My Library

When the day’s training, trekking, or fighting is over, it is customary to park the tanks in a line and cover them with tarpaulins and nets; in this garb they closely resemble prehistoric monsters. Those who are at once their masters and their slaves bid them a “good night” in which relief is mingled—so strange is the human heart—with something of affection. Look, for example, at the Dinosaur at the end of the line I That is our tank, and we have lived with and fought in her for many months. Through her tiny loopholes we have watched grim Death stalking by our side. We have heard his bullets rain like hail upon her flanks; we have driven her over deadly barbedwire entanglements, trenches, and shell-holes. Heavy guns, deep-sunken in the mud and despaired of by their crews, has she pulled out on to dry ground. She has brought back the wounded after many a show—and we would not willingly change her for another. We understand all her little ways, and know that for all her weight and size she is very sensitive, and needs humouring and constant care; her resistless physical power moves us to admiration and—yes—we must admit, she has a place in our affections. All the same, she rattles, grinds, and clangs forth an inferno of noise. In the evening, in most village churches in France, silence, beauty and peace are to be found. One feels within die unlocked doors a sense of silent welcome. So it is with the little Church of St. Martin, in the valley of the Ternoise. I enter reverently... there seems a special peace and welcome here; the day has been hard, tiring, and very noisy. Relaxed completely, I drop into a seat. The familiar hint of incense still pervades the air— an outward symbol of harmony and purity, and of blessing recently outpoured. There must have been Benediction this evening; the atmosphere is so full of life, the ether so vibrant with power. How beautiful is the peace of this little village church, built on the hill above the river and sheltered by tail trees. The darkness descends swiftly, and the tiny lamp before the altar shines but dimly through the gloom. The pillars rise upwards to a roof fast fading into invisibility. What a blessed peace! How soothed and rested are body and soul in this gracious atmosphere of daily prayer and praise! I wonder if there is a special Angel of this place, whether I can reach his consciousness and thank him for the welcome of his church? Perhaps the patron saint watches over his people here? Can I reach him... or maybe the Blessed Virgin... Saint Thérèse... or Mary