ealised that he was dying, and he commenced to
pray, "Ave Maria, Ave Maria," but the poor tired brain could
remember nothing more. He turned to me to continue, but I could
no longer trust myself to speak, and it was the Mohammedan who
took up the prayer and continued it whilst the soldier followed with
his lips until his soul passed away into the valley of shadows. I
think this story is only equalled in its broad tolerance by that of the
Rabbi Bloch of Lyons, who was shot at the battle of the Aisne
whilst holding a crucifix to the lips of a dying Christian soldier. The
soldier priests of France have earned the love and respect of even
the most irreligious of the Poilus. They never hesitate to risk their
lives, and have displayed sublime courage and devotion to their
duty as priests and as soldiers. Behind the first line of trenches a
soldier priest called suddenly to attend a dying comrade, took a
small dog he was nursing and handing it to one of the men simply
remarked, "Take care of the little beast for me, I am going to a
dangerous corner and I do not want it killed."

A Gun Carriage An Altar

I have seen the Mass celebrated on a gun carriage. Vases made
of shell cases were filled with flowers that the men had risked their
lives to gather in order to deck the improvised altar. A Red Cross
ambulance drove up and stopped near by. The wounded begged
to be taken out on their stretchers and laid at the foot of the altar in
order that "they might receive the blessing of the good God"
before starting on the long journey to the hospital behind the lines.

Outside the prison camp of Cannantre stood a circle of French
soldiers learning the bugle calls for the French Army. I wondered
how the Germans cared to listen to the martial music of the men of
France, one and all so sure of the ultimate victory of their country.
Half a kilometre further on, a series of mock trenches had been
made where the men were practising the throwing of hand
grenades. Every available inch of space behind the French lines is
made to serve some useful purpose.

I never see a hand grenade without thinking how difficult it is just
now to be a hero in France. Every man is really a hero, and the
men who have medals are almost ashamed since they know that
nearly all their comrades merit them. It is especially difficult to be a
hero in one's own family. One of the men in our hospital at
Royaumont had been in the trenches during an attack. A gr