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THE BULLETIN OF THE CATHOLIC LAYMEN’S ASSOCIATION OF GEORGIA
Little Black Book
No. 10— The Quarry.
By Charles C. Conaly.
(This story originally appeared in
The Catholic World.—Ed The Bul
letin.
THE QUARRY.
Time touches with a healing hand
the wounds of mind, as well as
those of body. Thus is the horror
and bitterness of actuality tempered
in memory’s pictures, which, though
clear and distinct in every least de
tail, are yet free from clashing con
trasts. The unpleasant things from
a soft background, against which
memory paints the things which
were pleasant. Already our recol
lections of the War are losing the
sharp edges of pain. Yet are we
doomed to live in the past, never
quite adjusted to normal conditions
of life. For those of us who saw
hard fighting, life holds little to stir
our interest, nothing to arouse our
enthusiasm. The climax of our lives
has been reached; we arc on the long
down-grade, our hearts and minds
still on the heights we have passed.
Children, in years to come, will list
en to our talcs of the Great War
with that mingled respect and pity
and doubt which was ours when we,
as children, listened to the stories
of the Boys in Blue. And some
young sotdier, fresn from fields of
fame, will laugh at the mention of
the World War, and scornfully re
mark (as l heard remarked not so
long ago about the Civil War):
“Why that World War was a' joke!
Those fellows don’t know what ‘real’
war is. Anyone who was wounded
in that war ought to have been court
martialed for carelessness. They
could see the shells and bullets com
ing in plenty of time to get out of
the way.”
But we shall always have our
memories, for the most part sweet;
nil very precious. And but a slight
impulse is needed to start this mo
tion picture machine, which we call
memory. Once started, it unfolds
its pictures in swift succession on
the screen of imagination. And
mine is started by the sight of the
names of three boys who were kill
ed on thp seventeenth of October,
1918, and whom 1 buried that same
day.
After seemingly endless ages we
were relieved from the Argonne and
found ourselves back, out of “range'
in a little village which we filled to
overflowing. It had little of beauty
or comfort to commend it, but it
was safe. Most of the officers were
quartered in a hospice managed by
some Sisters of St. Charles. Great,
indeed, was the joy of these nuns
when I told them that I was a priest
Now they could have daily Mass
mice again; a joy denied them since
the outbreak of the War had depriv
ed this village, (as it had so many
others), of its priest. Ah, yesl they
would cure the cough of Monsieur
L’Aumonier. They would brew him
some herbs which would give him
back his voice. The Chaplain could
scarcely talk above a whisper as
result of having become too inti
mately acquainted with some gas
But , one draught of the homebrew
was sufficient to convince the Chap
lin that* the cough was referable to
the cure. The taste still lingers
To fill up our deleted ranks,
about four hundred new troops were
sent to us the day after our arrival
in this village. I met them as they
marched into town, and was talking
with some of them when the town
crier appeared, beating loudly on
his tom-tom, and then told his news
to the natives who had answered the
tocsin.
“Whaddyuh call that guy?” some
one asked me.
“Oh, he’s the town crier’
answered, “a sort of village news
paper. You see, these little towns
don’t get any papers and the only
news they receive is from him.'
“Whaddidhe say that time?
For all I knew he might have said
that the War was over. My little
knowledge of French was helpless in
the torrent of words which swirled
from his lips after rushing madly
between his two teeth. But the
question had to be answered.
“He’s just telling the natives, 1
answered, “ that they can sell wine
to the soldiers who came yesterday
but they must not sell any to these
soldiers who have just arrived. They
have just come from America and
are not used to it.”
What a storm of indignant pro
tests my translation aroused 1 But
in the excitement and indignation
the boys forgot, for a few montrnts,
their fatigue and hunger. A little
ling” was the only medicine we
and swollen
Countess Markievicz
Proceeded Lady r Asior
As Parliament Member
day in this little town, w’e were
ordered back into the line. At night
fall, we rolled our packs and were
eady for the trucks, choking the
main street of the little’town. The
trucks came and went! The com
manding officer of the truck-train
had orders to pick us up at the next
town. So, in order that obedience
might triumph, we had to walk three
miles in the rain to the next town.
Then, after several very uncomfort
able hours in the trucks, we were
put out of the trucks and had to
walk back about four miles because
the trucks had carried us too far! I
refused to hear what the boys had
to say about the whole affair.
Then came the march up to the
front, along a road which followed
a small stream running through a
valley. For the most part we shuff
led along in silence—too tired even
to talk. Up ahead an occasional
Very light or starsliell cast its weird
light over the horizon; then, as we
rounded a hill, we could hear the
shrill shriek of shells and see the
flash as they exploded in the city
through which we must pass. There
may have been a man among us
ho wanted to go through that
town, but I doubt it. If we followed
our desires, we would have started
for home right then. We old-tim
ers had been through enough to have
wholesome dread of anything
which exploded; and the new men
were having their first attack of
quivers,” a disease which produces
a sudden weakness in the region of
the knees and the pit of the stom
ach. And yet, single file, five paces
between men, we went through the
town and crossed a bridge which
was under constant fire. And that
is precisely what bravery and hero
ism mean to me: the will-power
which makes men go where they
don’t want to go; go, when every
fibre of their being cries out against
going. It is the triumph of the
spirit over the body; a victory of
the will aided by prayer. For we all
prayed, perhaps but a word or
thought, but yet a prayer. Atheism
doesn’t thrive on shellfire.
Daybreak found us in a valley, in
which the Germans during their
occupation of it, had constructed a
number of barracks and some very
pleasing little cottages. The valley
because of its depth and narrow
ness, seemed to be a perfectly safe
position. But within an hour we
were being shelled, and three of our
hoys were killed outright and several
others wounded. , As soon as the
wounded had been cared for, we
buried the dead in a little green
plot of grass, round which flowed a
little stream, singing the requiem of
of these departed lads as it journey
ed towards its own grave in the far
away ocean. And there, as its wa
ters mingled with the waves,
whispered of the brave lads who
were buried by its banks. And the
waves took up the story, and lisped
to the shores of America the talc
they had heard of America’s brav
dead.
Taking over the front line posi
tions that same day, we occupied
battalion headquarters, a cave.
formed originally, I presume, by the
uction of the river, had been used
for centuries as a quarry. The Ger
mans were quick to take advantage
of its safety, for it had a roof
many feet of solid rock. They had
blocked up the entrance, all sav
a small trench, and had shored up
the roof with heavy timbers. It was
by far, the safest place we ever had
and could easily shelter a battalion
Here “Spike,” the Major’s orderly,
made a reputation as a cook. His
specialty was griddle-cakes; hi
griddle, a flattened out tin can; his
fire, a can of solidified alcohol. And
as he worked, h6 sang. He told in
his sweet tenor of the doughboy
sweetheart, “Pretty K-K-K-Katie
whom he would meet by the g-g-g
garden gate.” And he lilted another
doggerel, which ran:
The rain rains on the flowers and
makes them beautiful,
Why doesn’t a cloud burst on the
Chap-e-laiu?
Though this sector was known as
a “quiet” one, and was, in fact, in
active in the sense that there
was no drivers, yet there was
noise enough both from shelling
ind bombing. The village below us
was shelled regularly. In this village
away underground in the subsellar
of a mined palace, we had . our
dressing-station. It was so far
down that no shell could reach it.
By the light of a candle one of the
ambiance drivers was writing home.
yddenly the
t —
New York.—Lady Nancy Astor
is not the first woman in modern
times to be elected to the British
parliament, despite the popular
belief. That distinction belongs to
a Catholic, the Countes Markie
vicz, who has just finished a
tour of the United States in be
half of the Irish Republic and
who was the central figure of a
mass meeting last night in Mad
ison Square Gardens. Countess
Markievicz is a convert and was
received into the church in 1916.
She was sentenced to death for
her participation in the uprising
of Easter week, 1916, but was re
leased after her sentence had
been commuted do penal servitude
for life. She was elected to the
Bx-itish Parliament in the elec
tion of 1918, but like other Irish
members, refused to take her seat
and became a member of Dail
Eireann, the constituteut assemb
ly of the Irish people.
stop anytime, as far as I’m con
cerned. I’ve had more than enough.’
“Chaplain,” he nnswei-ed, putting
down his tin cup, “them’s my senti
ments exactly. I’m forced to agree
with you in spite of the fact that
I’m a Methodist. I’m ready to demo-
blize right this minute.”
“This morning”, 1 continued, “I
went up and buried a boy near G
Company’s P. C. Tlien I took a
stroll around the line. It gave me
the blues. The old crowd is px-acti-
cally gone. Of course, there are
some left, but not many. I ran into
‘Slim’, and he was crabbing because
when he asked the Doctor what to
do for a sore on his leg, he was
told ‘not to sleep on the wet ground
and not to carry any sidearms.’
The line is just a series of strong
points; no continuous trench. 1
stopped at each group of riflemen or
automatic gun team. Some took me
might like to know what
cootie” really looked like, so he
put a drop of candle grease on the
piece of writing paper, and, captur
ing without much difficulty one of
his own brand he “interned” it in
candle grease. But, 1 suppose, the
censor removed it as likely to give
dangerous information or comfort
to the enemy.
In spite of the shellfire to which
the village was subjected, our hoys
were continually prowling about it
looking for souvenirs. The palace
was the especial object of their
curiosity. They were continually
salvaging” things, for our men had
no more i-espect for property rights
than any other soldiers. Anything
which did not have its owner sit
ting on it could be, nay should be,
salvaged. In our cave, one day, 1
discovered a stack of French maga
zines, evidently salvaged from the
village. Some were being devoured
when I entered, and it seemed as if
everyone who came in got immedi
ately interested in French literature.
But it was not till some remarked
on the badness of the French peo
ple, their looseness and general im
morality, that it occured to me to
find out what the magazines were.
And then I told these “clean-mind
ed” Americans what I thought of
them! I noticed that they hadn’t
missed a page; and one regretted
his ignorance of French! Too many
of our soldiers brought back from
Fiance the same inpressions of
Fi-ance and 'its people which they
carried over. France, to them, was
Gay Paree,” and they did their best
to ' justify their preconceptions
Handicapped by a lack of knowledge
of language and customs, our men
had practically no chance to meet
or know the decent class of French
people. The vast majority of the
members of the A. E. F., never got
even close to a large French city,
There came to us one day an
aviator, sent up for observation
with the infantry—from the ground.
A splendid chap,who took in good
part our abuse. After being bomb
ed a few times and witnessing the
way we were harassed by enemy
planes (having no help from any
planes of our own) he understood
our viewpoint. Nothing destioys
morale quicker than aerial activity
on the pai't of the enemy. There
are many things, even in war, far
moi’e pleasant than being bombed,
or fired upon by the machine gun
of an aei'oplane. Besides gaining
experience, he gained his first cootie,
which, he maintained, would make
him the envy of the entire squad
ron. One would think he had been
decorated, he was so proud.
All the occupants of the cave were
asleep in various keys and pitches
save the Adjutant and myself. We
sat at the table drinking our K of
C. bouillon by the flickering light
of a candle. I had just finished a
letter home, and one to
the mother of my orderly, to tell
her that her boy was well and to let
her know what help he had given
me during the past few weeks.
“Joe,” 1 said, “this little War can
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for a waterboy; one crowd thought
I was a i-unner. All 1 could think
of wa3 the old crowd. They knew
me, and 1 knew them. I heard one
chap ask his neighbor, ‘who’s the
gink?’ He was told that the ‘gink’
might be a Chaplain. Which brought
query, ‘What in blazes (I’m using
synonyms) is a Chaplain?’ I felt
like a stranger in my own home.
When we started, this outfit wa»
over sixty per cent. Catholic; now
its practically Mormon—except you.”
“No sir, Chaplain, I’m no Mor
mon! I sure do wish I was hack
with the little wife now. Someone
was saying today that only three of
our original officers haven’t been hit*
or gassed.”
“Yes, and you three are like the
rest of us, half crazy,” I answered.
“Chaplain, you better go lie down.
I’m going to write home and tell
the wife about our ci-azy priest.”
“All right,” I answered, making
for my bunk, “but don’t forget to
tell her I went crazy trying to keep
you straight.”
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