SIDELIGHTS ON THE WAR

New Zealand Tablet, 30 May 1918, Page 33

SIDELIGHTS ON THE WAR

GENERAL. In France, three young bishops are serving in the French Army. One of them is under the command of a young priest of his diocese. In all the belligerent countries of Europe, priests and religious, religious of all the Orders, are serving in the war. The Knights of Columbus of the archdiocese of New York conducted a campaign for the collection of funds for its war work from March 18 to 25, and collected, probably (the full returns have not been announced at this writing), about 83,000,000. Many generous subscriptions were received from both Catholics and non-Catholics, including 85000 from Cardinal Parley. Cardinal Bourne has approved the foundation of a home for permanently disabled soldiers, the institution to be placed under the care of a religious community of women, who, assisted by trained nurses, would supply a very obvious need. Though destined primarily for Catholics, the institution will not be exclusive in any creed line, and will comply with the official regulations of the Ministry of Pensions. Ten thousand pounds is needed. A suitable house has been secured. Lady Anne Kerr is receiving subscriptions. A very edifying incident took place a short time ago at Camp Sevier, Greenville, S.C. (says an American exchange). One of the soldier boys had become seriously ill. After every remedy known to the medical profession had been tried in vain, the camp authorities notified the parents of their boy’s condition. They wired back immediately to secure the services of a priest, and, when the difficulty of obtaining one was made known, the mother’s anxiety became extreme. At the time there was but one priest appointed for.the camp. Rev. Thomas Hayden, but he was confined to bed because of an operation. By accident, he heard of the boy’s plight, and, despite the remonstrances of the nurse, he was wrapped in blankets and carried by soldiers to the boy’s bedside, where, unmindful of his own weak condition, he administered the Last Sacraments. The zeal of the priest, the mother’s faith and the sentiments of the dying soldier boy have left a deep impression.

The Rev. Austin McCabe, C.SS.R., chaplain to the British Forces, tells an interesting story of the opening of a Catholic church erected for the soldiers behind the fighting lines. “It was a most successful function in every way,” says Father McCabe, “the church was crowded to its utmost capacity. Many officers, non-Catholic as well as Catholic, were present. The American colonel of this hospital was there, together with many of his officers : several Anglican chaplains, and a great body of our faithful Tommies. We had a splendid military band, which played all the music of the Mass in a most inspiring manner. All the chaplains of the district, about twelve in number, were present and did the singing. “At 11 a.m. the solemn procession started from, the old church tent of many happy memories. The processional cross came first, carried by a six-foot guardsman; then the acolytes, who were soldiers of the American Army, the incense bearer, the master of ceremonies; then the body of chaplains in their khaki, and, lastly, the subdeacon, deacon, and celebrant, wearing cloth of gold vestments. We had a most inspiring sermon by Father Dowling, C.F., of London. At the' conclusion of the Mass all sang the hymn, “Holy God, We Praise Thy Name,” accompanied by the military band. It was a fitting conclusion to a remarkable ceremony. The church will be a boon to all our men here. We can easily seat 160, and can get in on great occasions 100 more. The two side chapels, making the church cruciform, are dedicated—

that on the Gospel side to Our Lady of Victories, and that on the Epistle side to the Holy Souls.” One of the chaplains at the front relates the following beautiful, though tragic, incident: And let me tell you about the power of • prayer to the Blessed Virgin. One night I was walking from trench to trench and met a soldier, who did not recognise me as a chaplain since I had my cloak buttoned. “ ‘What regiment is yours?’ I asked. ‘‘‘The Twenty-third,’ he answered, and, believing that I was a soldier, asked me the number of mine. Oh, I belong to them all,’ I replied. “‘Then you are a chaplain, Father?’ he questioned. \es. And after a short time he made his confession. But he was still disconsolate. You believe in God and in your country?’ Yes, but I left an old mother at home and I am so afraid that I will be killed to-morrow and she will be left alone,’ the soldier answered. Let us then kneel down and say a prayer to the Mother of God, who will console your mother in your absence,’ I pleaded, and he consented. We said the Hail Mary” on our knees there on the battlefield at night when the Germans were shelling our trenches. But he never finished the prayer. When we both came to the ‘ pray for us now and at —his horn of death had come and gone. A German missile had done the work.” BRAVE AND PIOUS. In one of the camps a sergeant knelt beside his bed every night and morning to say his prayers like a Christian (says the U.S. Catholic Advance), In two weeks—there were thirty Catholics in the —the place looked like a seminary every night, all because ol the sergeant backbone. Visit a large cantonment recently, we met the commanding officer of the great army of men in camp outside of a large city preparing for the front, a courteous and well-bred gentleman. The priest of the town who accompanied us on our visit said that every Sunday morning the general is present at the 6.30 Mass in his church and receives Holy Communion regularly at the Mass. This general is a convert and, of course, has backbone like most converts. General Petain, begins his day’s work by assisting at an early Mass celebrated by his chaplain. Geneial Cadorna, formerly in supreme command of the Italian Forces, always had his private chaplain, and goes to Mass every morning regularly. PONTIFF AND PRISONERS. As days go by the world comes to realise more vividly the breadth and the depth of the wonderful chain-work which his Holiness Pope Benedict XV. is performing in the cause of humanity. Prisoners of war are being restored to their homes. Others are put into communication with sorrowing relatives. Money and foodstuffs reach helpless Poles, Lithuanians, and Armenians. Sick prisoners are drafted into Switzerland for more careful treatment than that which their surroundings in belligerent countries can afford. Men sentenced to death have been reprieved or have had their punishment mitigated. The sick and those in captivity are being visited in the Holy Father’s name by his delegates, and the needy receive the help which Providence places at the Pontiff’s disposal. To Benedict XV. time and trouble mean little in his all-absorb-ing desire to alleviate distress, and this irrespective of race or religion. The latest object of the kindly thoughtfulness of the Sovereign Pontiff is the concentration camp of Afion-Kara-Hissar, where Father John Mullen and a number of British prisoners have been detained for over twelve months. News travels slowly to-day from the

East, but yet it travels, and it is welcome when it comes. Of this party’s gratitude to the Holy Father for his generous kindness to them an attestation has just reached Rome in the shape of a letter from Father Mullen himself. In this the chaplain expresses his own grateful feelings and those of the British prisoners for presents of money, cigarettes for the men, and candles, altar wine, and altar brfead to enable the rev. gentleman to have the privilege of daily celebrating the Holy Sacrifice. On behalf of the men Colonel Wilson, R.E., C. 8., who is now senior British officer at the camp of Afion-Kara-Hissar, intends to write to Rome and thank the Holy Father for his paternal interest in them. It is not improbable that the c i aplain is by this time on his way to Switzerland. Anyhow, Father Mullen’s letter, which bears the date of January 9, says that two British and two Turkish doctors have examined his physical condition and pronounced him to be suffering from a weak heart. Their diagnosis, he says, was despatched to Constantinople before January 9, and he expects to be moved any day to the Turkish capital along with Colonel Wilson and three others with a view to being sent to Switzerland or exchanged. A TOUCHING STORY. An American Catholic soldier at the front, in a letter to his mother, relates what ho calls “/he story of the war.” He says he had it from a Protestant chaplain, who, for a special reason, requested that his name should not be given, and who remarked casually: ‘‘l have seen things over here that cause agonising moments when with myself.” The story is thus graphically told: “Somewhere . in France there is a little church without a cure. Across its door hangs the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor, bestowed upon the church because its pastor can not receive it : and unanimously voted to that church by freethinkers and atheists. A young priest serving as a private, was in a dugout at the front, with a band of soldiers. A bomb, falling near the entrance, exploded, sending its fragments inside and mortally wounding every one of them. That priest, with both legs shattered, made his way about the smoke-filled cave, and administered the last rites of the Church to every man in there before ho himself died—just as the stretcher-bearers came to drag the victims out.” HUNTING THE U-BOATS. In the Liverpool Journal of <'omnn Mr. J. S. Margerison gives a description of one method by which the submarine menace is being held. A seaplane spots a U-boat lying on the sea-bed, and sends out a wireless signal. Ten miles away, the writer continues, a long, lean destroyer and four squat trawlers detached themselves from a pack of hounds working a covert, and hastened to the kill. Meanwhile the seaplane circled round, but when the surface ships arrived her instructions, delivered by wireless, were curt mud precise. Acting upon them,' the trawlers stationed themselves at the four corners of a wet quadrangle, while the destroyer kept her guns ready to talk to Fritz should he appear above the surface. The trawlers, at the corners of the wet quadrangle get out their sweeps■ long wire hawsers of an incredible stoutness, with a heavy “kite” in the centre to keep their bights down on the sea-bed—and commenced to steam towards each other. As the pairs of vessels met, their wires simul-

taneously engaged themselves under the U-boat’s bow and stern, and commenced to work their sinuous way between her hull and the sea-bottom. It was then that a strange thing happened. Twj, round, black objects seemed to detach themselves from her hull and float surfpeewards, to hover a second, and then to commence bobbing down the tide—bobbing down towards a lane much frequented by those ships which brought food, munitions of war, and hundreds of other things to England’s shore. “Minelayer, eh?” called the seaplane’s observer. “That’s it, lad,” came the telephoned answer. “But her eggs can wait for a minute.” The trawlers, still steaming towards each other, now crossed, and their dependent cables held the U-boat in a kind of wire cat’s cradle. She seemed suddenly to wake to her danger, for, with a bound, she tried to disentangle herself from the meshes which held her. But it was no use, the trawlers had been too long at the game to leave any loop-holes, and the submarine was doomed. “Got him,” signalled the seaplane. “Thanks,” replied the destroyer. “We’ll give him five minutes to come up and breathe—but no longer.” The time passed, and still Fritz made no further move. At a flagged signal from the destroyer the port foremost trawler and the starboard after one clipped a small red tin of high explosive to the bar-taut wire, and allowed it to slide downwards till it touched the Üboat’s hull. It was the seaplane’s turn to wave a flag, and immediately there followed the crashing of two fists upon the firing-keys, the uprising of two grey mounds of water, and a, rumbling, muffled explosion. The wires snapped in the middle, and the trawlers’ crews flew to coil them down. The seaplane circled twice above the patch of rising oil, ascertained that Fritz had been destroyed, and notified the destroyer of the fact. Then, with her observer slipping a drum of cartridges into his machine-gun, she sped off after those objects bobbing down tide. A burst of rapid firing, and the first of the devil’s eggs, its buoyancy chamber punctured, sank with a gurgle ; the second gave a better show, for it exploded grandly—and harmlessly—as the bullets reached him.