We do not want to die. We are all strong and full of life and
hope and power of doing. Suddenly we are stricken beyond mortal aid. The
chaplain comes and in a few phrases gives us the password, the sign which
admits us to the peaceful Masonry of Christianity. Rough men pass away,
hard men "go West" with a smile of peace upon their pain-tortured lips if
the padre can get to them in time for the parting word, the cheerful,
colloquial "best o' luck."
Does the padre come to us and sanctimoniously pronounce our eternal doom
should he hear us swear? The clergyman, the minister of old time, is down
and out when he reaches the battle-fields of France, or any other of the
fronts we are holding. No stupid tracts are handed to us, no whining and
groaning, no morbid comments on the possibility of eternal damnation. No,
the chaplain of to-day is a real man, maybe he always was, I don't know. A
man who risks his life as do we who are in the fighting line. He has
services, talks, addresses, but he never preaches. He practises all the
time.
Out of this war there will come a new religion. It won't be a sin any more
to sing rag-time on Sunday, as it was in the days of my childhood.
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