The Greater Love

CHAPTER I. Leave Home--Base Hospital No. 11--Camp Dodge

LEAVE HOME--BASE HOSPITAL NO. 11--CAMP DODGE

"Very well then, Father, you have my permission and best wishes."

How the approving words and blessing of good Archbishop Mundelein thrilled me that memorable morning in 1918. The rain-washed freshness of April was abroad in Cass street; and the soft breeze, swaying the curtain of the Chancery window where he was seated, brought incense of budding tree and garden.

Patiently he had listened, while I presented my reasons for wishing to become a war Chaplain. How, obedient to that call to National Service which is

"The pride of each patriot's devotion,"

millions of our boys were exchanging the shelter of home and parish influence for the privation and danger of camp and ship and battlefield.

To accompany them, to encourage them, to administer to their spiritual and moral needs, to fortify their last heroic hours with "Sacramenta propter homines," here was a Christlike work pre-eminently worthy the best traditions of the Priesthood.

Even as, earnestly, I pleaded my case, I bore steadily in mind recollection of that lofty patriotism and brilliant leadership which had already made Chicago's Archbishop a foremost National Champion. It was but yesterday that the Secretary of the United States Treasury had called, personally, to thank and congratulate him on his inspiring patronage of Loan and Red Cross Drives.

In the sympathetic glow of his face I read approval even before hearing the formal words of permission.

"Moreover, Father, I will appoint an administrator at once, to care for the parish during your absence. You will receive, through Father Foley's office, letters duly accrediting you to Bishop Hayes, Chaplain Ordinary, and the National authorities."

A fond ambition, long cherished, was about to be realized! I had, of course, been doing something of a war "bit," co-operating with parishioners, and town folks like Mayor Gibson and Doctor Noble, in the various patriotic rallies and drives. Father Shannon of the "New World" thought so highly of our city's efforts as to visit us and eloquently say so at a monster Mass Meeting of citizens. "Do you know, George," he remarked that night as he marched beside me in the street parade, "if I could only get away, I would gladly go as a Chaplain."

Then I told him my secret, how I had filed my war application some months before, and had been meanwhile seasoning my body to the out-of-doors and practicing long hikes.

But a single cloud now remained in the radiant sky of dreams--the thought of parting! Ten years of residence in so Arcadian a place as Myrtle Avenue, and in so American a town as Harvey, engender ties of affection not easily to be sundered. Then, too, the school children, how one grows to love them, especially when you have given them their first Sacraments, and even joined in wedlock their parents before them. Of course for the priest who, more perhaps than any other man, "has not here a lasting city," whose life is so largely lived for others, and whose "Holy Orders" so naturally merge with marching orders, the leave-taking should not have been so trying. Preferable as would have been

"No moaning of the bar When I put out to sea,"

the parting that night with the people in the school hall, and again, the following morning at the depot, was keenly painful--a grief, however, every soldier was to know, and, therefore, bravely to be endured.

How sacred and memorable were the depot platforms of our beloved country in war time! Whether the long, smoke stenciled, trainshed of the Metropolis, or the unsheltered, two-inch planking sort, of the wayside junction; they saw more of real life, the Tragedy of tears and the Comedy of laughter, than any stage dedicated to Drama. There, life was most real and intense. The prosaic words "All Aboard" seemed to set in motion a final wave of feeling that surged beyond all barriers of the conventional--the last pressure of heart to heart and of hand to hand; the last response of voice to voice; the last sight of tear dimmed eye and vanishing form, as the train rumbled away beyond the curve, leaving a ribbon of black crepe draped on the horizon.

First impressions, we are told, are most lasting. Arrival at Camp Dodge, Iowa, the following morning and subsequent meeting with the officers and enlisted men of Base Hospital No. 11, made an impression so agreeable time itself seems merely to have hallowed it.

Association with the soldierly and gracious Colonel Macfarlain, the splendid Major Percy, the energetic Captain Flannery, together with Doctors Roth, Ashworth, Carter (the same T. A. Carter whose skill later saved the lives of poisoned Shirley and Edna Luikart), Lewis, Shroeder, and others, became at once an inspiration and pleasure. Most of these gentlemen had been associated with either St. Mary of Nazareth or Augustana Hospitals, Chicago; and had patriotically relinquished lucrative practices to serve their country in its need. Words cannot too highly praise, nor excess of appreciation be shown our gallant public-spirited doctors and corpsmen, who, whether here or overseas, made every sacrifice to build up and maintain the health of the largest Army and Navy of our history.

The personnel of enlisted men, too, with Base 11, was exceptionally superior, coming from some of the best families of the Middle West. Anderson, McCranahan and the two Tobins of the famous Paulist choir were there, and what wealth of vocal melody they represented! Talbot, Bunte, and Leo Durkin of Waukegan; Dunn, Farrell, Lewis, Talbot--these, and five hundred others like them, were the splendid fellows to whom I now fell heir.

Camp Dodge, like many another Cantonment, the War Department miraculously "raised" over night, was a vast school, pulsating with martial throb. Hundreds of the brain and brawn of the far-flung prairies were arriving daily, and being classified, drilled and seasoned into efficient soldiers.

Poets have to be born; but soldiers, in addition to qualities inbred, have to be made; and while the process of making was invariably laborious and often discouraging, it usually repaid patient effort. The raw recruit of yesterday became the pride of the line today!

They call me the "Raw Recruit," The joke of the awkward squad, The rook of the rookies to boot, And a bumpkin, a dolt and a clod; But this much I'll plead in defense I seem popular with these chaps, For they keep me a'moving thither and hence From Reveille to Taps.

Though no doubt I have had them for years, For the first time I'm sure I have feet! When the Corporal said "Halt" it appears That my feet thought he ordered "Retreat"! And my eyes o'er who's blue ladies 'd rave, And called them bright stars of the night, Now simply refuse to behave And mix up "Eyes Left" with "Eyes Right."

I'll admit that I'm no hand to brag; But the fact is I've won a First Prize! 'Twas not that I have any drag, Nor excel in the officers' eyes. It was close, but I won, never fear; My home training helped me, I guess; I beat every man about here; At being the first in, at "Mess"!

My Corporal admits I'm not bad Through the night, when I'm buried in sleep! It's waking that I drive him mad, And cause very demons to weep. But Rome was not built in a day! And once I get used to my suit, I'll just force all these pikers to say "He once was a raw recruit!"

CHAPTER II. Camp Mills--St. Stephen's, New York--Enter Army

CAMP MILLS--ST. STEPHEN'S, NEW YORK--ENTER ARMY

Given sufficient time and mellowing, the butterfly eventually merges from the chrysalis; and it was with rapturous delight early June saw us exchange Camp Dodge for Camp Mills, Long Island! We were now on the shores of the Atlantic, and would soon tread the deck of our ship of dreams--a transport bound for Over There!

Enter, now, the "season of our discontent!" It all grew out of the nature of the Commission I was holding. It was not at all satisfying. Commission in the Red Cross, I discovered, did not authorize front line service; it would hold a person somewhere in the rear area; this would not do; I determined to enter the regular Army.

A kind Providence helped bring this about! Instructions were abruptly received from the War Department classifying all Red Cross Chaplains as mere civilians, denying them the right to sail with the Units they had accompanied East!

Fully fifteen other such Chaplains were then at Camp Mills waiting sailing orders. They, too, had left their home towns and positions fully expecting service overseas. Receipt of this heart-breaking news induced many to give up the work and return home, utterly discouraged. It only served to hasten my entrance into the regular Army.

Going at once to the Rectory of St. Stephen's, East 29th St., New York, direction and cordial welcome was there received from one of God's noblest of men, Bishop Hayes. Appointed by the Holy Father to the special direction and care of all Chaplains in the National service, this brilliant and big-hearted Prince of the Church was father and friend to all.

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