A Jesuit Writes from Gallipoli, 1915

Last updated on: April 11, 2011 at 5:30 am by Pat McNamara

A Jesuit Writes from Gallipoli, 1915 2011-04-11T05:30:00-06:00 Pat McNamara

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OUR ARMY CHAPLAINS’ EXPERIENCES.
FATHER F. DEVAS, GALLIPOLI.
Letters and Notices No. CXCII (January 1916): 323-326.

On the southern end of the Peninsula of Gallipoli, for some weeks now, Mass has been said nearly every day by the small band of Catholic Chaplains. The altars are constructed variously— of ammunition boxes, a board on trestles, a packing case, a shelf cut in the wall of a cliff. The place is sometimes picturesque, more often merely inconvenient, the men being huddled together behind some screen, so that the existence of a shell-worthy group may not be revealed to the enemy. Men march or ride, or motorcycle past, and glance with wonder— if they are without the fold— at the bright green vestment and outstretched hands of the priest; with regret— if they are children of the household— that they cannot join the kneeling throng, and take part in the great mystery wherein Jesus Christ again offers up His dear life to the Father for the sake of men in dusty khaki breeches and torn shirts, whose own lives of body and of soul are hourly in jeopardy.

And week from week, by the altars, the Bread of Life is distributed “to a great multitude” on whom Jesus has had compassion. It is of that multitude that I would speak, for it is a mixed company, where Knights of our Lady, who have ever kept their shields stainless, kneel side by side with many a forgiven traitor, who in days gone by, denied his Lord and sold for less than thirty pieces of silver the Master at whose feet he kneels now, pure as on the morning of his First Communion.

There is no singing at my Mass, or at my other services, because the men are shy, and because their Chaplain has no music in his soul, and no hymn-books at hand— but kneeling in silence, reading their little prayer-books or telling the beads they have taken from their necks, they are eloquent with a message well worth the hearing of the world. For these men love Jesus Christ. The hours spent on the hillside in the growing darkness of the previous evening, waiting their turn for confession, proved it to their confessor. And to him, weary with their numbers but rejoicing in the rich harvest, was shown something of the beauty of their souls, known in its fullness only to God and the Blessed in Heaven.

For to these men has been given a great opportunity. Saints and sinners, they have been suddenly taken from their old surroundings of town or village, English barracks or foreign station, with the moral certainty that tomorrow will as to-day, the thoughtlessness that grows with custom, the ease that battens on security. There are now no churches and few priests, no regular sleeping at night and rising in the morning, so that morning and night prayers jostle with each other or get lost in the confusion; there is no Sunday, because nobody but the Padre (and perhaps a general or two who has to keep count of these things), knows what day of the week it is. And above all there is no to-morrow!

“Hallo, Mike! How’s Pat McGuire?” no longer means is Pat sober, is Pat in work, is Pat in a good temper, is Pat well— but just one thing, is Pat alive? And should the answer be that Pat is killed, what more natural than to remember how Pat was last seen by the inquirer— cursing his mule, “doing bad talk,” or at Mass, or Confession, or reading his little prayer-book in the trenches (oh, those little prayer-books! All that I have given out were gifts through Washbourne— and how loved they are, and how many times I am asked to bless them), or living that cheerful, brave, contented, clean life that God has made easy to these good men. For the close neighborhood of death has made us all much as were the early Christians with their expectation of the speedy ending of the world.

It has been given to us to see things in their true proportions— to see that God’s grace is worth more than the taking of Achi Baba, or even than marching into Berlin— that our stay in Gallipoli may be very short, but our stay in Paradise so long that even the Kaiser will have time to repent him of his evil deeds and join us there in the end, helped no doubt by the prayers of those he has most persecuted, our fellow-Catholics in Belgium, who, with St. Stephen, have had the grace to re-echo the words, “Father, forgive him, for he knows not what he does.”

And who are these men of whom I am writing? For the most part Irish, a good part Lancashire— some “from all parts,” and now and again, as I sit hearing confessions, the night to dark to see the face, sounds the welcome accent of a true cockney. I love the Irish (what Catholic does not), with his “I would be after saying bad words,” or “I took the holy name of Jesus in vain— but I was wild, Father, and I forgot myself, God forgive me,” or “I said ‘to hell with him,’ but it was a Turk, Father.” I love the men from Lancashire (who wouldn’t or couldn’t that was two years in Preston). And then comes the welcome cockney. Such are the men I am with.

The supports of Church Institutions are withdrawn. The Church remains. Through me, their priest sent to them by authority they are united to Cardinal Bourne— through him to the Vicar of Jesus Christ. Down this channel come pouring the visible graces of God, and in the midst of battle Jesus Christ is with us. To Him we turn for support, all past disloyalties are burnt up in the fire of His Divine Love. In the Sacrament of Penance He has washed us with His Precious Blood. In the Sacrament of the Eucharist He has made our bodies holy with the holiness of His dearly-valued presence. In the horror of the darkness, with the awful thunder of war in our ears, He has comforted us, in the face of the enemy He has strengthened us. He is our Friend, and in His Friendship we are happy and light of heart, whether we live or whether we die.— Stella Maris, October.

NOTE
Father Francis Charles Devas, S.J. (1877-1951) came from a distinguished English Catholic family that contributed heavily to the war effort. His father, Charles Stanton Devas (1848-1906) was an Oxford graduate, Catholic convert, author, and leading layman.Francis joined the Jesuits at age eighteen and studied abroad before his ordination in 1909. He taught at Stonyhurst and several other Jesuit colleges in England. On the eve of World War I he was stationed at St. Wilfrid’s Church, Preston, to which he alludes above.

When the war broke out, he and his three brothers volunteered for military service. His brother Philip was a Franciscan, and Raymond a Dominican; all three were Chaplains. Two other brothers served as line officer on the Western Front; one was killed in battle. All were decorated for bravery. Father Francis served with the 29th Division during the Gallipoli Campaign of 1915-1916, when Allied troops tried to knock Turkey out of the war by capturing the Dardanelles, thus offering an opportunity to attack Germany from the rear. The plan never materialized, and they withdrew with heavy losses. He then served on the Western Front. After the war, Father Devas was a popular preacher and author of several books until his death in 1951.

The magazine in which this letter appeared, Letters and Notices, is an English Jesuit magazine begun in the 1860’s. Throughout the war, Jesuit Chaplains from the British (and French) armies wrote letters to the magazine describing their ministry. (A final note: the above letter has been very slightly edited in the interests of blogging brevity.)

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