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107 pages

English

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With the memoir A Padre in France, Irish clergyman James Owen Hannay (who used the pseudonym "George A. Birmingham") takes a break from the humorous political satires that were his typical stock in trade. Still, Hannay's characteristic wit and lighthearted take on life shine through in this firsthand account of his stint as a chaplain during World War I.

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Histoire

Military history

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 juillet 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776580439
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

A PADRE IN FRANCE
* * *
GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM

*
A Padre in France First published in 1918 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-043-9 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-044-6 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - The Uttermost Part Chapter II - Getting There Chapter III - A Journey in the War Zone Chapter IV - Settling Down Chapter V - Khaki Chapter VI - Leisure Hours Chapter VII - Coming and Going Chapter VIII - Woodbine Hut Chapter IX - Y.S.C. Chapter X - The Daily Round Chapter XI - Another Journey Chapter XII - Madame Chapter XIII - "The Con Camp" Chapter XIV - A Backwater Chapter XV - My Third Camp Chapter XVI - Leave Chapter XVII - A Holiday Chapter XVIII - Padres Chapter XIX - Citizen Soldiers
*
TO
R. M. L.
FRIEND AND FELLOW-WORKER
Chapter I - The Uttermost Part
*
I have always admired the sagacity of Balak, King of Moab, about whomwe learn something in the Book of Numbers. He was threatened withinvasion by a powerful foe and felt unequal to offering armedresistance. He invoked the aid of spiritual powers by inviting aprophet, Balaam, to come and curse the army of the invaders. Balaamsuffered himself to be persuaded and bribed by the king. Allkings—and the statesmen who nowadays regulate the conduct ofkings—understand the business of managing men so far. Persuasion andbribery are the methods of statecraft. But Balak knew more than theelements of his trade. He understood that spiritual forces, if merelybribed, are ineffective. To make a curse operate there must be acertain amount of conviction in the mind of the curser. Balaam wasnot convinced, and when he surveyed the hosts of Israel from the topof a hill felt himself compelled by the spirit within him to blessinstead of curse. The king, discouraged but not hopeless, took theprophet to the top of another hill, showed him a different view ofthe camp of Israel and invited him to curse the people from there.
At first sight this seems a foolish thing to have done; but properlyconsidered it appears very crafty. From the fresh viewpoint, Balaamsaw not the whole, but only the "uttermost part" of the hosts ofIsrael. I suppose he no longer saw the first-line troops, the army inbattle array. Instead he saw the base camps, the non-combatantfollowers of the army, a great deal that was confused and sordid,very little that was glorious or fine. It might conceivably have beenpossible for him to curse the whole army and cast a blight upon itsenterprise, when his eyes rested only on the camp-followers, thebaggage trains, the mobs of cattle, the maimed and unfit men; whenthe fine show of the fighters was out of sight. Plainly if a curse ofany real value was to be pronounced it must be by a prophet who sawmuch that was execrable, little that was obviously glorious.
It is Balak's sagacity in choosing the prophet's second point of viewwhich I admire. If any cursing of an army is done at all, it will bedone by some one, whose post is behind the lines, who has seen, notthe whole, but only the uttermost part, and that the least attractivepart of the hosts.
It was my luck to remain, all the time I was in France, in safeplaces. I never had the chance of seeing the gallantry of the men whoattack or the courageous tenacity of those who defend. I missed allthe excitement. I experienced none of those hours of terror which Ihave heard described, nor saw how finely man's will can triumph overterror. I had no chance of knowing that great comradeship which growsup among those who suffer together. War, seen at the front, is hell.I hardly ever met any one who doubted that. But it is a hellinhabited not by devils, but by heroes, and human nature rises tounimaginable heights when it is subjected to the awful strain offighting. It is no wonder that those who have lived with our fightingarmy are filled with admiration for the men, are prepared to blessaltogether, not war which we all hate, but the men who wage it.
The case is very different behind the lines. There, indeed, we seethe seamy side of war. There are the men who, in some way or other,have secured and keep safe jobs, the embusqués whom the Frenchnewspapers constantly denounce. There are the officers who havefailed, proved unfit for command, shown themselves lacking in courageperhaps, and in mercy have been sent down to some safe base. Thereare the men who have been broken in spirit as well as in body, whodrag on an existence utterly dull, very toilsome, well-nigh hopeless,and are illuminated by no high call for heroic deeds. There theobserver sees whatever there is to be seen of petty spite andjealousies, the manipulating of jobs, the dodging of regulations, allthat is most ignoble in the soldier's trade. There also are the menwith grievances, who, in their own estimation, are fit for postsquite other than those they hold. Some one described war at the frontas an affair of months of boredom punctuated by moments of terror. Ifthat philosopher had been stationed at a base he might have halvedhis epigram and described war as months of boredom unpunctuated evenby terror.
Yet even behind the lines, in the remotest places, that which movesour admiration far outshines what is sordid and mean. We still bless,not war, but soldiers. We forget the failures of man in joyfulcontemplation of his achievements.
Here are the great hospitals, where suffering men succeed each otherday after day, so that we seem to see a mist of pain rising like aceaseless cloud of incense smoke for the nostrils of the abominableMoloch who is the god of war. A man, though long inured to suchthings, may curse the Moloch, but he will bless the sufferers whoform the sacrifice. Their patience, their silent heroism, are beyondour praise.
Here are huge cemeteries, long lines of graves, where every morningsome are laid to rest, with reverence indeed, but with scant measureof the ritual pomp with which men are wont to pay their final honourto the dead. These have passed, not in a moment amid the roar ofbattle, but after long bearing of pain, and lonely, with the time forlast farewells but none greatly loved to say them to. Yet, standingabove the lines of rude coffins, viewing the names and numberspencilled on the lids, our hearts are lifted up. We know how great itis to lay down life for others. The final wailing notes of the "LastPost" speak our feeling: "Good night. Good-bye. See you again, soon."
Here, among those less worthy, are men who are steadily doing,without much hope of praise, things intolerably monotonous, doingthem day after day for years, inspired by what Ruskin calls "theunvexed instinct of duty." Often these are old men, too old for fieldcommand. They have spent their lives in the army, have learned, haveworked, have waited in the hope that some day their chance wouldcome. Soldiers by profession and desire, they have looked for thegreat opportunity which the war they foresaw would give. The war cameand the opportunity; but came too late for them. They can look fornothing but the dull duties of the base. They do them, enduring minorhardships, facing ceaseless worries, going calmly on, while the greatstream of war on which they hoped to float moves on, leaving thembehind. With them are others, younger men, who have seen somefighting, have been wounded or broken in health. Often they havestruggled hard to secure the posts they hold. They might have gonehome. They counted it a desirable thing to be employed still, sinceactual fighting was impossible, somewhere in touch with fighting men.
I wonder how much Balaam divined of the greatness which, no doubt,was in "the uttermost part" of the host when the king showed it tohim. I suppose he understood something of it, for once again, to theindignation of Balak, he blessed instead of cursing. I am sure thatany one who has lived long among the men at our bases will feel as Ido, that his pride in what is great there far outweighs hisdisappointment at the other things he saw. I never saw the fightingor the actual front, but even if I had seen nothing else but thefighting I could scarcely feel greater admiration for our officersand men or more love for them.
I have, of course, no tales of adventure to tell. Perhaps I am tooold for adventuring, or never had the spirit which makes adventurespossible. Yet I own to a certain feeling of disappointment when thedoctor who examined me in London told me with almost brutal franknessthat he would not allow me to be sent to the front. To France I mightgo, and even that permission, I think, was a concession. But inFrance I must remain in places where hardship is not extreme. Doctorsare powerful people in the army and in certain matters their word isthe supreme law. But fortunately there are always other doctors. AndI think I could in the end have managed to get to the very front, inspite of that first man, though he held high rank and was muchbe-tabbed. But by the time I found out how to get round hisprohibition I had become so much interested in my work that I did notwant to leave it and even felt grateful to that doctor for sending meto France in the position of a man marked P.B., letters which standfor Permanent Base, and mean that their bearer will not be asked togo where fighting is.
For one other thing I am thankful to the doctor who examined me. Hedid not ask me to be vaccinated, inoculated, or half-poisoned in anyother way. If he had demanded such things of me before I held mycommission, I might