roulers. A glance at the scare headings on its front page suggested to him a hoax on the mess of the 2nd Dublins. Next day, a Friday (probably 20 July) he managed to get into the mess before the others. He substituted the old copy and abstracted the new one, which he proceeded to read while waiting the turn of events. The first to come in was Major Smithwick who, seeing the heading, called out, “They’ve begun the big advance. Roulers is captured.”

At once there was great excitement and all crowded round to get a peep at the stirring news. After some moments, there were puzzled exclamations.

“Why, it’s the Germans who have taken Roulers. That’s not Friday’s paper.”

“Yes, it is.”

Then the fraud was ascertained and its author was discovered behind the authentic paper. That was Father Doyle’s last practical joke.

During this interval, Father Doyle also preached his last sermon. The new Bishop of Arras, Boulogne, and Saint Omer, Monsignor Julien, was to make his formal entry into Saint Omer on Saturday, 14 July, and to be present the next day at the conclusion of the Novena to our Lady of Miracles. Through the instrumentality of Father Browne and with the ready compliance of General Hickie, it was arranged that there should be a church parade in honor of the Bishop on Sunday, 15 July. About 2,500 men came down. Father Browne said Mass and Father Doyle preached. The ceremony, which was most impressive and successful, has fortunately been described in a letter of Father Browne’s written on 22 July from Saint Martin au Laert.

“I arrived at the Cathedral about 11 o’clock (says Father Browne) and was in despair to find that the Pontifical High Mass was not yet finished. Our people are so punctual and the French have no regard for timetables, so I was sure there would be confusion and delay when our 2,000 Catholics would begin to arrive. But, it was not to be. Quietly and wonderfully quickly, the Mass ended and the people went out to watch the Bishop go back in procession to his house close by. I was relieved to see that neither he nor any of the priests unvested. Then, Father Doyle and I had to try to clear away the hundred or so people who came wandering in for the last Mass, which was to be ours for the day. ‘Donnez place, s’il vous plait, aux soldats qui wont arriver.’ (‘Make room, please, for the soldiers who are coming, I went round saying to everyone.’) They moved from the great aisle and got into the side-chapels, leaving the transepts and aisles free. Many refused to do this, when, with pious exaggeration, I said, ‘Presque 3,000 soldats irlandais wont arriver tout a I’heure’ (‘About 3,000 Irish soldiers are just coming.’) And lo! they were coming!

Through all the various doors they came, the 9th Dublins marching in by the great western door, the 8th Dublins through the beautiful southern door through which Saint Louis was the first to pass just 700 years ago, and the 2nd Dublins coming into the northern aisle and making their way up to the northern transept. Rank after rank the men poured in until the vast nave was one solid mass of khaki with the red caps of General Hickie and his staff and the Brigadiers in front. Then, up the long nave at a quick clanking march came the Guard of Honor. Every button of its men, every badge, shone and shone again. Their belts were scrubbed till not even the strictest inspection could reveal the slightest stain and their fixed bayonets only wanted the sun to show how they could flash. Up they came and, with magnificent precision, took their places on either side of the altar. I was just leaving the sacristy to begin Mass when I saw the Bishop’s procession arriving. He had promised to come only after the sermon, but here he was at the beginning of the ceremony, making everything complete.

Of course, I saw nothing, being engaged in saying Mass, but those who did, said it was a wonderful sight. The beautiful altar, standing at the crossing of the transepts and backed by the long arches of the apse and choir, was, for the feast, surrounded by a lofty throne bearing the statue of our Lady of Miracles. The sides were banked up high with palms. Then, the Guard of Honor was standing rigidly in two lines on either side with the Bishop in his beautiful purple robes on his throne. From the pulpit, Father Doyle directed the singing of the hymns and, after the Gospel, he preached. I knew he could preach, but I had hardly expected that anyone could speak as he spoke then. First, he referred to the Bishop’s coming, and very, very tactfully, spoke of the terrible circumstances of the time. Next, he went on to speak of our Lady and the Shrine to which we had come. Gradually the story was unfolded. He spoke wonderfully of the coming of the Old Irish Brigade in their wanderings over the Low Countries. It was here that he touched daringly, but ever so cleverly, on Ireland’s part in the war. Fighting for Ireland and not fighting for Ireland, or rather fighting for Ireland through another. Then he passed on to Daniel O’Connell’s time as a schoolboy at Saint Omer and his visit to the Shrine. It certainly was very eloquent. Everyone spoke most highly of it afterwards. The men, in particular, were delighted.”

“After the sermon, Mass went on. At the Sanctus, I heard the subdued order, ‘Guard of Honor, ‘shun!’ There was a click as rifles and feet came to position together. Then, the Bishop came from his throne to kneel before the Altar and twelve little boys in scarlet soutanes with scarlet sashes over their lace surplices, appeared with lighted torches and knelt behind his Lordship. At the second bell, came the command, ‘Guard of Honor, slope rifles!’ Then, as I bent over the Host, I heard, ‘Present arms!’ There was the quick click, click, click, and silence, till, as I genuflected, from the organ gallery rang out the loud clear notes of the buglers sounding the General’s Salute.”

At the end of the Mass, the Bishop in a neat little speech thanked the men for the great honor they had paid him. He was especially struck, he said, by the fact that most of them had marched a long way (some nearly ten kilometers) to attend, and he asked those of his flock who were present to learn a lesson from the grand spirit and deep faith of the Irish soldiers.

“With all my heart,” said the Bishop, “I am going to give my blessing to you, officers and men of the British Army, children of our sister-nation, Catholic Ireland. May God, by a just compensation for sacrifices accepted in common, bring to an end the interior conflicts that rend the nations. If legitimate aspirations still remain of the Irish people to be satisfied, I bless your hopes and ask of God their realization.”

The ceremony concluded by a march past, with bands playing in front of the Episcopal Palace. The Bishop stood on the steps of his house, beaming as he replied to the “eyes right” of each company as it passed him.

“The whole thing,” remarks Father Doyle, “made a great impression. People could not help contrasting the respect and honor shown by the British Army with the narrow-minded persecution of the French Government.”

This last sermon of Father Doyle will serve as final proof—if such were needed—that the man, whose inner life has been portrayed in previous chapters, was no awkward recluse or unpractical pietist. He was full of lovable human qualities. Especially conspicuous was his unselfish thoughtfulness, which always seemed so natural, so intertwined with playful spontaneity, that one came to take it for granted. He had a wonderful influence over others and won human hearts because he had learnt the Master’s secret of drawing all to himself. He could, as we have just seen, preach persuasively when occasion demanded; but his real sermon was his own life. And from that pulpit, he spoke alike to Protestants and Catholics.

“A few days before Father Willie’s death,” records Father Browne, S. J., “the Adjutant of the 9th Dublin Fusiliers, a Protestant, said to me, ‘What is it makes Father Doyle so different to the rest of your priests? Your R. C. Padres are streets above our fellows, but Father Doyle is as far above the rest of you as you are above them.’ On another occasion, Brigadier General Ramsay remarked to me what an extraordinary man Father Doyle was: “He seems to belong to another world!’”

“For fifteen months,” writes Dr. C. Buchanan on 9 September 1917, “Father Doyle and I worked together out here, generally sharing the same dugouts and billets, so we became fast friends, I acting as medical officer to his first battalion. I often envied him his coolness and courage in the face of danger. For this alone, his men would have loved him, but he had other sterling qualities that all recognized only too well. He was beloved and respected, not only by those of his own faith but also equally by Protestants, to which denomination I belong. We loved him for his broad-mindedness. To illustrate this, Poor Captain Eaton, before going into action last September, asked Father Doyle to do what was needful for him if anything happened to him, as he should feel happier if he had a friend to bury him. Captain Eaton was one of many whom Father Doyle and I placed in their last resting-place with a few simple prayers. He seldom, if ever, preached, but he set us a shining example of a Christian life.”

A similar testimony is eloquently conveyed in a little incident recorded by Father Doyle in a letter he wrote to his father on 25 July 1917. He wrote the letter while seated on a comfortable roadside bank under a leafy hedge, listening, during this intermezzo from the dreadful drama of war, to the nightingales singing in the Bois du Rossignol nearby.

“While I was writing,” he says, “one of my men, belonging to the Irish Rifles, of which I have charge also, passed by. We chatted for a few minutes and then he went on, but came back shortly with a steaming bowl of coffee which he had bought for me. ‘I am not one of your flock, Father,’ he said, ‘but we have all a great liking for you.’ Then he added, ‘If all the officers treated us as you do, our lives would be different.’ I was greatly touched by the poor lad’s thoughtfulness and impressed by what he said. A kind word often goes further than one thinks and one loses nothing by remembering that even soldiers are human beings and have feelings like anyone else.”

There lies the secret of Father Doyle’s popularity—his Christ-like democracy. With him, there was neither Jew nor Gentile, neither officer nor private; all were men, human beings, souls for whom Christ died. Every man was equally precious to him; beneath every mud-begrimed unkempt figure, he discerned a human personality. He would risk ten lives, if he had them, to bring help and comfort to a dying soldier no matter who he was. Once he rushed up to a wounded Ulsterman and knelt beside him.

“Ah, Father,” said the man, “I don’t belong to your Church.”

“No,” replied Father Doyle, “but you belong to my God.”

To Father Doyle all were brothers in need of his ministry.

THE OLD ARMCHAIR

“We shall have desperate fighting soon,” wrote Father Doyle in a private letter dated 25 July, “but I have not the least fear. On the contrary, I have great joy in the thought that I shall be able to make a real offering of my poor life to God, even if He does not think that poor life worth taking.”

To avoid causing anxiety, he said nothing to his father about the impending battle until the first phase was over. On 12 and 14 August, he sent home in his last two letters a long diary that describes the events that occurred up to that time.

30 July

“For the past week, we have been moving steadily up to the Front once more to face the hardships and horrors of another big push, which reports say is to be the biggest effort since the War began. The bloodstained Ypres battlefield is to be the center of the fight, with our left-wing running down to the Belgian coast from which it is hoped to drive the enemy and, perhaps, force him to turn and, thus, fall back very far.”

“The preparations are on a colossal scale and the mass of men and guns enormous. ‘Success is certain.’ our Generals tell us, but I cannot help wondering what are the plans of the Great Leader and what the result will be when He has issued His orders. This much is certain: the fight will be a desperate one for our foe is not only brave but also clever and cunning, as we have learned to our cost.”

“Mass in the open this morning under a drizzling rain was a trying if edifying experience. Colonel, officers, and men knelt on the wet grass with the water trickling off them, while a happy if somewhat damp chaplain moved from rank to rank giving every man Holy Communion. Poor fellows, with all their faults, God must love them dearly for their simple faith and love of their religion and for the confident way they turn to Him for help in the hour of trial.”

“One of my converts, received into the Church last night, made his First Holy Communion this morning under circumstances he will not easily forget. I see in the paper that 13,000 soldiers and officers have become Catholics since the War began, but I should say this number is much below the mark. Ireland’s missionaries, the light-hearted lads who shoulder a rifle and swing along the muddy roads have taught many a man more religion by their silent example than he ever dreamed of before.”

“Many a time, one’s heart grows sick to think how few will ever see home and country again, for their pluck and daring have marked them down for the positions that only the Celtic dash can take—an honor, no doubt, but it means slaughter as well.”

“We moved off at 10 p.m., a welcome hour in one way, as it means marching in the cool of the night instead of sweating under a blazing sun. Still, when one has put in a long day of hard work, and legs and body are pretty well tired out already, the prospect of a stiff march is not too pleasant.”

31 JULY

“It was 1:30 a.m. when our first halting-place was reached and, as we march again at three, little time was wasted getting to sleep. It was the morning of July 31, the Feast of Saint Ignatius, a day dear to every Jesuit, but doubly so to the soldier-sons of the soldier-saint. Was it to be Mass or sleep? Nature said sleep, but grace won the day and, while the weary soldiers slumbered, the Adorable Sacrifice was offered for them, that God would bless them in the coming fight and, if it were His Holy Will, bring them safely through it. Mass and thanksgiving over, a few precious moments of rest on the floor of the hut, and we have fallen into line once more.”

“As we do, the dark clouds are lit up with red and golden flashes of light, the earth quivers with the simultaneous crash of thousands of guns, and in imagination we can picture the miles of our trenches springing to life as the living stream of men pours over the top—the Third Battle of Ypres has begun.”

“Men’s hearts beat faster and nerves seem to stretch and vibrate like harp-strings as we march steadily on, ever nearer and nearer towards the raging fight, on past battery after battery of huge guns and howitzers belching forth shells that ten men could scarcely lift, on past the growing streams of motor ambulances, each with its sad burden of broken bodies, the first drops of that torrent of wounded that will pour along the road. I fancy not a few were wondering how long would it be till they were carried past in the same way or was this the last march they would ever make till the final Roll Call on the Great Review Day?”

“We were to be held in reserve for the opening stages of the battle, so we lay all day (the 31st) in the open fields, ready to march at a moment’s notice should things go badly at the Front. Bit by bit news of the fight came trickling in. The Jocks (15th Scottish Division) in front of us had taken the first and second objective with little opposition and were pushing on to their final goal. All was going well. The steady stream of prisoners showed that, for once, Dame Rumor was not playing false. Our spirits rose rapidly in spite of the falling rain, for word reached us that we were to return to the camp for the night, as our services would not be required. Then the sun of good news began to set, and ugly rumors to float about.”

“The wily German was at his tricks again. Knowing all his artillery positions were noted by our airmen and ‘registered’ for shelling, he had withdrawn his guns to new positions, leaving one behind to keep up a rapid fire and so deceive our gunners.”

“Whether it was the ‘impetuous Celtic dash’ that won the ground, or part of the German strategy, the enemy center gave way while the wings held firm. This trick has been played so often and so successfully, one would imagine we should not have been caught napping again. Yet, the temptation for victorious troops to rush into an opening is almost too strong to be resisted, and probably the real state of affairs on the wings was not known. The Scotties reached their objective, only to find they were the center of a murderous fire from three sides. Having beaten off repeated counter-attacks of the ‘demoralized enemy,’ were obliged to retire some distance. So far, the Germans had not done too badly.”

“It was nearly eight o’clock and our dinner was simmering in the pot with a tempting odor, when the fatal telegram came. ‘The battalion will move forward in support at once.’ I was quite prepared for this little change of plans, having experienced such surprises before, and had taken the precaution of laying in a solid lunch early in the day. I did not hear a single growl from anyone, though it meant we had to set out for another march hungry and dinnerless with the prospect of passing a second night without sleep. When I give my next nuns’ retreat, I shall try the experiment of a few supperless and bedless nights on them, just to see what they would say and to compare notes with the soldiers. The only disadvantage would be that I should be inundated with applications to give similar retreats in other convents, everyone being so delighted with the experiment, especially the good Mother Bursar, who would simply coin money!”

“On the road once more in strict fighting kit—the clothes we stood in, a rain-coat, and a stout heart. It was a miserable night with a cold wind driving the drizzling rain into our faces and the ground underfoot being rapidly churned into a quagmire of slush and mud. I hope the Recording Angel will not be afraid of the weather and will not get as tired of counting the steps as I did. Ten thousand and one, ten thousand and two—a bit monotonous at best.”

“The road was a sight never to be forgotten. On one side marched our column in close formation on the other galloped by an endless line of ammunition wagons, extra

guns hurrying up to the Front, and motor lorries packed with stores of all kinds. Between the two, flowed the returning stream of empties and ambulance after ambulance filled with wounded and dying.”

“In silence, save for the never-ceasing roar of the guns and the rumble of cart-wheels, we marched on through the city of the dead, Ypres, not a little anxious, for a shower of shells might come at any minute. Ruin and desolation, desolation and ruin, is the only description I can give of a spot once the pride and glory of Belgium. The hand of war has fallen heavy on the city of Ypres. Scarce a stone remains of the glorious Cathedral and equally famous Cloth Hall. The churches, a dozen of them, are piles of rubbish. Gone are the convents, the hospitals, and public buildings. Though many of the inhabitants are still there, their bodies lie buried in the ruins of their homes and the smell of rotting corpses poisons the air. I have seen strange sights in the last two years, but this was the worst of all. Out again by the opposite gate of this stricken spot, that people say was not undeserving of God’s chastisement, across the moat and along the road pitted all over with half-filled-in shell-holes. Broken carts and dead horses, with human bodies too, if one looked, lie on all sides, but one is too weary to think of anything except how many more miles must be covered.”

“We have a welcome halt at last, with, perhaps, an hour or more delay. The men were already stretched by the side of the road and I was not slow to follow their example. I used to wonder how anyone could sleep lying in mud or water, but at that moment the place one slept, as far as I was concerned, did not matter two straws. A thorn-bush, the bed of a stream, anywhere would do to satisfy the longing for even a few moments’ slumber after nearly two days and nights of marching without sleep. I picked out a soft spot on the ruins of a home, lay down with a sigh of relief, and then, for all I cared, all the King’s guns and the Kaiser’s combined might roar till they were hoarse and all the rain in the heavens might fall, as it was falling then, I was too tired and happy to bother.”

“I was chuckling over the disappearance of the officer in front of me into a friendly trench from which he emerged if possible a little more muddy than he was, when I felt my two legs shoot from under me and I vanished down the sides of a shell-hole that I had not noticed. As I am not making a confession of my whole life, I shall not tell you what I said, but it was something different from the exclamation of the pious old gentleman who used to miss the golf ball.”

“The Headquarters Staff found shelter in an old mineshaft. It was dark, foul-smelling, and dripping water that promised soon to flood us out. Still, it was some protection from the downpour outside and I slept like a top for some hours in a dry corner sitting on a coil of wire.”

1 AUGUST

“Morning brought a leaden sky, more rain, and no breakfast! Our cook with the rations had got lost during the night, so there was nothing for it but to tighten one’s belt and bless the man who invented eating. But, He who feeds the birds of the air did not mutter ‘Tut, tut’ every time he forgets us. Therefore, by midday we were sitting before a steaming tin of tea, bully beef, and biscuits, a banquet fit to set before an emperor after a nearly twenty-four hour fast. Not for a moment during the whole of the day did the merciless rain cease. The men, soaked to the skin and beyond it, were standing up to their knees in a river of mud and water, and, like ourselves, were unable to get any hot food till the afternoon. Our only consolation was that the trenches were not shelled and we had no casualties. Someone must have had compassion on our plight, for, when night fell, a new Brigade came in to relieve us, much to our surprise and joy. We moved back to the camp we had left the previous night, one of the hardest marches I ever put in, but cheered at the thought of a rest. Once again, we got through Ypres without a shell, though they fell before and after our passing. Good luck was on our side for once.”

Here they remained for a couple of days, and it was during this interval that Father Doyle wrote the above little chronicle. He resumed it on the morning of Sunday, 12 August.

“Dearest Father,” he began, “when I finished writing the last line I could not help asking myself should I ever continue this little narrative of my adventures and experiences, for we were under marching-orders to make our way that night to the Front Line, a series of shell-holes in the ground which we won from the enemy. To hold this, we knew would be no easy task, but I little thought of what lay before me, of the thousand and one dangers I was to pass through unscathed, or of the hardship and suffering that were to be crowded into the next few days.”

“It is Sunday morning, August 12. We have just got back to camp after (for me at least) six days and seven continuous nights on the battlefield. There was no chance last night of a moment’s rest and you may imagine there was little sleep the previous nights either, sitting on a box with one’s feet in 12 inches of water.”

For the past forty-eight hours, we have lived, eaten, and slept in a flooded dugout, which one left at the peril of his life, so you may fancy what relief it was to change one’s sodden muddy clothes.

“Tired as I am, I cannot rest till I try to give you some account of what has happened, for I know you must be on the look-out for news of your boy, and also because my heart is bursting to tell you of God’s love and protection, never so manifest as during this week.”

“He has shielded me from almost countless dangers with more than the tender care of an earthly mother. What I have to say sounds in parts almost like a fairytale and, if He has tried my endurance, once at least almost to breaking-point, it was only to fill me with joy at the thought that I was deemed worthy to suffer (a little) for Him.”

“I shall give you as simply as I can the principal events of these exciting days as I jotted them down in my notebook.”

Before resuming the diary, it is necessary to remark that, after the death of Father Knapp (31 July), Father Browne was appointed chaplain to the 2nd Irish Guards. Hence, from 2 August till his death, Father Doyle had the four battalions to look after, as no other priest had come to the 48th Brigade. A certain priest had indeed been appointed as Father Browne’s successor by Father Rawlinson. By some error, the order was brought to a namesake, who, on arriving at Poperinghe and discovering the mistake, absolutely refused to have anything to do with the battle. This will explain why Father Doyle had such hard work and why he would not allow himself any rest or relief. On 15 August, Father Browne wrote to his brother (Rev. W. F. Browne, C.C.).

“Father Doyle is a marvel. You may talk of heroes and saints—they are hardly in it! I went back the other day to see the old Dubs., as I heard they were having, we’ll say, a taste of the War.”

“No one has been yet appointed to my place, and Father Doyle has done double work. So unpleasant were the conditions that the men had to be relieved frequently. Father Doyle had no one to relieve him, so he stuck to the mud and the shells, the gas and the terror. Day after day, he stuck it out.”

“I met the Adjutant of one of my two battalions, who previously had only known Father Doyle by sight. His first greeting to me was—‘Little Father Doyle (they all call him that, more in affection than anything else) deserves the V.C. more than any man that ever wore it. We cannot get him away from the line while the men are there, he is with his own and he is with us. The men could not stick it half so well if he weren’t there. If we give him an orderly, he sends the man back, he wears no tin hat, and he is always so cheery.’”

“Another officer, also a Protestant, said, ‘Father Doyle never rests. Night and day, he is with us. He finds a dying or dead man, does all, comes back smiling, makes a little cross, goes out to bury him, and then begins all over again.’”

Father Browne added, “I needn’t say that, through all this, the conditions of ground and air and discomfort surpass anything that I ever dreamt of in the worst days of the Somme.”

We can now provide the last fragments of Father Doyle’s diary.

5 August

“All day I have been busy hearing the men’s confessions, and giving batch after batch of Holy Communion. A consolation surely to see them crowding to the Sacraments, but a sad one too, because I know for many of them it is the last Absolution they will ever receive, and the next time they meet our Blessed Lord will be when they see Him face to face in Heaven.”

And here, a week later, Father Doyle interrupts his narrative by a spontaneous outburst of grief for the loss of those whom he loved as “his own children.”

“My poor brave boys!” he exclaims. “They are lying now out on the battlefield; some in a little grave dug and blessed by their chaplain, who loves them all as if they were his own children; others stiff and stark with staring eyes, hidden in a shell-hole where they had crept to die; while perhaps in some far-off thatched cabin an anxious mother sits listening for the well-known step and voice that will never gladden her ear again. Do you wonder in spite of the joy that fills my heart that many a time the tears gather in my eyes, as I think of those who are gone?”

“As the men stand lined up on Parade, I go from company to company giving a General Absolution that I know is a big comfort to them. Then, I shoulder my pack and make for the train that this time is to carry us part of our journey.”

“Top end for Blighty, boys, bottom end Berlin,” I tell them as they clamber in, for they like a cheery word. ‘If you’re for Jerryland, Father, we’re with you too,’ shouts one big giant, his shout is greeted with a roar of approval, and Berlin wins the day hands down.”

“Though we are in fighting-kit, there is no small load to carry. The load includes a haversack containing little necessary things and three days’ rations, which consist of tinned corned beef, hard biscuits, tea and sugar, with usually some solidified methylated spirit for boiling water when a fire cannot be lighted; two full water-bottles; a couple of gas helmets, the new one weighing nine pounds, but guaranteed to keep out the smell of the Old Boy himself; then a waterproof trench-coat; and, in addition, my Mass-kit strapped on my back, on the off-chance that some days at least I may be able to offer the Holy Sacrifice on the spot where so many men have fallen. My orderly should carry this, but I prefer to leave him behind when we go into action, to which he does not object. On a roasting hot day, tramping along a dusty road or scrambling up and down shell-holes, the extra weight tells. But then, I think of my Angel Guardian, counting my steps, and the pack grows light and easy!”

“As I marched through Ypres at the head of the column, an officer ran across the road and stopped me. ‘Are you a Catholic priest?’ he asked, ‘I should like to go to Confession.’ There and then, by the side of the road while the men marched by, he made his peace with God, and went his way. It was a trivial incident, but it brought home vividly to me what a priest was, and the wondrous power given him by God. All the time, we were pushing on steadily towards our goal across the battlefield of the previous week. Five days of almost continuous rain had made the torn ground worse than any ploughed field, but none seemed to care as so far not a shot had fallen near.”

“We were congratulating ourselves on our good luck, when suddenly the storm burst. Away along the front trenches, we saw the SOS signal shoot into the air, two red and two green rockets, telling the artillery behind of an attack and calling for support. There was little need to send any signal as the enemy’s guns had opened fire with a crash and, in a moment pandemonium, in fact, fifty of them were set loose. I can but describe the din by asking you to start together fifty first-class thunderstorms, though even then the swish and scream, the deafening crash of the shells, would be wanting.”

“On we hurried in the hope of reaching cover that was close at hand, when right before us the enemy started to put down a heavy barrage, literally a curtain of shells, to prevent reinforcements coming up. There was no getting through that alive, and, to make matters worse, the barrage was creeping nearer and nearer (only fifty yards away) while shell-fragments hummed uncomfortably close. Old shell-holes there were in abundance, but every one of them was brimful of water, and one would only float on top. Here was a fix!”

“Yet somehow, I felt that though the boat seemed in a bad way, the Master was watching even while He seemed to sleep, and that help would surely come. In the darkness, I stumbled across a huge shell-hole crater, recently made, as it was not yet filled with water. We rolled into it and lay on our faces, while the tempest howled around and angry shells hissed overhead and burst on every side. For a few moments, I shivered with fear, for we were now right in the middle of the barrage and the danger was very great, but my courage came back when I remembered how easily He who had raised the tempest saved His Apostles from it, and I never doubted He would do the same for us. Not a man was touched, though one had his rifle smashed to bits.”

Shell Holes on the Banks of the Yser (Aerial View)

“We reached Headquarters, a strong block-house made of concrete and iron rails, a masterpiece of German cleverness. From time to time, all during the night, the enemy gunners kept firing at our shelter, having the range to a nicety. Scores exploded within a few feet of it, shaking us till our bones rattled; a few went smash against the walls and roof; and one burst at the entrance, nearly blowing us over, but doing no harm, thanks to the scientific construction of the passage. I tried to get a few winks of sleep on a stool as there was no room to lie down with sixteen men in the small hut. And I came to the conclusion that so far we had not done badly, and there was every promise of an exciting time.”

6 August

“The following morning, though the Colonel and other officers pressed me very much to remain with them on the grounds that I would be more comfortable, I felt that I could do better work at the advanced dressing-station, or rather aid-post. I went there and joined the doctor. It was a providential step and saved me from being the victim of an extraordinary accident. The following night a shell again burst at the entrance to the blockhouse, as it had done our first night there. This time, the shell exploded several boxes of Verey lights or rockets that had been left at the door. A mass of flame and dense smoke rushed into the dugout, severely burning some and almost suffocating all the officers and men, fifteen in number, with poisonous fumes before they made their escape. Had I been there, I should have shared the same fate, so you can imagine what I felt as I saw all my friends carried off to hospital, possibly to suffer ill effects for life, while I by the merest chance was left behind well and strong to carry on God’s work. I am afraid you will think me ungrateful, but more than once I almost regretted my escape, so great has been the strain of these past days now happily over.”

“For once, getting out of bed (save the mark) was an easy, in fact, delightful task, for I was stiff and sore from my night’s rest. My first task was to look round and see what the possibilities were for Mass. As all the dugouts were occupied if not destroyed or flooded, I was delighted to discover a tiny ammunition store that I speedily converted into a chapel, building an altar with the boxes. The fact that it barely held myself did not signify, as I had no server and had to be both priest and acolyte. In a way, I was not so sorry I could not stand up, as I was able for once to offer the Holy Sacrifice on my knees.”

“It is strange that out here a desire I have long cherished should be gratified, viz., to be able to celebrate alone, taking as much time as I wished without inconveniencing anyone. I read long ago in the Acts of the Martyrs of a captive priest, chained to the floor of the Coliseum, offering up the Mass on the altar of his own bare breast. Apart from that, Mass that morning must have been a strange one in the eyes of God’s angels, yet I trust not unacceptable to Him.”

Returning to the dressing-station, I refreshed the inner man in preparation for a hard day’s work. You may be curious to know what an aid-post is like. Get out of your mind all ideas of a clean hospital ward, for our first-aid dressing station is any place, as near as possible to the fighting-line, which will afford a little shelter. It could be a cellar, a coal-hole, sometimes even a shell-hole. Here, the wounded, who have been roughly bandaged on the field, are brought by the stretcher-bearers to be dressed by the doctor. Our aid-post was a rough tin shed built beside a concrete dugout that we christened the Pig-sty. You could just crawl in on hands and knees to the solitary chamber that served as a dressing-room, recreation-hall, sleeping-apartment, and anything else for which you cared to use it. One could not very well sit up, much less stand in our chateau, but you could stretch your legs and get a snooze if the German shells and the wounded men let you. On the floor were some wood-shavings, kept well moistened in damp weather by a steady drip from the ceiling and which gave cover to a host of curious little creatures, all most friendly and affectionate. There was room for three, but, as a rule, we slept six or seven officers side by side. I had the post of honor next the wall, which had the double advantage of keeping me cool and damp, and of offering a stout resistance if anyone wanted to pinch more space, not an easy task, you may well conclude.”

“When not occupied with the wounded, I spent a good part of the day wandering round the battlefield with a spade to bury stray dead. Though there was not very much infantry fighting owing to the state of the ground, not for a moment during the week did the artillery duel cease, reaching at times a pitch of unimaginable intensity. I have been through some hot stuff at Loos, and the Somme was warm enough for most of us, but neither of them could compare to the fierceness of the German fire here. For example, we once counted fifty shells, big chaps too, whizzing over our little nest in sixty seconds, not counting those that burst close by. In fact, you became so accustomed to it all that you ceased to bother about them, unless some battery started strafing your particular position, when you began to feel a keen personal interest in every newcomer. I have walked about for hours at a time getting through my work, with ‘crumps’ of all sizes bursting in dozens on every side. More than once my heart has nearly jumped out of my mouth from sudden terror, but not once during all those days have I had what I could call a narrow escape, but always a strange confident feeling of trust and security in the all-powerful protection of our Blessed Lord. You will see before the end that my trust was not misplaced. All the same, I am not foolhardy nor do I expose myself to danger unnecessarily, the coward is too strong in me for that. But when duty calls, I know I can count on the help of One who has never failed me yet.”