Part 3

“Of course,” was my reply. And they sang “Who’s your lady friend?” and when they had sung that, I called out, “Boys, we will have one more. What shall it be?”

“One of yours, sir.”

I had not trusted them in vain.

I said, “Very well, you choose your hymn.”

“When I survey the wondrous Cross”—that was the song they chose.

And they sang it all the better because I had sung their songs with them. Before we had got to the end of the last verse some of those boys were in tears, and it wasn’t hard to pray. It isn’t far from rag-time to “When I survey the wondrous Cross.”

When they had finished the hymn I said, “Boys, I am going to tell you the story of my father’s conversion.” For I had to convince my padre friend that they were not sceptical. I took them to the gipsy tent and told them of my father and five motherless children, and of how Jesus came to that tent, saving the father and the five children and making preachers of them all.

I said, “Did my father make a mistake when he brought Christ to those five motherless children?” And the eight hundred boys shouted, “No, sir.”

“Did he do the right thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What ought you to do?”

“The same, sir.”

“Do you want Jesus in your lives?” and every man of the eight hundred jumped to his feet.

You say they are sceptical where Jesus is concerned. I’ll tell you when they are sceptical—when they see the caricature of Jesus in you and me.

* * * * *

I was, as I have said, under shell fire for a month in one place—night and day for a month—and never allowed out without a gasbag round my neck. I slept in a cellar there at night when I did sleep—only 700 yards from the Germans—and, as I have said before, it was cold.

When the thaw set in, I put a couple of bricks down and put a box-lid on top, so that I could stand in a dry place. We had two picks and two shovels in that cellar in case anything happened overnight. I have been up against it. Whenever I talked to the boys there they sat with their gas-bags round their necks, and one held mine while I talked. It was quite a common thing to have something fall quite close to us while we were singing.

Imagine singing “Cover my defenceless head,” just as a piece of the roof is falling in. Or—

In death’s dark vale I fear no ill With Thee, dear Lord, beside me—

then another crash! That makes things real. Every word was accompanied by the roar of guns—the rattle of the machine gun and the crack of the rifle. We never knew what it was to be quiet.

A shell once came and burst just the other side of the wall against which I was standing and blew part of it over my head. I have suffered as your boys have, and I have preached the Gospel to your boys in the front line. I long for the privilege of doing it again.

* * * * *

If I had my way I’d take all the best preachers in Britain and I’d put them down in France. And if the church and chapel goers grumbled, I’d say, “You’re overfed. You can do without a preacher for a little.” And if they were to ask, “How do you know?” I should reply, “Because it’s hard work to get you to one meal a week. You only come once on a Sunday and often not that. That’s how I know you are not enjoying your food.”

I love talking to the Scottish boys—the kilties. Oh! they are great boys—the kilties. When the French first saw them they didn’t know what they were, whether they were men or women.

“Don’t you know what they are?” said a bright-faced English boy. “They are what we call the Middlesex.”

You can’t beat a British boy, he’s on the spot all the time—“the Middlesex!” Some of you haven’t seen the joke yet.

* * * * *

I once went to a hut just behind the line, within the sound of the guns. Buildings all round us had been blown to pieces. The leader of this hut was a clergyman of the Church of England, but he wasn’t an ecclesiastic there, he was a man amongst men, and we loved him.