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QUIET DAYS 193
Der Fiirst dicscr Welt,
Wie saur er sich stellt,
Tut er uns doch nichts,
Das macht, er ist gericht,
Ein Wörtlein kann ihn fallen." *
Army chaplains almost form a race of their own. They
are always cheerful, always uddeawake, self-sacrilicing and
dauntless. They are the soldiers’ priests, they preach for the
living and comfort and console the dying. Creed no longer
plays a part, the Protestant and Catholic chaplains arc like
brothers together. There is no rivalry between them, they
have all one God and one aim, the welfare of their country.
One often sees chaplains hurrying along on horseback, a cross
round their neck, the black felt hat on their heads and the
white and violet band round the left arm of the field tunic.
They not infrequently wear the Iron Cross. This no doubt
means that they have stood up in the midst of the shell fire
and spoken of the Resurrection and the Life, or that with
immovable calm they have remained at their post and ad-
dressed the congregation when enemy aviators were flying
overhead. Or maybe that they have this very night in cold
and rain crept between shrubs and bushes to reach the trenches
and celebrate High Mass on Sunday for their occupants.
Once more my thoughts fly away to our own immortal
times of greatness. Pictures of solemn Carolin chaplains in
boots and spurs seem to rise up before me, men who in strength
and fortitude of soul were an example to the soldiers to be
resolute and loyal unto death. I seemed to see as through a
mist the regimental chalice placed upon the altar built up of
silver tymbals, round which kneeling men and haughty
officers throng to listen humbly to the Lutheran confession of
faith, and to vow in ringing tones that in life and death alike
they believe in the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the
body and life everlasting. The battlefields are a sterile soil
^ And if the world with devils teemed,
All watching to devour us,
Yet are our hearts from fear redeemed,
Not they can overpower us !
And let the Prince of 111 «
Look grim as e’er he will,
He harms us not one whit
—
For why ? His doom is writ
;
A Word shall quickly slay him.
(Con^qregaiioual Hymn Book version, slightly modified.)
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