An officer came up to us and before that enormous assembly of men, said: "Gentlemen, I should like to embrace each one of you in the name of every mother in France.... If only you knew how they count on you, those women, and how they bless you for what you are going to be to their sons. _We_ don't know the words that bring strength and healing, and we are ignorant of the prayers that solace the last agony ... but you...." And at the words, he wept, without attempting to hide his feelings. He already realised the immensity of the sacrifice, and the powerlessness of man to bring consolation to those struck down in their first manhood. No, it was no longer "a joke" this time, and every one felt it and showed it by their respectful looks and manner. The others, those millions of men on their way to the front, were starting for the unknown. We, on the other hand, knew well what lay before us ... we should have to succour the wounded and throw wide the Gates of Heaven for them to enter in--we should have to dress their wounds and arouse courage in those crushed, by the burden too heavy for mere flesh and blood to bear. Never had we felt such apostles ... never had our hearts dilated with such brotherly feeling. II--CARRYING THE CROSS OF CHRIST TO THE BATTLEFIELDS "Attention!" Instantly there was dead silence. In imagination we saw nothing but those far-off battlefields. Our names were called, and we were allotted our several tasks. First the stretcher-bearers. There was a long list of these, and in two hours they were to set out for the front, to pick up the wounded in the firing line. From time to time the officer broke the monotony of the roll-call by trenchant remarks--such as one makes on those occasions when one has accepted one's share of sacrifice simply because it's one's duty to do so. "You will be just as exposed as those who are fighting. The enemy will fire on the ambulances; and the Red Cross on your armlets and on the buildings will not protect you from German bullets." The list was growing longer. In their turn men of thirty and forty received the badges of their devotedness. "There are many of you who will never come back. Your courage will only be the finer. They may kill you, but you will not be able to kill. Your sole duty is to love suffering in spite of everything, no matter how mutilated the being may be who falls across your path, and who cries for pity." "Even the Boches?" The officer smiled, then said almost regretfully: "Even the Boches." Amongst us there was a hum of dissent. "I quite understand," said the officer, "but when you remember that your duty is that of heroism without thought of revenge--just pure heroism, that of apostles who are made of the stuff martyrs are made of...." He who had protested, and who happened to be standing next to me, was a dear old friend of mine, one of those valiant souls who fear nothing and nobody. He was a fine, soldierly priest.