Here I pause to relate a little incident variously reported in the papers. I give it as it came to me first, judging that the first report is probably the most correct. It dates from some of the fierce fighting near the banks of the Aisne.

A village was temporarily evacuated by the British under the pressure of German troops. In the hurried retreat six or eight British soldiers were left behind. They took shelter in a cottage, knowing that the Germans were close upon them. There was a hasty council of war. One of them was the "bad lad" of the regiment--a drunken ne'er-do-well. He had his own solution of the problem.

Said he, "I have never been any good. I never shall be any good. Let me go and I will try to save you lads. The Germans are upon us. I can hear them in the street. I will rush out of the house and down the street. They will see me and they will fire. They will never suppose that one would run and not the others. They will not trouble to search, and you will be saved."

His comrades protested and said they would all die together. But there was no time to argue. In a moment he was out of the house and down the street. Shots rang out and the "bad lad" of the regiment fell, pierced by many bullets. It was as he said. The Germans pa.s.sed the house, and for a moment the rest of that little company were saved.

But the British had received reinforcements. They advanced to the attack again and the village was cleared of Germans. Then the little company came out of their hiding-place, reverently lifted the body of the dead hero who had died for them, and carried it to the rear. They dug a grave and buried him. Over the grave they placed a rough wooden cross, and wrote upon it--"He saved others, himself he _would_ not save."

They hoped, they said, they were not guilty of blasphemy in altering and using the historic words, and we, as we quote them, are quite certain they were not.

The battle of the Aisne was long drawn out, if that can be described as a battle which consisted of many days of fierce fighting culminating in long continued siege warfare in the trenches. During its continuance there was the same individual ministry, the constant hair-breadth escapes of chaplains and doctors--not always, however, for both chaplains and doctors suffered--the same heroic endeavour to ameliorate suffering and to point the dying to the Saviour.

Here and there we get glimpses of brief services held behind the firing line. A brigade at a time would be withdrawn from the trenches and then was the chaplain's opportunity. We read of a Sunday spent among these men who had just been facing death. An early communion, the men kneeling on the straw of a dimly lit barn, a service in the open-air among men of line regiments and of batteries, a united service in the evening at which the Rev. D.P. Winnifrith read the prayers, Colonel Crawford the lessons, and the Rev. O.S. Watkins gave the address.

We are told of hurriedly arranged services in the evenings--one in a cart-shed lit by two hurricane lamps, in which Church of England and Wesleyan chaplains took part, and Lieutenant Grenfell, R.A.M.C, a Wesleyan local preacher, gave the address. Another in a deep cutting, safe from sh.e.l.l fire, while overhead the guns were booming, but clear above the noise the music of the hymn--"Blessed a.s.surance, Jesus is mine." Another, which Lieutenant Grenfell reports, in a farmyard, amid the neighing of horses and the constant tramp of men.

Strange places these for the worship of G.o.d! But with a heart at rest, even amid the strife of battle, the Christian turns to G.o.d, and there is a deep longing in the hearts of men who cannot call themselves Christians for the consolations of religion.

Corporal Chappell, invalided home with a bullet in his leg, ill.u.s.trates this with some touching stories of the battle of the Aisne. As they advanced to the front the road was for some distance lined with orchards. The Colonel issued orders that no apples were to be taken, for, said he, "It would be stealing." One man, however, could not resist the temptation, and when for a few minutes they rested, filled his pockets with apples. In a short time they were in the thick of the battle and sh.e.l.ls were falling fast and furious. Out came the apples from the lad's pockets. He flung them as far from him as he could. "There, I will not have you on my conscience, anyhow!" he said.

Another lad close to Chappell said to him: "Chappell, I have a sort of feeling I shall not reach home again. I cannot help thinking of my wife and children."

"Have you thought of your own soul?" asked Chappell.

"There is no time for that," was the reply.

"Oh yes, there is a minute at any rate. Pray, lad, pray! Your wife and children are in G.o.d's hands. Pray for pardon now."

And so they two went forward praying. A few minutes and a sh.e.l.l almost annihilated the company, and among the rest the lad who had just been pleading "G.o.d be merciful to me a sinner" was killed. Thank G.o.d! no one ever prays that prayer in vain.

A few minutes afterwards Corporal Chappell was himself shot in the leg. As best he could he proceeded to hop into safety. Two men of another regiment saw him and carried him to the shelter of a cow-shed and laid him there. It was only some time afterwards that he found that one of the men who had helped to carry him was only less severely wounded than himself. The cow-shed was filthy, the pain severe, he wondered how long he was to lie there alone, and untended.

"Then," said he, "I remembered that my Lord was born in a stable, and I just lay still and went to sleep thinking of Him, and I slept on and on until night fell, and the stretcher-bearers found me and carried me to the rear."

Thus these simple lads help their fellows, preach Christ even in the midst of the battle, and when in sore need themselves, find in the thought of their Saviour comfort and rest and hope.

Then came threatenings in Flanders, and the daring plan of a German advance on Calais. This necessitated the withdrawal of our troops from the lines of the Aisne to the Yser and their replacement by French troops on the Aisne. The transference of our troops was accomplished with the greatest secrecy and skill. It is doubtful if the Germans were acquainted with the transference until it was accomplished. It is perhaps one of the greatest deeds of the war, and speaks of supreme skill and daring on the part of our commander.

The soldiers took it all in good part. "Over incredibly bad roads, often up to the boot tops in mud, they marched with a swing that would have done credit to a Royal Review on Laffan's Plain, and as they marched they chanted their war-song, 'It's a long, long way to Tipperary.' It seemed hardly possible that for three solid months they had been fighting without a single day's rest. As they crossed the Belgian frontier their spirits rose. 'This is better than the last time we crossed it, isn't it, sir? Then we was on the run, having got more than we wanted at Mons, but now the boot's on the other leg. Now if we could only capture 'Kaiser Bill,' or even 'Old one o'clock'

(General von Kluck), we might get home for our Christmas dinners after all.'"

Then followed the battle of Ypres, the bloodiest battle of the winter campaign, and one of the most critical engagements of the war. It was now cold--bitterly cold. Rain and snow--snow and rain! The trenches became almost uninhabitable. Frost-bite among the men became common.

Many were invalided to the base suffering from rheumatism. All that could be done for the men was done. Warm goat-skin coats were served out, and the men looked more like Teddy Bears than soldiers. Charcoal braziers were sent to the trenches, and, most important of all, the men were well fed.

It was only a thin line to keep back the German hosts. How thin a line no one yet is permitted to tell. But it accomplished its task, and by November 20 reinforcements arrived and the situation for the British was somewhat relieved.

All through the series of battles the chaplains had been busy with their grim work, caring for the wounded and burying the dead.

"Bit of an attack on, sir," said the pioneer sergeant, "but they're firing high, and all the bullets are going well overhead; they don't matter. But there's a sniper who seems to have a line on that grave.

It's so dark that it's certain he can't see us, but he seems to have a sort of instinct; as sure as we go near the place he begins firing.

There you are, sir; he's at it again. Lucky he ain't a good shot."

But notwithstanding the sniper, the chaplain buried his dead, and then tramped back in the darkness with sh.e.l.ls falling all around.

The battles now developed into a sort of siege, and for long drawn-out months the British and German armies faced each other in the trenches.

By this time the Indian contingent had arrived and their chaplains with them.

Then we had the strangest spectacle of the war--Roman Catholics, Protestants, Hindus, Mohammedans, in all speaking fifteen different languages, but fighting side by side in a common cause. The fact that, notwithstanding the proclamation by the Sultan of a Holy War, our Indian Mohammedan soldiers stood firm by Old England, was a sign that no longer could Constantinople be reckoned as the headquarters of Mohammedanism. The Sheik-ul-Islam might sound forth his proclamation in great state, but the princes and soldiers of India, Egypt, and the Sudan heeded not. They knew that under the British flag they had religious liberty, and they were loyal to the core.

It was just before the battle of Ypres commenced that Lord Roberts paid his visit to France. He was over eighty years of age, and it was dangerous in the extreme for him to attempt such a journey at his time of life. But he was most wishful to review his much-loved Indian troops, and they in their turn were anxious to see their "Father,"

whom they all revered. When the risks at his age were pointed out to him, he replied, "We must do what we consider to be our duty; then we are in G.o.d's hands."

It was bitter weather, but he reviewed the Indian troops, caught cold, and died on Sat.u.r.day, November 14, 1914.

He was the darling of the British Army. When the soldiers knew that "Our Bobs" was coming to their relief in South Africa, their delight was unbounded. They had absolute confidence in him; they would follow him anywhere. And something more--they knew that when they read their Bibles that was what Lord Roberts did--was there not a message from him within the cover?--and when they knelt to pray they knew that that also was what Lord Roberts did. His influence was widespread and was all for good in the Army.

In the eloquent tribute which Earl Curzon paid in the House of Lords to the memory of Earl Roberts, he quoted a letter received from him only a fortnight before.

"We have had family prayers for fifty-five years. Our chief reason is that they bring the household together in a way that nothing else can.

It ensures servants and others who may be in the house joining in prayers which, for one reason or other, they may have omitted saying by themselves. Since the war began we usually read a prayer like the enclosed, and when anything important has occurred I tell those present about it. In this way I have found that the servants are taking a great interest in what is going on in France. We have never given any order about prayers. Attendance is quite optional, but, as a rule, all the servants, men and women, come when they hear the bell."

"The man who penned these words," said Lord Curzon, "even to a friend, was not only a great soldier, a patriot, and a statesman; he was also a humble-minded and devout Christian, whose name deserves to live, and will live for ever in the memory of the nation whom he served with such surpa.s.sing fidelity to the last hour of a long and glorious life."

The Army bade farewell to the body of the great field-marshal at St.

Omer, then the headquarters of the British Expeditionary Force. The route to the Mairie was lined by British and French troops. The coffin, draped with the Union Jack, was placed upon the gun-carriage by eight non-commissioned officers selected from regiments of which he had been colonel. All the British and French courage was represented in the procession. The Prince of Wales represented the King. The Indian chiefs who honoured and loved him were there.

At the service in the Mairie which followed, the Rev. F.I. Anderson, a.s.sisted by the Rev. C. Marshall and the Rev. A. Helps, officiated.

The service, as was fitting, was very simple. The music was led by a choir of soldiers, accompanied by a harmonium, and the hymns sung were "Now the labourer's task is o'er," and "O G.o.d, our help in ages past."

At the conclusion of the service, British bugles sounded the "Last Post." Then the body was reverently borne down the steps and placed in the motor ambulance which was to convey it to Boulogne. As this was done the guard of honour once more sprang to the present, French trumpeters blew a fanfare, and the guns of Lord Roberts' old regiment thundered a salute.

Thus the British Army said farewell to its old chief, and will remember him for ever as a great soldier and a great Christian.

In the fighting round Ypres fell that distinguished British officer, General Hamilton. The record of his funeral will show a great contrast to that of Lord Roberts, but it gives us a weird and pathetic picture of the circ.u.mstances under which our chaplains do their work.

While standing on a hillock near the village of La Couteau in the midst of his staff, the commander of our Third Division was struck by a fragment of shrapnel and killed. They buried him "at dead of night,"

and the whole scene recalls the famous lines on the burial of Sir John Moore.

It was a sad and silent party of distinguished French and British officers which followed the coffin up the winding path to the little churchyard, where the grave had been hastily dug, near the sh.e.l.l-battered church. The only light was that of the electric flash lamp used by the Rev. E.G.F. Macpherson (the senior Church of England chaplain) to enable him to read the burial service.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BRITISH TRENCHES IN THE AISNE DISTRICT.

_Drawn by D. Macpherson._]

He had scarcely begun to speak its solemn words when the Germans opened a perfect hurricane of fire. But the chaplain never altered the measured dignity of his intonation, though sh.e.l.ls were bursting all around and the enemy's bullets were pattering against what remained of the church walls.

This weird service over, the officers present had to hurry away to their respective duties with the rattle of German musketry in their ears. As General Smith-Dorrien also left, he said to Mr. Macpherson: "A true soldier's funeral, Padre. We couldn't fire a volley, but the enemy have given him the last salute for us."

Aye! a true soldier's funeral, and the one which he would perhaps have preferred to any other.