Part 7 (1/2)

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 l.u.s.ter to his reward of the Greater Love through eternal years!

CHAPTER VIII

THIACOURT--AERIAL DARING

”Where are you saying Ma.s.s next Sunday Chaplain?”

”In Thiacourt,” I replied.

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

That Ma.s.s _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 sh.e.l.led 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 sh.e.l.ls.

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 Ma.s.s 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 pet.i.t 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 sh.e.l.l. To just the slightest degree ”Jip” trembled, but with never a break of his even flying stride. ”Thank G.o.d!” 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 sh.e.l.l. 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 ga.s.sed himself, and could not speak above a whisper. ”I know the Latin, and can serve your Ma.s.s 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 a.s.sembled for the Ma.s.s. At this moment Colonel c.u.mmings, 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 ca.s.sock.

Helmet and mask lay easily within reach at one side. The firing, meanwhile, was terrific--high explosive sh.e.l.ls shrieking overhead and bursting on every side. Rifle and machine-gun bullets added their shrill tenor notes to the orchestral wail of gun fire.