MONSIEUR L'ABBE BOHAN, SOLDAT

New Zealand Tablet, 1 February 1917, Page 7

MONSIEUR L'ABBE BOHAN, SOLDAT

• ' . ! — ■' 1 There • ls no need ,to re late the adventures of the 109th Regiment in these last two and a-half months of the Great War. ' Suffice it to say that never did men enter a fight so fit to acquit themselves well as we, when first we heard the boom of hostile guns and saw the grey-coated. hordes moving down the vine-clad slopes of Champagne. It had come at last the great battle, for which all the training and instruction of three years had been but a rehearsal. And it was France we were fighting for against an invader,- an inveterate foe. We had made our peace with God, and with us too marched His priest, that weedy-looking sergeant, blue-coated as we were, 'with the same battered cap r and baggy trousers that had once been red, and a Lebel slung at his shoulder. Through the dust and the slush of weary miles he trudged with us, and into the smoke and the roar and the rattle of the firing line he went, and the headlong scuffle of the bayonet charge. There is not a man amongst the remnant of the 109th that is left who won’t stand bareheaded before you at the mention of le Sergent Bohan. One and all they voted that he well deserved the military medal for valor for which he was recommended for his skill and dash displayed in several reconnaissance parties. A fine and capable soldier he was in the field and on the march. But a priest the kindest, the gentlest was Jean through the dreary waiting in the water sodden trenches, and in the long night watches, and by the side of a wounded comrade ; or when he sat on an ammunition box, his cap in his hand, and we knelt one by one in the mud at his feet; or, as too seldom happened, he stood at some village altar vested for Mass, his muddied boots and leggings showing beneath the alb. Writing these lines as I do in the "garden of an old country house fax' removed indeed from wars’ alarms, the past two months seem as a long restless nightmare. The recollections of days and nights and weeks seem hopelessly mingled together in a vague memory of hideous noise and intense pain and continual effort and strain ; but out of this dimness there start vivid little pictures of incidents that at the time of their occurrence have meant but a glance of the eyes ; the look of surprise and then disgust on the face of the first German who stood in the way of my bayonet ; the glimpse of a Taube high up, soundless, and remote against the quiet saffron glories of a morning sky ; or the flash of bare knees as a Highland regiment charged. But the rest is like a hideous dream, to be thrust from the mind as such. That is why I am so blissfully content now merely to lie still in this quaint old garden, drinking in the quietness and peace of it, idly interested in the dry rustle of autumn leaves, and the gossamer patterns of last night’s dew in the shadow of the yew hedge, and the flaunting blooms of dahlia and chrysanthemum! Exit there is one sequence of memories that stands out distinct against the general riot, memories of the last day’s fighting I witnessed, the day the old 109th was so badly mauled. How well I can see our long blue-coated line straggling along the crest of a swell of ground. I _caxx hear the gixxgle of accoutrements, the breathing of my neighbors, some quiet-voiced remark and a low laugh—reply. There was a slope of ploughed land and meadows below vis, with a haystack in one of them sending up a column of smoke. Then there was a line of poplars bordering a road, and beyond that the slight opposing swell with more meadow land dotted with woods. The ‘ Boches ’ were entrenched above. The long line wavered as we trotted down the incline a hundred yards or so, and then flung ourselves flat on the ground. Officers and sergeants peered carefully through field glasses. A word of command ran down the line. Again we dashed forward, making for the ditch by the roadside, and gained it just in time. Shrapnel and larger shell flew screaming over us and dug deep pits in the fields behind. Several of the poplar trees snapped off at the top and scattered branches and twigs over us. Again we leaped forward, but this time with fountains of earth and flame and buJJete spiriting wuf}4 us,- Pflf/ *

f . ,'rn . 'V. we ran on, leaving huddled, gasping, coughing figures behind us. One of them was a “lieutenant.' So Jean Bohan took us in hand: ;At last we gained a wood, and crawled through it to find ourselves inside the range of the big guns. At the top of the slight rise against the nnX O O sky were the trenches. ;f So we lay: full length in the undergrowth and cuddled our Lebels to our cheeks and potted at every head we saw, ramming a fresh cartridge into the magazine after each shot, as is our custom. Jean, was lying at the end of the row of his men craning his head forward to look for his officers. A capwaved in the centre. ‘Up, lads!’ yelled Jean. ‘Say a prayer for France and all Frenchmen dying to-day.’ And off he went up the slope, the rest of us after him, panting out a prayer as we ran. Only a feeble rifle fire from the trenches ahead came to stop us. Already we were within a hundred yards of our object, when with a stuttering r —r —rip a hot blast of lead poured from the woods on either hand. The poor 109th was caught between two batteries of mitrailleuses. I saw men staggering round about me, saw Jean pitch forward ahead of me, and then found myself lying on my back stupidly wondering what was the meaning of the hot searing pain in my side and shoulder, and why the sky was going black. A few moments later, it seemed, the sky was still black, but studded with stars. I blinked up at them languidly for a moment, and then suddenly became aware that I was intensely cold ; next that I had no power to move either limb or head, that my throat was burning with thirst, and my side was stiff with clotted blood, and throbbing as though several red-hot skewers had been thrust in. Then I swooned. Again I opened my eyes on the stars remote in the heavens. There was a flash and roll of gun fire away on my right. Something moved in the darkness near me. I caught the murmur of words. Then a figure seemed to be crawling towards me, but stopped and moaned. *My God,’ came a whisper, ‘ help me to finish Thy work.’ Again the figure, blacker than the surrounding blackness, crawled painfully towards me and leaned over me. I guessed who it must be, but as his hands felt about my person and accidentally touched my side, I gave a great cry and half fainted. A few moments only it must have been and I felt a moist touch on my hot forehead, and heard distinctly the words : ‘ Jderistam Sanctum unctionem indulgent tihi Vomimis quid quid del iquisti. Amend I knew ho it was now, and the great Sacrament I had received, and with a feeling of utter content, let the tide of agony and fever sweep me into oblivion. Consciousness, slowly returning, found me staring at -an oil-lamp swinging just above me. Indifferent, I watched it flare and smoke for some time, and gradually became aware of my surroundings. Beneath me was the whirr of revolving wheels; out of the night ahead came the whistle of an engine ; the metallic ring beneath changed to a hollow rumble. A train—the train I was in it must —was crossing some river. With difficulty I craned my head, and knew I was in a luggage-van jogging along through the night to -Paris, to hospitals and doctors and nurses and a blessed cleanliness. Rows of bandaged faces drawn and pale in the dim light, were propped against the waggon’s sides, the limbs sprawled helplessly about. Above the hum of the rushing wheels came the moan of someone in agony. A jolt of the train swung the lamp and shot grim lights and shadows across those haggard faces. Another jolt sent my head and shoulders to the floor and left me helpless with red-hot pains stabbing beneath the swathe of bandages. Someone put an arm about me slowly and with difficulty propped me with my head cosily against his shoulders, someone whose rosary beads rattled as he did this, and whom I heard murmuring wearily: ‘1 offer Thee, O my God, the rest that I am about to take and my awakening to-morrow; deign to bless and sanctify them both ; protect me from the enemies of my salvation, so that, sleeping and waking in Thee, I may live only to serve and love Thee in time and -in eternity.’ It was Jean Bohan, and ho - was back in the Oratory at St, Sulpice saying his flight prayers. M Mg after ft nightmare passed on the borderland

T -C&rrx - ; : •://••' -; - / arrC of swooning; and waking in agony, came the blessed peace; and.'the .comfort: of : the hospital. Dreamily; lazily, I looked about at the white-capped Sisters of Charity, and the big burly doctor in white overalls, gold, eye-glasses shielding the kindly twinkling eyes, and a gold-laced cap pulled rakishly across his forehead. Noticing my glance he stepped over to the bed. ‘Well, my lad,’ he said cheerily, ‘how goes it? You are getting on first rate, you know, considering I was digging bullets out of you a couple of days ago. I wish your neighbor was doing as well/ he added, more seriously, turning to the next bed. Sometime later I woke up and caught the gleam of candles near me. Over the white cornette of the kneeling Sister I saw an old priest leaning forward with the Sacred Host in his hand towards a bandaged, motionless face. ‘ Is it Jean Bohan V I asked an hour or so later to the capable little mm between gulps of something warm and strengthening tendered on a spoon. She nodded. Next day there was a stir in the ward. There were flowers on the little tables, especially before the many statues, which, to the doctor’s evidently assumed disgust, had crept into that sick room without appearing on the lists of supplies from any governmental department. The doctor, without overalls or cap for once, came in with a stranger, to whom some of the Sisters were presented. He was a famous member of the Ministry. He passed along the line of beds, chatting with the men and consulting the Sisters about them. He carried a list in his hand, and appeared to refer to it as he asked each man’s name. He stopped at Jean’s bed. ‘ Sergeant Bohan, is it not, Sister?’ said the great man. ‘ Monsieur I’Abbe Bohan,’ corrected the little nun defiantly. ‘ Ah, yesyes, that fact, too, is noted here,’ and he looked at his list. ‘ The President has asked me to present to Sergeant Bohan the military medal for valor, obtained during a reconnaissance expedition led by—er—(here he caught the little Sister’s eyes) by Monsieur Abbe.’ The Minister stepped forward and laid the little medal and its ribbon on the coverlet by the poor maimed hand that clung to a crucifix. Then he stood looking down at the unconscious face swathed in linen. He was a Minister famous for his outrageous attacks on religion at the time of the separation of Church and State. I wonder what his thoughts could be as he thus stood oyer the dying young priest. Did he realise that the heroic lad was a champion of his Church as well as a hero in any Frenchman’s eyes ; that he had fought so well for France, because he believed he was fighting the cause of God too : that Jean Bohan and every soldier cleric, in giving a sublime example of patriotism, had but followed the long tradition of the Church in France, a tradition he himself and his fellow Freemasons had endeavored to stamp out? Surely he must have known that every soldier-priest was heading a movement of return to religion, a movement which “ should prove the events of the past decade a bitter memory only. As he looked, too, at the little medal and its ribbon, bright against the coverlet, the prize of every brave Frenchman, I wonder if he noticed the unconscious clinging preference of the bandaged hand for the crucifix, the reward of valor of every Christian hero in every Christian lauda symbol ho himself had publicly mocked and insulted eight years ago, ' The great man turned to. the resentful little Sister, murmured some phrase of pity and passed on his round. Poor Jean died that night. A valiant soldier who had fought the great fight, he went to meet his King, the Lord of —Thomas Meagher in the Catholic Parish Magazine.