The Deathless Spirit

By Malcolm Savage Treacher (Sergt. H.A.C.)

July 1916

I have witnessed many impressive services. Have seen God praised in tinsel and glitter; amid priceless Rembrandts and wondrous statues of gold and silverwork. Under Norman fabrics; beneath lofty Gothic pillars; in abbeys and cathedrals; and in ancient historic piles, the very names of which spell reverence, into whose old stones the essence of our history has permeated. But no service has impressed me as did that in the Chapel of the 3rd London Hospital. Yet it was not the service itself; that was too swift in its action. One endeavoured to cram too many spoken prayers; too much quantity, if I may say so, and not enough quality. For our prayers to God cannot be hurried; they must be spoken with awe - in lowly reverence. No; it was not the service itself that impressed me. Rather it was the men. Those men in rough blue suits; those men who the breath of war had singed; those men whom God had taught how to pray.

I came early. I was almost the first man present. Others followed - halt and lame, torn and bleeding in their country's service. Then a detachment of the hospital staff in khaki, clanking awkwardly with iron-shod boots into their seats, marshalled by a stout N.C.O., whose ribbons showed long and honourable duty. Then groups of sweet-faced nurses. Then more of the men in blue. If you would have a sight to wring your very heart strings come and see these men. Battered by shell fire, maimed with bullets, white and pale with fever and sickness are these. Some carry limp, helpless arms in slings; some hobble on sticks and crutches; some - God have mercy upon them - are led. Their eyes no longer see the light of the sun, the beauty of women's faces, the loveliness of the flowers, and the heavens themselves. They are blind. There are others even more woefully pathetic - their very features they have sacrificed. Yet they all smile. Outwardly they are all cheerful and happy. For a time they are through with the ordeal. They have come to praise their Maker - they are through with their lives.

We all sing a hymn. I do not remember what it was. A few prayers were chanted, and, the organ droning, we all rose from our knees. Two late comers are wheeled into the church. They are on stretchers. We are singing by this time. It is 'O come, let us sing unto the Lord.' Our voices are shy at first; then they grow louder. Those men who sing are earnest. They are here for no vulgar show of ostentation in dress. They are here to praise God. Yet their voices are still thin. One seems, as it were, waiting for something - some culmination - some apotheosis. We sit down again. Some sacred words are read from St. John as the lesson. Then the Benedictus is chanted. Yet in its place would I rather have seen the Te Deum - that anthem of praise which the Spaniards sung kneeling before battle at the time of the great Philip. There are more prayers; and a fine touch of genius then chose a hymn which rolled back the years for us all, which to more than one of that congregation brought the time vividly to the moments when he lisped the hymn on his mother's knee.

Is it manly for surreptitious tears to roll down one's cheek? One might as well ask if it is human to experience human emotion. It was thrilling to see all those battle-scarred men thrown back their heads. It touched one's heart to hear their deep voices uniting in that children's hymn.
'There is a green hill far away' they sang in full throated chorus, each man probably struggling to hide his own emotion. Touching indeed was the effect of all this. But still we all waited for something - for some culmination. It was not the prayers that followed, nor the next hymn - a bloodless, uninspired piece of work telling of intense joy in celestial spheres where 'no toil and care are there,' for the modern adventurous spirit demands no milk and honey setting when God gives even the ant and the bee greater tasks than men achieve on earth. Nor had this moment come when the Priest stood before the Cross, before the candles on the Altar - when he blesses us all in words as old as our civilisation. We pray swiftly and earnestly. The organ is droning meanwhile a tune at first scarcely recognisable. Its volume swells. Each man feels the zest of ripe enthusiasm surging in him. Some mighty wave of emotion sweeps through us all.

The great moment has arrived. Alert, each man rises hurriedly to his feet, standing stiff and upright, his hands at 'Attention' by his side. This is the climax. In that second the spirit of our race is abroad. Those on crutches have scrambled afoot; blind men lift their faces aloft; even does one chalk-faced soldier, lying flat on his stretcher a moment before, crane himself upright on his elbows. All men's voices are uniting together in one great song. Its words are doggerel; its tune blatant and unsympathetic; but this anthem of England's King stands for Victory and Triumph.
'Send him victorious, happy and glorious' we cry aloud in one mighty voice. The spirit of our race is abroad, I say, at that moment.
You who look on wipe away another tear with your coat sleeve. It is over. The priests have walked softly towards the vestry. The men in khaki whisper among themselves. The stretchers and bath chairs are being wheeled away. Divine service in the Chapel is over.

Outside the birds are singing. A golden sun is blazing through the trees in full splendour. None of us think of our comrades scarce a day's journey away, lying in muddy burrows, exposed to danger and peril during every hour of their lives; of our own chances to rejoin them. For at that moment the 'Peace of God which passeth understanding' is in our souls.