"Well, Chaplain, they winged you this time," said good Captain Cash, Abilene, Texas, Medical Corps, when I reported. My right forearm was broken, but nothing serious enough to make me an ambulance case.



CHAPTER VII

THE GREATER LOVE

I never recall those really worth while times without being reminded of a certain Lieutenant whose name I do not feel at present free to reveal. The attending circumstances were so deeply pathetic, and his confidence in me of a nature so sacred, I will but narrate the details without divulging his identity.

Handsome, generous, brave, highly competent in military art, he was as skillful in getting action from his giant gun as he was masterful in evoking music from his violin! If there was anything his platoon boys admired more, even than himself, it was the music of his ever generous, ever delighting violin. Deep in some dugout we would gather around him. Tenderly and fondly he would take the instrument from the battered box, patting it like a young mother her baby's cheek.

Beginning with some light popular air in which all would vocally join, he would soon glide like a spirit of melody to the unprofaned height of the music masters. Bach was his favorite. And when, with the mute, to soften the waves from unfriendly ears, he would interpret some symphony of the soul, we would forget our grim surroundings and dream we "dwelt in marble halls."

He knew my passionate fondness for music and took delight in pleasing me. What pictures he could paint on the canvas of my fancy! Under the spell of his music I would drop anchor in the harbor of the fairest dream. Now, it would be a landscape the brush of his bow would paint—a midsummer day with sheep gently grazing on some hillside: again, it would be a forest, with treetops cowering before an on-rushing storm.

One evening he was playing with the mute on "Humoresque." His big brown eyes, that were not the least attractive feature of his handsome face, looked steadily into mine across the bridge of his violin.

"What is the picture tonight, Chaplain?"



"I see a coast," I replied; "it is a fair summer day, with waves of all blue and silver, dancing in the breeze. A yacht is just off shore; the sail, a creamy bit of color; at the tiller a chap, handsome as yourself, and at his side a girl"—here he stopped playing and looking intently at me exclaimed:

"Why, that's the very thing I was thinking of myself!"

Laying aside the violin he drew from his kit a bundle of letters tied with ribbon. Delightedly, radiantly, he showed me her picture—yes, her pictures, for surely he had twenty of them. Then he narrated "the sweetest story ever told"; how wonderful she was, how tenderly he loved her, how they had sacredly promised to marry on his return, and planned to seek their young fortunes in South America.

The days following were filled with big thrilling events. The ebb and flow of battle called into action all that was best and noblest in the boys, and my Lieutenant served his Battery and wrought deeds of valor to a degree all excelling and inspiring. I knew the secret of it all, it was the thought of her, his promised wife, and of the bliss awaiting a gallant soldier's return.

It was just one week later the letter came. Few received mail that day; he was one who did. My attention was first called to him by the sound of a moan that seemed to come from a heart utterly broken. He stood leaning against a caisson staring at the letter, his face deathly white. Instinctively I realized it all. It was from her, and its message was as some stroke of lightning from a cloudless sky. Mutely he came to me, pressed the letter in my hand, and turned away.

A glance through its lines told me the worst; that while she admired his courage and unselfishness more than any man in the world, and always would, still, as she did not, could never, love him as she felt a wife should love her husband, would he now release her and give up their engagement!

Knowing him as I did, noble, unselfish, and devotedly, tenderly loving her with all his soul, most deeply did I pity him. It was the supreme hour and crisis of his life. If there were ever a time when he needed her love to sustain him, when day and night he grappled with death and fought with all his soul, as only the patriot can fight, it was now.

It was the beginning of the end. Sub-consciously I sensed impending tragedy, and was depressed beyond expression. Not indeed that he became morose, ugly or unsoldierly. On the contrary, never was he more attentive to Battery duties or considerate toward his men. Bravely would he laugh and jest and try to appear happy; but I knew it was all merely heroic endeavor, and that his heart was utterly broken. If he gave expression to his loss at all it was through his violin. It was all in a minor strain, and its notes were of the soul of one

"Who treads alone, Some banquet hall deserted: Whose lights are fled, and garlands dead, All, all save he departed."

It was the afternoon of ten days later. In an orchard on a hillside his Battery had just come into position. By some alert enemy-observing plane the movement had evidently been noted, for it was not seven minutes later that a high explosive shell came screaming over the hill, directly hitting his gun, instantly killing gunner No. 1, and mortally wounding himself.

Ten minutes later I reached his side. He was still conscious, had received First Aid, but was sinking rapidly. "I am not afraid to die, Chaplain. It's my turn I guess. There is a letter here in my blouse pocket. I wrote it to her the other night. Read it, will you please, and if it is all right, post it for me when I am gone."

Blinded with my tears I carefully took the letter from his pocket. It was wet with his heart's blood. I do not now recall its every word, but in substance, it released her. "My Duchess" was the endearing title at the top of the page. It declared his deep, abiding love for her: a love so unselfish and complete as not wanting to ever, either directly or indirectly, mar her happiness. In life and death her memory would continue to be the one supreme inspiration of his life. As she requested, he had burned the letters, retaining but one, stained with a rose she had once given him.

"Oh my boy! I am proud of you," I cried, when I finished reading. "If it is all right, Chaplain, please post it when I am gone."

The deathly pallor of his face warned me the end was near. Though not directly of my faith, he had often remarked his preference for my ministrations; and with all my soul I helped him make Acts of Faith, Hope, Charity, and perfect Contrition. Gently his eyes closed, his head fell forward on my breast, and his brave sweet spirit passed to its Maker.

Kneeling around, with tears seaming their ashen battle-stained faces, were his boys. Tenderly they helped me carry his poor torn body to the shelter of a neighboring ravine. On the hillside we buried him, marking his grave with the Sign of Him who shall remember the Brave, the Pure, the Good.

I posted the letter, as he requested, enclosing it all, as it was blood-stained, in another envelope. I have forgiven, as he would have me do, the inconsiderate action of the girl who brought such sorrow to the supreme hour of his sacrifice. Some day, when the wounds of cruel war are healed, I may forget. And yet, reviewing it all in the light of the supernatural and the greater reward awaiting him beyond the stars, may we not believe that an all-wise, ever-merciful Father permitted this crowning sorrow of his young life that it might be but opportunity, humbly and prayerfully endured, of a soul-cleansing nature, and add luster to his reward of the Greater Love through eternal years!



CHAPTER VIII

THIACOURT—AERIAL DARING

"Where are you saying Mass next Sunday Chaplain?"

"In Thiacourt," I replied.

Just the shadow of a doubt flitted across the handsome face of Colonel Cummings, who nevertheless promptly responded, "All right, I'll be there."

That Mass could safely be said in such a veritable inferno as Thiacourt November 1st offered very reasonable room for doubt. Located but a single kilometer from the front line trench, its ruins were shelled by day, and air bombed by night, with daring Fokers and Taubes finding rare sport in spraying its main street with machine gun fire.

The gallant boys of the 55th Infantry, nine hundred of whom came from Chicago, were then bravely holding that death-swept point; and I was determined to bring them the consolation and strength of Religion in their supreme need.

Dawn was breaking that Sunday morning when I rode through Bouillonville. Leading north from this village the road leaves the shelter of a friendly hill and plunges boldly across the open plain. Our Batteries were firing constantly from every available angle of the hills, and the enemy's spirited reply made very heavy the din of gun fire. In all directions, on roadside, field and hill, geysers were rising, and yawning yellow craters forming from the impact of bursting shells.

It was seldom I urged "Jip" out of a canter. This morning, however, things were different. The road through the open plain lay full in view and range of eagle-eyed enemy snipers.

Across the pommel of the saddle, in front, was fastened a bag of oats; and behind, my Mass kit. Tightly I strapped on my steel helmet, with gas mask tied at "alert."

Leaving the shelter of the hill I leaned forward and spoke to "Jip." "Allez! Allez! Mon petit cheval!" Right bravely he responded. With ears back, and raven mane and tail streaming to the breeze, he fairly hurled himself forward across the death-swept plain. His speed and courage stood between me and eternity.

It is not easy for even the best sniper to hit such a fast moving horse. At a point two hundred yards to the right of us burst a huge shell. To just the slightest degree "Jip" trembled, but with never a break of his even flying stride. "Thank God!" was my heartfelt prayer as we reached the ruined mill at Thiacourt.

Quickly dismounting I led "Jip" deep into the rear of a building whose front was shot away.

O how I hugged and patted that brave little horse; and from the manner he pawed the ground and rubbed his nose against my side I felt he fairly thrilled with the pride of his race with death. For your sake, my brave little "Jip," I will never be unkind to a horse as long as I live.

Rewarding him with an extra ration of oats, and leaving him secure from gas, I proceeded forward on foot.

Shrapnel was bursting all about, and its sharp, sizzling echo, against walls still standing, made maddening din.

Dodging from building to building up the deserted front street I reached a point opposite the Hotel de Ville in time to see the front of a building one hundred yards to the left blown completely out by a bursting shell. The church was but a heap of smoking ruins.

In the courtyard of a large building, that a few days before was headquarters of the German staff, I was welcomed by boys of the 55th Infantry. It was a platoon in command of Lieutenant Coughlan of Mobile, Alabama.

This gallant young man, nephew of Capt. Coughlan who sailed with Dewey into Manila Bay, was every inch a hero. Just the day before he had held a front sector against terrible odds when the platoon on his right had fallen back under heavy gas attack with its commander mortally wounded. In this encounter Coughlan was badly gassed himself, and could not speak above a whisper. "I know the Latin, and can serve your Mass all right, Chaplain, if you can stand for my whispers."

An altar was improvised out of a richly carved sideboard standing in the courtyard. After a goodly number had gone to Confession, a crowd of some two hundred assembled for the Mass. At this moment Colonel Cummings, true to his word that he would be on hand, strode into the yard.

The boys knelt around, wearing their steel helmets, and with masks at "alert." My vestments consisted simply of a stole worn over my cassock. Helmet and mask lay easily within reach at one side. The firing, meanwhile, was terrific—high explosive shells shrieking overhead and bursting on every side. Rifle and machine-gun bullets added their shrill tenor notes to the orchestral wail of gun fire.

I had prepared a sermon, but, amid such din, I, for a moment, questioned the possibility and even propriety of delivering it. I decided in the affirmative, and raised my voice in challenge to the wild clamor of death.

As I looked upon the battle-stained faces before me, I felt how pleasing it all must have been in the sight of Him who feared not Death of old, and who said on the hills of Galilee: "Greater love than this no man has, that he give up his life for his friends."

Mass over, the boys quickly disappeared into neighboring dugouts. Colonel Cummings was greatly pleased with it all, remarking, "As soon as you began Mass, Chaplain, the gun fire seemed to ease a bit, and a comparative zone of quiet prevailed where we were gathered."

"I shall know after this, Colonel," I laughingly replied, "what is bringing you to Mass—to get into a zone of quiet!" Permit me to add here, however that the good Colonel needed no urging to attend Mass. I never met a better Christian overseas nor a more gallant loyal comrade than Colonel Cummings.

The remaining hours of that day were spent in ministering to the living and burying the dead. Along that battle swept front the Chaplain was always gladly welcomed and his divine Message reverently received. Death in its thousand ghastly forms, ever impending, ever threatening, impressed with serious religious thought the consciousness of even the most careless. In direct proportion to the coming and going of danger was the ebb and flow of the tide spiritual. "Haven't you noticed, Chaplain, an improvement in my language of late? I sure have been trying to cut out swearing." Often would some officer or enlisted man—of any or no church membership—so remark, and who had hitherto been prone to sins of the tongue.

On such occasions two thoughts would come to me—the reflection of Tertullian that "The soul of man is by nature religious;" and the admonition of Ecclesiastes 7:40, "Remember thy last end and thou shalt never sin." Far into that All Saints night I heard Confessions, and was edified with the large number who approached Holy Communion All Souls morning.

In burial work, we always made it a point, where it was at all possible, to bury the enemy dead as reverently as our own. We would gather their poor shell-torn bodies, often in advanced stages of decomposition, and place them in graves on sheltered hillsides, safe from gun fire, carefully assembling in Musette bags their belongings, which we would forward to the Prisoner of War Department. One day, while so assembling the scattered remains of four dead Germans, evidently killed by the same shell, one of our boys of the 34th Infantry, Sam Volkel by name, who before the war lived in my old parish at Harvey, passed by. This good boy's parents had been born in Germany. When he saw the reverent care we were giving those four of the enemy dead, he came up to me and with tears streaming down his smoke and dust-covered face exclaimed, "Father, God bless you."

"De mortuis nil nisi bonum" is a principle of conduct dating back to Him who of old declared burial of the dead a corporal work of mercy. It is the mark, neither of the Christian individual nor nation, to disrespect a body nor desecrate its resting place. The fact that in life it was tenanted by the soul of an enemy is no justification for dishonoring it; for He who is Infinite Truth and Justice declares "Love thy enemy; do good to those who hate you, and bless those who persecute you." This, of course, is not the way of the world; but is the way of Him whose standards of living must guide our lives, and whose will to reward or punish us shall prevail through Eternity.

We had now been many weeks at the extreme front on minimum ration of all things bearing on bodily comfort or mental relaxation. Water was but a word, a memory, cherished dream of him who wrote "The Old Oaken Bucket." If we could but find enough of the chlorinated drug store kind to nourish our canteen, we were prepared to dispense with the common, or laundry serving, variety.

In the eternal fitness of things, there came now into being an Army institution, officially known as the Delousing Station. It appears to have been named in memory of a certain small wingless insect. There was an appeal to it that at once caught the popular fancy of the soldiers, always itching for novelty, and it became the most frequented of watering places. It was a thoroughly democratic affair, officers and enlisted men freely approving and patronizing it, under the undenying impulse, no doubt, of a common human need. It little mattered that its location was usually the wreckage of some wind-swept barn; or that its furniture consisted of a barrel of water jauntily poised on the rafters; the spectacle of Buddie, bar of soap in hand, sporting and splashing in the limpid stream of that miniature Niagara, offered wealth of theme for the inspired artist, poet, and writer of commercial advertising.

I greatly wonder that the hallowed memory of this loving institution has so far escaped the popular fancy as to be left "unwept, unhonored and unsung." That it was inspirational might be shown from the case of a boy of the 64th Infantry changing the words of the popular song, "They go wild, simply wild, over me," to "They run wild, simply wild, over me."

Huts designed to offer any manner of mental relaxation, reading, music, and the like, were necessarily many miles to the rear. No sound but gun fire was ever to be heard. No matin bugle call of Reveille to rouse, nor plaintive note of Taps to "mend the ravelled sleeve of care." No regimental band to "soothe the savage breast," nor lead to the charge in the way it is described in books of history.

No lights to show from dugout or trench, not even on motor cars or cycles dashing along treacherous roads and trails. If mess and water carts could be kept in touch with advanced posts, the mail and welfare supply trucks could be dispensed with.

Days and weeks would pass without so much as sight of a letter, newspaper, book, or word from the rear of any kind. Such times were like living in the bottom of a well, glimpses of the sky overhead, but all around you, dark, foul, and deathly.

Amid such surroundings our chief pleasure and relaxation was often the sky. Reclining in the soft yielding mud we could watch the canvas of the heavens, stretched from horizon to horizon, in panoramic splendor. Whether it was the hour of the "powerful king of day rejoicing in the east," the mid-day brooding calm, or when "Night folds her starry curtains round," the ever-changing, ever-beautiful pictures of cloudland lulled to rest our fancies sweet as music which

"Gentler on the spirit lies Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes."

How thrilled we were when cloudland became of a sudden peopled with armed men! When that azure blue became an ocean, with ships of the air scudding in and out of cloudy coves, around billowy headlands, "zuming," spiraling, volplaning, maneuvering for position to hurl broadsides of death.

It was all, as it were, a tournament staged for our amusement. Herald of its beginning would be a splash of white against the blue above the German lines. Faintly, then with steadily increased volume in tone, would come to our ears the unmistakable high tenor engine trum of a Foker plane.



All eyes would intently watch its approach. It was coming over to deal death or destruction of some sort, possibly to attack our anchored observing balloon, just to the rear.

Seconds as well as minutes count in such an adventure, and quicker than the eye can count them, puffy balls of white appear above, below and all around on the on-rushing Foker; they are the shrapnel bursts of our vigilant anti-aircraft guns that have now opened briskly from every hill and forest.

On it comes!—and now black puffs appear in its path, the dynamite shells of our guns finding their range. Boom! boom! rat-ta-tat-boom-rat-ta-tat is the music that greets our ears and every hill is a tremble under the shock of thousands of rounds of fire.

In such an emergency our orders are clear. We must remain perfectly motionless: we will not be seen unless we move about. We must not fire at him; he must know neither our location nor what arms we have.

The tons of steel being hurled into the air must meanwhile fall in splinters to the earth. Here is where our steel helmets prove so serviceable, protecting the head not only from falling splinters, but from bullets of the machine gun the Foker flyer is now vigorously firing earthward.

Now a new and welcome sound greets our eyes. Coming on the wings of the wind out of the south is the strong deep bass of Liberty Motor music—the all-American made—which, though arriving in quantity late in the war, proved at once its superiority to all others. Our ground guns have driven the Foker high into the air; which, evidently noting that the on-coming ships are merely observing and not fighting planes, comes steadily on!

How vividly I recall that stirring afternoon! We were on a hillside, just above Thiacourt, directing the work of a burial detail. As the Foker reached a point directly over us he dove full in our direction. There was nothing for us to do, no shelter to take refuge in, just an unprotected slope of the hill.

Whether it was the fact that we were a burial party and he wished to spare us—and this explanation I like to believe—or whether, by firing on us, he might betray his presence, and thus defeat his main purpose, which was to destroy the balloon anchored in the neighboring valley, I will never know; but this I do know—at a point directly above us, and where he could most easily have killed us with machine gun fire, he suddenly changed his course.

Gliding down the valley, he raced full upon the observing balloon and hurled incendiary shells into it, setting it on fire; then, coming about, he dashed away to the north, escaping over his own lines amid a shower of leaden hail! "Ill blows the wind that profits no one"—the position of undertaker, we at first hesitated in accepting, had saved our life; burial boys were, after this, more reconciled than ever to their work!

Air craft battles, although of frequent occurrence along our front, were always watched with keen delight. Our fliers were chiefly of the 108th Squadron from the fields of Toul and Colombey-le-Belles.

It was in our area, on the banks of the Moselle, that the heroic and gallant Lufberry fell, fighting, to his death. He is buried in the little cemetery of Evacuation Hospital No. 1, near Toul.

Eddie Rickenbacker, Reed Landis, Tuper Weyman, Elmer Crowel, Bernard Granville, Douglas Campbell, these and others were the gallant Aces of our Army, flying and fighting daily over the front.

On September twenty-eighth Douglas Campbell fell in flames at Pannes. In the cemetery of the old church there he is buried. It was with special interest we cared for his grave, inasmuch as his home was in Kenilworth, near our own Chicago.

Infantry contact flying was necessarily hazardous. It meant flying at an elevation easily in reach of rifle fire.

Usually at mess, the evening before, the flyer, chosen for this mission, would be notified. His companions, too, would hear of the selection; and often indulged, in their own grim humorous way, of reminding him of the fact! The man next to him at the table would softly and weirdly hum a strain from Chopin's Funeral March, setting its music to the solemn words, "Ten thousand dollars going home to the States!"

It was this trait in Buddie's character, however, ability to make the best of things, to see the smooth and not the seamy side of Death's mantle, that made him the most intelligent, cool, and resourceful of all fighting men. His buoyancy of disposition and resiliency of spirit gave him a self-confidence and initiative that made him rise superior to all hardship, and, as it were, compelled circumstances to side with him.

The 10th Field Signal Battalion, commanded by the brilliant and big-hearted Major Gustav Hirch of Columbus, Ohio, was a favorite rendezvous of mine. The nature of work of these Signal men appealed to me; and their nomadic habits co-ordinated happily with my duties, frequently requiring me, along the changing front, "to fold my tent with Arabs and silently steal away."

They had direct charge of the Intelligence Maintenance of War work, and constituted the axes of liaison between the various Units of the Division.

Their skill in the transmission of messages was most remarkable. Masking their operations in the language of secret signs and ciphers, they made use of the telephone, telegraph, radio, wig-wag, panel, carrier pigeon, blinker, and last, and perhaps most dependable of all, the living runner. The duty of the latter consisted in carrying messages to or from exposed positions when no other means would do. Usually a volunteer from any branch, he was selected because of courage, agility and ability to get through somehow, no matter how great the opposing odds. I was present in an Observation Post near Jolney talking to Colonel Lewis, when a runner came rushing across No Man's Land through a leaden hail, saluted, handed a message to Captain Payne, and fell unconscious at his feet. There were no greater heroes of the war.

Operators and linesmen "carried on" under conditions demanding the greatest courage—remaining to the last in exposed positions like the wireless heroes of a sinking ship. I have known lines to be shelled and blown to pieces a dozen times during the day, and just as often repaired by daring linesmen.

Frequently sharing their mess and dugouts, I cultivated the friendship, not only of their generous Commander, but of Captain Cash, of Abilene, Texas; Captain Jim Williams, of Troy, Alabama; and Lieutenant Phillips of Brooklyn, New York—three of the most beloved of soldiers. Lieutenant Andy O'Day, of Detroit, also with them, was heavily gassed at Jolney.

Attached to the Battalion, too, was a brilliant young man, Lieutenant D'Orleans, French Army. He was from Brittany, had won the Croix de Guerre, and spoke English, if not fluently, at least interestingly.



CHAPTER IX

REMBERCOURT

On Saturday night, November ninth, I had repaired to my dugout near Bouillonville, planning to say two Masses at distant points the following morning. I retired early to snatch a little rest.

At midnight, Lieutenant D'Orleans rushed into the dugout and roused me, hoarsely whispering,—"Chaplain, a big movement is on!"

Rolling from my blanket I hurried outside. The night was intensely dark; but there, in the valley before me, I could make out a long column of troops.

For some days there had been growing signs and vague hints of a big attack impending. Was this its beginning?

Reporting at once to the head of the column, I found Colonel Lewis and Major Black. The troops were the 2nd Battalion of the 64th Infantry. The Colonel, a trimly built little man, and every inch a fighter, was eating a bar of chocolate. "Here, Chaplain, have a bar of chocolate; I have an extra one. By the way we are going to attack at dawn."



The personification of coolness, how proud I was of him! He was ready; he knew his troops were ready; he was about to lead them to the heights of grim Rembercourt, one of the most prized and fought for positions along our front!

These brave boys of the Second Battalion, going, many of them, to their death, needed us. Good Chaplain LeMay of the Battalion would need assistance; moreover the 55th Infantry would be in that attack, and they, at that time, had no Catholic Chaplain. Many needed Sacramental Confession; all needed God's blessing. At once, I decided to cancel the two Masses I had planned, and accompany them.

In column of squads the troops moved down the valley. As we were but eight hundred marching against a strongly held hill, every approach to which fairly bristled with machine gun nests, success depended primarily on the element of surprise. We were prepared to pay something for that hill, but if we could rush it, the cost would be minimum.

The alert enemy had thrust forward tentacles of listening posts deep into our neighborhood, and, if a chance star shell revealed us, he would lay down a deadly barrage.

We were favored indeed by a blanket of chill fog, that hung over the valley, but our going in the slimy, sticky clay was labored and slow.

Dawn found us in the shelter of a hill near the old mill north of Jolney. This old stone building overhung the river, and stood at the eastern end of the bridge. Later that day it was occupied by General Wahl, commanding the 13th Brigade, and used as his Headquarters. At this point the column was halted; and Colonel Lewis, Major Black, I, and two privates walked forward about five hundred yards around the foot of the hill to reconnoitre. The railroad leading to Metz paralleled this valley; and, but a few yards ahead, half a dozen box cars, hit by our shells, were burning.

The river at this point is about one hundred yards wide and at no place over five feet deep. It is spanned by a stone bridge sharply arched, built for heavy strain.

Our objective lay on the opposite shore, a hill, some three hundred feet high, covered with scrub oak and cedar. This hill, which commanded the village of Rembercourt and the entire valley, had been firmly held and desperately defended by the enemy even against Pershing's September attack. Ours was now the coveted honor of wresting it from his grasp, once and for all.

Two courses lay open to our crossing, one, to use the bridge, the other to wade the river. The Colonel discouraged the use of the bridge, as the fog was even then thinning out, and, if the column were discovered, in silhouette, artillery would speedily destroy it. He therefore directed Major Black to have his troops wade the river, keeping on the sheltered side of the bridge.

Holding their guns clear of the water the men waded across in silence, keeping single file. The first man to step into that icy water was the gallant little Colonel, his blue French gas mask at "alert," his "forty-five" and precious bars of chocolate held safely above the water. I was directly behind him. A long column marching in single file through a muddy stream soon cuts a deep channel; and the last two hundred men to cross made wet work of the wading.

That our thoughts were at least partially human at that time, I now recall the following form of reasoning expressed by a Buddie near by. "I am going to get pneumonia out of this wetting; but, most likely, I'll be killed anyway in this hill attack, so I should worry!"

Just at the river edge, a boy suddenly dropped his rifle and began to alternately wildly laugh and cry. A sergeant quickly placed his hand over his mouth to silence him lest his calls might reveal our presence to the enemy. Gently leading him to one side he left him for the First Aid detail. His poor mind had given out under the terrible strain; shell shock, it was called. No comment was made by the men marching past; they pitied him, knowing it was not that he was a coward or a quitter, but simply that he had gone insane under the deadly reality of it all. Why more did not go mad in that Valley of Death only God can explain!

Emerging on the far shore, we picked our heavy way across the stretch of swamp, that led toward the base of our objective. Although the enemy was not aware of our presence in force, he was keeping up a desultory shelling of his hill base as a matter of ordinary precaution. Like the flare of June bugs along the roadside in summer, high explosive shells would burst every few minutes, here, there, and in most unexpected places. Colonel Lewis ordered that the men be kept in as open formation as possible, so that fewer would be hit at a time, and falling shells be reduced to minimum zones of destruction.

Here we had just assembled and were forming for the attack when the sheltering fog suddenly lifted. It was now eight o'clock. We had not yet been discovered. The men were ordered to lie in their tracks and await orders.

From the spiritual point of view this delay was opportune; as it offered opportunity of passing down the line, to hear confessions and extend to all the boys divine aid.

Surely that halt was a God-send! The prayer of many a mother, far overseas, had moved the Good Master to give her soldier boy this last chance to pause for a prayer on the threshold of death!

This was pre-eminently the Chaplain's hour! Above all others were his every ministration and word and glance prized and respected.

There were no infidels, no religious scoffers, among those soldiers seriously awaiting the zero hour. In the rear areas and rest billets, the profane and irreligious word might often have been heard; but face to face with Death, Judgment, Heaven or Hell, the skeptic was silenced. Boys who might have been hitherto negligent in approaching the Sacraments were now the first to call to me, "Father, I want to go to Confession."

In a time so uncertain, momentarily awaiting orders "Over the Top," to hear each one individually was physically impossible. For just this emergency, the far-seeing, merciful Church of the All Merciful God has provided a means.

It is the General Absolution, so beautifully administered by Chaplain McDonald of the Leviathan, and which our Faculties provided. When a person in such emergency could not actually confess, he made an act of Perfect Contrition, being sorry for his sins because by them he had offended the Good God, and with the intention of going to Confession as soon as he could. While confession was always desirable, sorrow was ever, indispensable.

In our case the priest was morally and physically present and he gave Sacramental Absolution to all, using the plural, "Ego vos absolvo a peccatis vestris."

Whether on the battlefield or in hospital wards filled with men dying of disease or wounds, the priest has a divine message to deliver and a sacramental duty to perform from which no manner or danger of death can deter him. "Is any man sick amongst you," says St. James in the 24th Chapter of his Epistle (Douay or King James version) "let him call in the priests of the Church, and they shall anoint him with oil in the Name of the Lord." It was in the fulfillment of this Divinely imposed duty that 1600 priests of America voluntarily turned aside from their parochial work, and, reconsecrating their hearts to the Greater Love, entered the National service as Chaplains during the war.

Seriously the boys studied the hill. On its rugged side was about to be staged a tragedy in which every soldier knew he was to take part. The training of months past was but rehearsal. The leaving home, the oath of military service, the weary grind of march, and weapon drill, the rigid discipline, all these were but evolving phases, making for the formation of the seasoned soldier. And now they had reached the high altar of National service on which they were prepared to sacrifice their young lives.

"Morituri salutemus!" Look closely into the faces of those heroic boys: approach with reverence the sanctuary of their thoughts.

In long, regular lines they lie, immediately at the base of the hill. Most are still and motionless, helmeted, and with bayoneted rifles, like figures some Bartholdi or Rodin might have chiseled from bronze. Some, with free hand, are molding from the yellow, slimy clay, quaint little images, suggested, possibly, by thought of the little tin soldiers of boyhood days. Some, lying prone, are dreamily observing the blue sky showing here and there through billowy clouds. Some have made of their helmet a pillow and appear to sleep. Some with jest and story are radiating a subdued merriment. Some, with eyes staring straight ahead, seem as in a trance.

In that tragic hour I looked with their eyes and saw with the vision of their soul. The picture we all in common saw was painted on the canvas of memory.



It represented any American town; preferably one bowered with maple and elm, and cast in a setting of emerald landscape. Just back from the winding road, a cottage, trellised with moss roses and forget-me-nots. Framed in the doorway, a sweet-faced mother, silver threads amid her gold of hair, is looking across distant fields. A path leads over the hill, and it would seem she watched and waited for someone!

Last night she knelt beside a vacant chair, and, in the lonely vigil of her tears, prayed that God would bless and spare her boy. In the window hangs a service flag. Tomorrow, My God! there shall a message come from overseas changing its silver into gold!

Who is it can smile with heart breaking the while When the soldier bids loved ones "Farewell"? Whose heart is it grieves, when the patriot leaves, With an anguish that no tongue can tell? It's only the mother! For man knows no other Whose soul feels the weight of such woe; Who can smile and look brave and for lonely hours save The torrent of tears that must flow.

Whose heart is it knows that wherever he goes He'll be true to his country and flag? That he'll fight the good fight and die, serving the Right With never a boast or a brag? It's the mother whose breast as a babe he caressed And who watched o'er his childhood with joy. Though the years may have flown, and to manhood he's grown, Yet to mother he's always—"My boy"!

Who is it can yearn for the soldier's return, When the trumpet of war calls no more: When victorious he sees his proud flag kiss the breeze Of his own, his beloved, native shore? It's the mother whose face like a halo of grace Hovered near him to cheer him afar. Angels envy her joy as she welcomes her boy Triumphant returned from the war!

Who is it shall kneel at the graveside and feel The full woe of a soldier boy, dead! Who shall measure such loss, who shall carry the cross, And yet live, when his spirit is fled? It's the mother who'll wait at Death's golden gate, Where sorrow and parting shall cease! And she evermore with her boy as of yore, Shall be crowned in the Kingdom of Peace!

One of the brave company commanders in this Battalion was Captain Hall. Coming to me he said, "Chaplain, if I get 'bumped' in this attack, I want you to do me a favor." He then gave me a written message to a certain person in the Division who owed him $300.00. "Get after him, will you, Chaplain, and see that the money reaches my folks." "I will be glad to, Captain," I replied. Then, as one good turn deserved another, I wrote out and handed him a little note, which, if he, and not I, came through alive, was to be forwarded to my Chicago home. The Captain was a graduate of West Point, and had seen hard service both on the western plains and in the Cuban war. His hair was gray, and he wore a long gray mustache of which he was proud, and which he was in the habit, when especially thoughtful, of stroking. My hair also was gray, especially since our last gas attack in Bois-le-Pretre.

A Captain from Philadelphia lying in the mud not far from us, noticing our two gray heads close together, mischievously and in a stage whisper remarked, "Old men for counsel, but young men for action!" What Captain Hall, blazing with sudden wrath, thereupon said to him, I think it just as well not to here record! At the time, however, it seemed that he sort of expressed my own feelings on the subject!

Gallant Captain Hall came through alive; but I can see him even now in the very thick of the fighting that followed a few minutes later. Standing out on the hillside in full view he fought with his steel blue "45" a duel to the death with a German officer who rashly attacked him. For a moment I held my breath, as they deliberately exchanged shot for shot. Then I saw the German fall heavily; and Hall, his right hand twirling his gun, and his left fondly stroking his mustache, coolly surveyed the line looking for another shot.

It was two in the afternoon before the fog began to thicken. The zero hour was at hand!

Although we had marched many weary miles, had lain motionless in the mud for five hours, and had meanwhile tasted neither food nor drink, we did not mind it. One ignores bodily needs under heavy mental stress. I carried a little meat and bread in my pocket, which, that noon, I shared with good Father LeMay.

At two-thirty, when the sheltering fog was thickest, quietly the word was passed down the line "Get ready." At that moment I was near the western end of the column near a stone quarry, strongly defended by the enemy with machine guns and automatic rifles.

Promptly the boys made ready, slipping off packs, many even their blouses. It was to be a bayonet rush up that hill, and the idea was to feel as cold and shoulder free as possible. The pain of mustard gas is not so intense if one's body is cool and dry. Officers as well as men were lightly clothed; their only weapons, automatics. I substituted a sweater for my blouse. All felt the tense strain, and throats grew dry and temples throbbed.

At that moment was given a final General Absolution and Blessing.

Sharply, along the crouching line like a flash of fire, boomed the command to advance—"Guns and bayonets now, boys, and give them hell!" Instantly leaping forward, the men hurled themselves up the hill. Helmeted, masked, their bayonets flashing, like the crested foam of some giant wave they swept forward.

We had not advanced fifty feet when over the hillside there burst a hail storm of lead. The enemy hurled into our faces every manner of destruction; bullets and steel fragments screamed through the air, "thudding" into every foot of ground!

The first boy to fall was Riorden of New Jersey, who pitched forward, terribly torn, shortly to my right. Onward and upward swept the line. As I paused a moment beside Riorden to absolve him, Walsh of Syracuse, New York, running some thirty feet in advance, waved his arm for me to hurry. "Holy Joe" was the name given the Chaplain. I never knew its origin, but it was the title most generally used and always with the utmost respect.

Even then could be heard the horrible crash of steel on steel, hand to hand bayonet contact, screams of terror and pain, when the blade dripping blood was withdrawn from its human scabbard. The advance soon reached the hilltop and the gray-clad Germans resisted desperately. The most terrible, horrible, and indescribable of all sights and sounds were now before me. Wild-eyed, panting, fiercely visaged boys in American khaki and German gray, feinting, parrying, and madly lunging with glittering bayonets—the crash and shrill metallic stroke of steel on steel, and Oh! the grunt and scream of agony when the blade sank to its hilt in a blood-spurting human breast! Each boy, in that moment of deadly shock, was fighting for his own life—it was destroy first or be destroyed, and the first to get in a fatal blow survived. No alien soldier lives however, who can withstand that most terrible and supreme of all fighters—the American Doughboy! Hands were being raised and cries of "Kamerad" heard from every side. The grim heights of Rembercourt were ours; but, my God! see the price we have paid for that eight minutes of struggle.

Boys are down all over the hillside, dead and dying. Tossing, moaning, begging for help, their cries of agony pierce the heart. From the military point of view, indeed, it was called a splendid, clean-cut piece of work. Rembercourt and its approaches in our hands at last, with hundreds of prisoners and spoils of war—all at a loss to us of but nine killed and fifty-two wounded.



Ah! but who shall measure the cost of those nine dead boys to mothers and beloved ones at home! See their lifeless forms lying there amid the wreckage of the hillside. A few minutes ago they knew the thrill of vigorous young manhood; they knew that death might claim them in that charge; bravely they went over the top, hoping for the best.

From one to another I hurried with service for all. The dying claimed first care; the dead had to wait; and the chill shadows of night had crept to the hill crest before all the wounded were removed and the last poor body buried.

A terrific cannonade had meanwhile been in progress. Our batteries had opened along the entire front. Tons upon tons of steel were passing on wings of thunder not three hundred feet above our heads. Little heed the boys gave it, so occupied were they with duties near at hand.

Finally, numbed and over-powered to the point of utter exhaustion, I sought an abandoned shack at the foot of the hill. Without removing so much as a single garment, still wet from wading the river, with no taste for food or drink, I threw myself on the floor and fell at once asleep.

It was dawn of the following morning, Monday, November 11, when I awoke. If the cannonading of the evening before was terrible, that morning's bombardment was infinitely more so. It was the first time I had heard a full powered "Drum Head" barrage—where so many batteries and guns are engaged that the sound of firing and subsequent explosion is continuous and unified in volume. The hills and valleys shook under the rocking recoiling guns as from an earthquake.

Going among the men, I found even the most seasoned of them grimly silent. Their faces, set, as in plaster cast along cadaverous lines, deeply furrowed and caked with dust, perspiration, and powder smoke, made hideous appearance. Never have I seen such wan, frightful expression in human eye. As grim automatons they handled their guns, and moved silently about. Possibly they were too wearied to talk; for to speak, so as to be heard, meant calling at the top of one's voice.

Not far away I met Colonel Cummings. Briefly I narrated the happenings of the day before at our west end of the line. Most warmly he congratulated us and then, in confidence, informed me "Foch has agreed to an Armistice!"

He had just come from Headquarters, which was sending out orders to line and battery commanders to cease firing, that very morning at eleven o'clock.

Silently we gripped hands; but the hearts of both of us thrilled with "Te Deum."



CHAPTER X

ARMISTICE DAY—GORZ

Meanwhile our entire front was advancing, following the barrage waves. No more desperate struggle than ours could have been found at any point. Writing of that day, the official A. E. F. newspaper, "Stars and Stripes," under date of November 15th, declared:

"Attack Before Vigneulles

"Probably the hardest fighting being done by any Americans in the final hour was that which engaged the troops of the 28th, 92nd, 81st, and 7th Divisions with the Second American Army, who launched a fire-eating attack above Vigneulles just at dawn on the 11th. It was no mild thing, that last flare of the battle, and the order to cease firing did not reach the men in the front line until the last moment, when runners sped with it from fox hole to fox hole."

I hurried along the line deeply pondering the startling report of the good Colonel. We had been hearing various rumors that the enemy was frantically suing for peace; all these we had set down as but propaganda. If the end were in sight, why this terrific eleventh hour barrage?

The only reason I could imagine was, that its very frightfulness might so deeply impress the resisting troops themselves as to utterly destroy their morale. Once the soldiers themselves realized the weakness of the tottering dynasty behind them, and the overwhelming force of the army in front of them, total failure of their cause must be apparent.

Supreme was my confidence in Foch and Pershing, and I felt that the course they were pursuing would prove, from the military point of view, the best.

At five minutes to eleven I walked a little apart, up the trail, and began saying my Rosary Beads. They were always companion and comfort to my trying hours. Fervently I implored her, who is "Mightier than an army in battle array," to intercede for us to her Divine Son. That, it were pleasing and good in His holy sight, this hour of eleven would mark the end.

So occupied was my mind I had not noticed the falling off in firing. Battery after battery was silencing! Gun after gun growing still.

"Cease firing!" The command sped down the line; and it seemed these two words leaped into the blue vaulted sky above and were echoed in Heaven!

The utter silence that of a sudden came down upon that front was terrifying. More awful in its gripping impressiveness than the most terrific cannonading. You seemed, in that tense moment, to have lost your footing on some storm-swept hill, and fallen headlong into a deep valley. There was no cheering. The boys simply looked at each other and waited; waited like the boxer who, having delivered a fatal blow, stands intently watching his fallen opponent, until the referee has tolled off the final count, and raised his arm in token of victory.

Then came the reaction. Lusty cheers rose from all sides, helmets were tossed into the air, rifles were stacked, and impromptu cake walks and fox trots staged with grotesque abandon.

No one ventured into No Man's Land, that was strictly forbidden; but all over the rear approaches jubilation reigned supreme.

Groups quickly formed, excitedly discussing it all, "What's the big idea?" "Has Jerry quit for good?" "How do you get that way?" Some burst into song: "I Don't Want to Go Home."

Suddenly a glorious sound came floating up the rear ravine; it was the Regimental band of the 7th Engineers, playing Sousa's "Stars and Stripes Forever!"

Oh, how it thrilled and touched our very depth of soul! Its melody burst upon our unaccustomed ears with something, at least, of the joy the shepherds felt, when Angels brought them "Good tidings" at Bethlehem!

Out of all this trance of joy, however, stern Duty soon called us. Many a silent body, our own and the enemy's, lay unburied along the front. On requisition at Headquarters, two companies from a Pioneer Infantry Regiment were assigned to us, co-ordinating with our regular Burial Details. Near and far we combed hills and plains for bodies, penetrating trenches, dugouts, and ruins. Six days of untiring effort, brought reward of warmly commending words from our Division Commander.

At Mass the following Sunday in the old ruined Church of St. Sebastian at Euvezin, the subject was recalled of those days of old when the Galilean Sea was tempest tossed. Then in the boat rose the Master who said to the storm, "Peace! Be still! And there came a great calm." Even so, had that same Divine Power now spoken along our torn battle front; and "May the Peace and Calm that now has come reign on forever!"

That afternoon an artillery Regimental band gave a concert. Illustrative of the mental breadth and generous nature marking the real American boy, in its repertoire was to be observed Strouse's "Blue Danube Waltz!"

It was during one of these eventful days word reached us from across No Man's Land that old men, women and children in the town of Gorz, across the German border, were entirely without food, and dying of starvation.

Our forces were marking time in the positions the close of hostilities found them occupying, and, as the time for moving forward with the Army of Occupation was indefinite, we decided to go forward at once with food supplies for the starving inhabitants.

This aid work was to be entirely informal and on our own initiative, no military provision having been made for such emergency. With little difficulty five tons of army rations were secured, and, accompanied by good Major Hirch, I set out.

Our journey took us through miles of devastated country. Tons upon tons of war material, abandoned by the retiring German troops, littered roads and fields. Clothing, helmets, small arms of all description, whole batteries of Howitzers still in position, dense black fumes from burning ammunition dumps, acres of barbed wire fields and hillsides shell-torn, bodies still unburied—all this was the spectacle of war havoc greeting the eye on every side.

In the chill of that bleak November evening we crossed the German frontier and entered Gorz. Aged and feeble men and women looked sadly at us from their doors. Children, whose pinched faces clearly showed the ravages of hunger, timidly followed our supply trucks up the deserted street.



We were the first American soldiers they had ever seen. Drawing up in front of the old market place, Major Hirch explained our mission, speaking to the people in German.

When the poor starved creatures realized we were bringing them food, their joy knew no bounds; the children shouted with very joy and swarmed up into the trucks. We found ourselves crying, but supremely happy in the realization that we were doing the Master's work.

The inhabitants fluently spoke French as well as German; and when the children saw the Chaplain's cross and found I was a priest, their reverence and affection was most pronounced.

The food, indeed, was but the coarse Army fare, "bully" beef, hard tack, and condensed milk; but, withal, it was relished most keenly. We felt gratified in the humble part we had played in saving the lives of those unfortunate non-combatants, and organizing our first Divisional Relief Expedition into Germany.



CHAPTER XI

DOMREMY—HOME

"Major Whittington, I have not had a furlough since we landed in France."

"I guess that's so, Chaplain; which city would you prefer visiting, Paris or Metz?"

"Domremy—."

"Domremy!" he exclaimed, "I never heard of the place. However, you may go." Then, with forced seriousness, added, "I believe you are needed in Domremy on Official Business."

It was December eleventh. We had long been anxious to visit the birthplace of Joan of Arc. The story of her heroic brilliant life had ever interested and inspired us; and now, to actually be in the hills of her native Lorraine, to make a pilgrimage to her shrine, became our supreme ambition.

I could indeed have visited Domremy before, but purposely had I waited for this date. On December thirteenth, President Wilson, coming to the Peace Conference, was to land in France. I wanted to say Mass, that very morning, at the shrine of the Maid for the welfare of the President.

A one hundred and fifty mile trip from Thiacourt to Domremy, south of Verdun on the Meuse, especially in an open motorcycle car and through a blinding storm of hail and rain, is not particularly pleasant.

When we recalled, however, the arduous journey she, a girl, of eighteen years, had once made on horseback from Domremy to Chinon, three hundred miles, through snow-covered roads, we determined that nothing short of a Firing Squad should stop us.

A cold I had contracted at Rembercourt had settled in my back. Lumbago had painfully doubled me into an inverted "L," a figure not happily adapted to a cycle car.

Laboriously adjusting myself to the machine I plainly told the Maid, "I wish you clearly to appreciate, Saintly Joan, that I am making this journey for you. Of old, you were supremely helpful to the ruler of your country. I want you to do as much for the President of mine. I am going to say Mass on your home altar for him, and I want you to help me. If God spares me, and I return to America, I promise to proclaim your glory and encourage all I can, young and old, in the practice of your devotion."

Early dawn found us on our way. The steel helmet pulled low offers splendid protection to one's eyes. Traversing the old battlefields of St. Michel, we passed ruined Even and Essey and took the highroad leading south. The shell-torn steeple of Flirey church still leaned over the road; and the grewsome Limey Gondrecourt front, its deserted dugouts resembling grinning skulls, elicited a sigh and a prayer for its dead legions.

Through Noviant and Men-le-Tour we sped, and at noon were beyond Toul and racing through the historic valley of the Moselle.

At Bullney, our speeding car was curiously observed by thousands of German prisoners peering through the barbed wire enclosure of their roadside camp.

Columbes-les-Belles, with its huge hangars, grimly stood in silhouette against a crimson burst of sunset.

At Neufchateau we reached the river Meuse with whose glory the names of heroic inconquerable Petain and Verdun shall be forever shared.

We were now in the picturesque "valley of colors," whose winding trails were trodden by the soldiers of Julius Caesar when "Omnis Gallia divisa est in partes tres" was written.

With pulse beat quickened by thought of our hallowed pilgrimage nearing its end, we rushed like a specter down the road, through winding vistas of giant cottonwood and poplar; rounding a hill we came in full view of Domremy, and, with a final burst of speed, rushed splashing, and all a-thrilled with emotion, into its single street.

Drawing up in front of the church, that of St. Remi, Apostle of the Franks, we were at once surrounded and curiously observed by a group of children. "Are these children now to see a soldier, still crippled with lumbago, or one the intercession of Joan has made whole?" This was the question I soliloquized, as I started to excavate myself from the mud-littered car!

My chauffeur eyed me askance; and the look of pleasure with which he noted my evident recovery, told me he was as proud as I. The Saintly Maid had wrought her cure completely and with generous finality.

At once we entered the Church. Five hundred years before Jacques and Isabelle d'Arc had crossed that very threshold, carrying the precious babe Joan to be baptized. The glowing ray of the sanctuary light welcomed us, and, perhaps, turned to jewels the tears of joy and reverence coursing our cheeks.

The rough hobble nails of our shoes rang alarmingly on the stone pavement as we made our way up the hallowed aisle. On our knees before the altar we literally cried our prayers.

Looking toward the lowly Tabernacle we felt that Jesus, the gentle Master there present, was pleased with us. He seemed to look approvingly upon us and to say, "My soldiers, rest here your weary head upon My Heart."

At the very railing where we knelt, Joan had made her First Communion. Just at our left on the Epistle side was the ancient font where she had been cleansed from original sin, made a Christian, a child of God, and heir to the Kingdom of Heaven. In the twilight, too, we could see the faded plaster statue of St. Catherine Martyr, for whom she had special devotion. We felt, in that holy hour, that Joan, high in heaven, was pleased even with us; for we, too, had fought and bled for the same holy cause, the cause of Truth and Justice in the world, for which she had with the Greater Love offered the sacrifice of her life. How often, in that hallowed long ago, had the sun of early morning or the twilight glow of eventide found Joan here at prayer. In this sanctuaried Garden of the Lord grew the fairest Flower of Chivalry. Here did she receive the Bread of Life, the Wine that maketh Virgins; here, by frequent confession, was her soul kept fair and pure as the lilies of Paradise.

Darkness had fallen over the village when we left the Church. A call at the Rectory informed us that Monsieur le Cure was absent, and would not return till a late hour. At the end of the street we found a dear old couple, living alone, who agreed to shelter us for the night. With what skill good Madame made ready that evening meal! Sitting in the square of light cast by the glowing fireplace, and with our shadows, to the tempo of crackling fagots, in rhythmic gyrations on the ancient walls, my driver and I watched her prepare it.

First there was the pommes de terre to be peeled, washed and sliced to the exact size of centuries old French fry. Monsieur was permitted to assist her in this, and wielded the keen bladed knife with precision. Then there was the salad and the seasoning of it to just that degree of the "delicieux" the palate revels in. With the art, as it were, of a magician, she drew from a huge cupboard the most inviting piece of beef and proudly flourished it before our devouring eyes. Here was the makings of a "filet de boeuf" fit for Epicurius himself. In the center of the table was next placed the great round loaf of bread, neither wheat nor oats nor rye, but a happy combination of all and delightfully toothsome. Crowning all, the liquid amber of cafe-au-lait, which Madame, timing our needs to a nicety, poured at just the right moment.

During the meal, we diligently inquired if any lineal descendants of the d'Arc family were to be found in Domremy. No, not one! No person of the name lived in the village; although most every girl and woman there bore the name of Joan!

After the meal, and when all had retired, I made my way out into the moon-lit night. Domremy was sleeping, nor did it give thought of "the stranger within its gates." Back to the Church, and to the home of Joan, still standing beside it, I made my way. I revelled in the historical ensemble of it all; and my desire was to become so imbued with its very atmosphere, as to verily breathe it all my remaining life. In fancy I reviewed the story of her life like pages of a book, and its thrilling deeds and transcending achievements were made real before me.

This very street was the Alpha of her public life; the market place of Rouen its Omega! Riding forth in the bitter cold of that February morning, 1429, with but meager escort and along three hundred miles of brigand-infested roads and trails, she traversed France to the court of Chinon. Convincing Charles VII of her divine vocation; throwing herself into the war; rallying the people to her standard; wounded in battle yet never wavering; animating veteran soldiers; bearing the brunt of the attack and shielding with her stainless bosom the heart of France.

Her recompense? Abandoned by her king and by her countrymen, by the cruel path of flame she returns to God!

The several hours following Mass, we passed in the home where she was born, and on the hillside where she toiled as humble shepherdess. Reverently, and in very awe of its beauty, we visited the magnificent Basilica the people of France have raised to her memory. The structure is but partially finished; and I urged the good Fathers there in charge to visit America some day and give its people opportunity to contribute to so worthy a cause.

Returning to the front we found the "War Cross" which had arrived during our absence. Colonel Lenoncle wrote as follows:

"A Monsieur l'Aumonier McCarthy.

En appreciation de la belle action de Charite qu'el est venie accomplir pour notre chere terre de France.

P. Lenoncle, Col. Chas. in Compagne."

The above referred to services in Bois-le-Pretre.

"Tempora mutantur et nos ubique in illis." It is only the things that God has made that change not. The moon, bathing in silvery sheen the village street, had made radiant, in that long ago, the face of Joan at prayer. The Meuse, softly flowing by, still voiced the echo of her dreams, and bore her spirit to the tideless sea.

Nature had not changed; neither had the Author of Nature whose creatures are all men and whose ways are wise and just. For He whose "Mills grind slowly yet grind exceedingly small" is likewise He whose Master hand has written in this our own day, the illuminated Manuscript of her solemn Canonization.

The golden fingers of next morning's sun were scattering incense of light over Joan's Altar as I began Mass. The lips of Old Glory kissed the Gospel side, while the tri-color of France was draped on the Epistle. A nun of the village answered the responses. Reverently I besought the Author of All that is Right and Mighty upon the earth to bless our President; to be light to his path, wisdom to his mind, and right hand to his endeavor. That rulers of earth might base their deliberations on the rock of the Divine; mindful, that "unless the Lord build the house in vain does he labor who would build it."

On December fifteenth I wrote as follows:

Headquarters Seventh Division, American Expeditionary Forces, France

Hon. Woodrow Wilson, President, American Embassy, Paris.

My dear Mr. President:

May I be permitted the honor of informing you that on Saturday morning, December fourteenth, I said Mass on the Altar of Jeanne d'Arc in her old church at Domremy, praying and believing that God would bless and direct you, as of old He did the Maid, as His chosen representative of Justice and enduring Peace.

Most respectfully and devotedly yours, GEORGE T. MCCARTHY, Senior Chaplain, Seventh Division, A. P. O. 793.

On December twenty-fifth I received the following:

Rev. George T. McCarthy, Senior Chaplain, Seventh Division, A. P. O. 793.

My dear Chaplain McCarthy:

The President directs me to acknowledge receipt of your letter of December fifteenth and to thank you for it. It is indeed gratifying for him to know that you are thinking of him and praying for him especially in these critical times.

Very cordially yours, GILBERT CLOSE, Confidential Secretary to the President.

Christmas Day was memorable. A fall of snow gave festive atmosphere to our outpost homes. "Jip" carried me from Euvezin, where I said Mass for Headquarters troop, to Grey Hound, where I repeated the Sacrifice for the Signal Battalion. With the coming of the holiday the boys had been rehearsing an old-fashioned minstrel show, with boxing and wrestling matches as side attractions. A long rambling shack near Bouillonville had been secured for the entertainment, and its battered walls adorned with holly and cedar branches. The hearts of all were sad and pensive that Christmas Day, far overseas, and the entertainment, lasting through five hilarious hours, did wonders in the way of reviving depressed spirits.

December twenty-ninth marked the "ne plus ultra" of my active service overseas! In an old shack on the hills, swept with rain and swarming with well meaning but annoying rats, I came down with the flu with a temperature of 103 degrees. Doctor Lugar, who had nursed me through the gas attack, shook his head and ordered me sent to Evacuation Hospital No. 1. Here I was delighted to meet my old friend Father Morris O'Shea of Buffalo, there stationed as Chaplain. A few days later I was sent to Base Hospital "51" at Toul. The Medical Staff ordered me from Toul to America, and on February first I arrived at St. Nazaire on Biscay Bay. My supreme joy here was in meeting my niece, Miss Honor Barry, who had served as an Army Corps nurse in Base Hospital 101, located at this seaport, during nine arduous months.

On February ninth I sailed on the Manchuria, arriving in New York on February twenty-second. Reporting at General Hospital 28, Fort Sheridan, Ill., was thence ordered to the Army Hospital at Asheville, North Carolina. Six weeks in the ozoned hills of the Southland restored perfect health; and on May first reported for active duty at Fort Sheridan.

With the memory of sweet Domremy still before us, we shall bring the humble record of service Over There to its close.

In this period of valedictory may we be permitted a concluding reflection, projected in clear outline on the background of those thrilling days now forever over. That reflection, in silhouette, is this—the great crises of life—whether decisive of weal or of woe, are, to the soul of normal man, God impelling! In direct ratio as danger and death impended in the gloomy wastes of No Man's Land, all soldiers grew religious and turned instinctively to God. In the zero hour the profane grew silent and the curse died unuttered on his lip. All, all, realized God! The trench became His sanctuary, the flaming front His Presence Light, the glow on the faces of dying comrades visualized the Gospel of His Greater Love.

We needed God Over There, we need Him equally as much Over Here! Peace has its trials, its dangers, its lurking foes, its pitfalls, its hills of Pride to be conquered, its valleys of Despond to be overcome. The Rembercourt of Life lies before us. We survived that attack—who shall survive Death's final hill crest!

THE END