Part 9 (1/2)
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 G.o.d, 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 p.r.o.ne, 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.
[Ill.u.s.tration: WHERE ST. JOAN OF ARC MADE HER FIRST COMMUNION.]
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 G.o.d would bless and spare her boy. In the window hangs a service flag. Tomorrow, My G.o.d! 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 sh.o.r.e?
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 'b.u.mped' 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!