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Text originally published in 1911 under the same title.
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Publishers Note
Although in most cases we have retained the Authors original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern readers benefit.
We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.
PRIESTS IN THE FIRING LINE
BY
REN GALL
TRANSLATED BY
H. HAMILTON GIBBS AND MADAME BERTON
WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS
CHAPTER I THE CALL TO DUTY
ITS no joke, this time, said my old friend the General.
These words were uttered on the evening of the International Congress at Lourdes.
Hearts and voices were raised in prayer.
I, too, was filled with the thought of a peace which seemed as though it could have no end.
But the General was filled with quite other thoughts. No, he said, with that fine strength which is capable of facing the saddest emergencies and of stilling the fever which the thought of the dreaded future sends rushing to the brain. No, its no joke this time....War is upon us.
And he began to explain the international complications, the appalling pride of Germany faced by two alternatives, to expand or to perish.
He showed me the uselessness of diplomacy the treachery of international peace-parties the rush of events towards the inevitable yet outrageous catastrophe.
In a week or perhaps less, millions of men would receive marching orders, and Europe would be bathed in blood.
Five days later, I left a deserted Lourdes. I read on the cover of my military certificate my destination for the first time...my destination...my orders to rejoin my unit...and that simple piece of paper suddenly spoke to me with formidable eloquence.
I was a soldier, and this time it was no joke. I was going to fight. The citizen in me shuddered, as everyone shuddered in those first terrible hours whose emotion still prolongs itself and is not likely to end soon.
But the priest in me felt bigger, more human. To everyone who asked if I were going too, I replied, Yes, but not to killto heal, to succour, to absolve.
I felt those tear-filled eyes gaze wistfully at me, and that in passing, I left behind me a feeling of trust, of comfort.
A mother, whose five sons were going to the front, and who was seated near me in the train, said in a strong voice, but with the tears streaming down her cheeks: They have scattered priests in all the regiments. You will be everywhere.... It is Gods revenge!
How much anguish has been soothed, how many sacrifices have been accepted more bravely, at the thought, they will be there.
It was at the headquarters of a certain division of the Medical Service, during the first days of mobilisation.
There, as everywhere, feverish preparation was going ona tumultuous activity. Through the big town, the first regiment passed on their way to the firing line.
How the fine fellows were acclaimed, how they were embraced!
There were a thousand of us already, and we were the first to be called up. Half of us were priests, and our clerical garb attracted a lot of sympathy. The love of our country and the love of God so long separated were now as one. It is no longer time to scoff or to be indifferent to religion. People now wrung us by the hand, and came close up to us.
An officer came up to us and before that enormous assembly of men, said: Gentlemen, I should like to embrace each one of you in the name of every mother in France....If only you knew how they count on you, those women, and how they bless you for what you are going to be to their sons. We dont know the words that bring strength and healing, and we are ignorant of the prayers that solace the last agony...but you.... And at the words, he wept, without attempting to hide his feelings. He already realised the immensity of the sacrifice, and the powerlessness of man to bring consolation to those struck down in their first manhood.
No, it was no longer a joke this time, and everyone felt it and showed it by their respectful looks and manner.
The others, those millions of men on their way to the front, were starting for the unknown.
We, on the other hand, knew well what lay before us...we should have to succour the wounded and throw wide the Gates of Heaven for them to enter inwe should have to dress their wounds and arouse courage in those crushed, by the burden too heavy for mere flesh and blood to bear.
Never had we felt such apostles...never had our hearts dilated with such brotherly feeling.
Attention!
Instantly there was dead silence. In imagination we saw nothing but those far-off battlefields.
Our names were called, and we were allotted our several tasks. First the stretcher-bearers. There was a long list of these, and in two hours they were to set out for the front, to pick up the wounded in the firing line.
From time to time the officer broke the monotony of the roll-call by trenchant remarks such as one makes on those occasions when one has accepted ones share of sacrifice simply because its ones duty to do so.
You will be just as exposed as those who are fighting. The enemy will fire on the ambulances; and the Red Cross on your armlets and on the buildings will not protect you from German bullets.
The list was growing longer. In their turn men of thirty and forty received the badges of their devotedness.
There are many of you who will never come back. Your courage will only be the finer. They may kill you, but you will not be able to kill. Your sole duty is to love suffering in spite of everything, no matter how mutilated the being may be who falls across your path, and who cries for pity.
Even the Boches?
The officer smiled, then said almost regretfully: Even the Boches.
