Oliver Hogue

BERGIN—ROBERTSON—MILLER—GOOD AND BRAVE CHRISTIAN DIVINES—TURKISH IMAMS—A CHESS-PLAYING CLERIC—POCKET TESTAMENTS AND SUNDAY SERVICES—HILL-SIDE WORSHIP—HYMNS AND THE CANNONS' ROAR

In the training camps in Australia the chaplains conducted services, helped at the concerts, and generally made themselves useful and agreeable. On the transports they did pretty much the same thing; but somehow we never seemed to know them, and they, in turn, knew very few of us by name. It was when we settled down in Egypt that we first began to know them, and to appreciate their work. And since Cairo has the reputation of being the wickedest city in the world, there was ample scope for the operations of the chaplains.

But one of the chaplains had adamantine ideas on theological subjects. He was a great scholar, and had other virtues, but his conscience would not let him participate in the combined services with the other ministers. So when we came away to thrash the Turk we left him behind in Egypt.

In his stead we took an Irishman—Father Bergin. He was a good sport, a good priest, brave as a lion, and with wounded soldiers gentle as a nurse. His only fault was that he always wanted to be right up in the firing line, for he dearly loved a "scrap"—being Irish. When the 5th Light Horse Regiment had their fight near Gaba Tepe, Father "Mike" was everywhere tending the wounded, and as a water-carrier he rivalled Gunga Din. Those of us who were not of the "faithful" learned to like him more and more, and if the campaign had lasted much longer I fear we would have all been "Romans."

Then there was Captain Robertson, young and quiet, and kind of heart. I don't think any of us ever saw him in a pulpit. Mostly he had to preach in tents or in the open air. I have heard him hold forth in an Anzac gully, with the shells bursting overhead. Again, I have sat at his feet right in the support trenches, just behind the firing-line, while his sentences were punctuated by the report of snipers' rifles. He used to dwell on "historic associations." He told us that our feet had trod the same streets and fields as Moses and Aaron and Pharaoh, Joseph and Mary, the Apostle Paul, Antony and Cleopatra, Helen of Troy, Mahomet Ali, Napoleon and Byron, and a host of others. His forte, however, was not preaching, but practising. He practised most of the Christian virtues. He was the soldiers' friend, and when we'd sit and smoke and yarn round the camp fire at night, and some one swore inadvertently, he was not righteous overmuch.

Our third padre, the Senior Chaplain of the Brigade, was Captain Keith Miller. As the Americans say, he was "some preacher." At Ma'adi we used to have the big tent packed with 2,000 soldiers. Visitors from Cairo and beyond used to go from our services as much impressed with the preacher as with the physique and bearing of the Light Horsemen. Sermon-tasters from St. Andrew's, Cairo, nodded their heads in grave approval. Elders, with an air of finality, said, "Yon's a fine deliverance"; and other elders answered "Aye." The padre's final oration and peroration before we left for the front won the special commendation of General Birdwood, who was present. I forget now what the sermon was about—but I know I wanted to cheer at the end of it.

On one of the Turkish prisoners captured, we found a copy of a divisional order, in which the O.C. stated:—"I have many times been round the fire trenches, but have never met any Imam. I lately gave an order that Imams were to be constantly in the trenches, in order to keep up the morale of the men by preaching and exhorting; and whenever possible men should be assembled for prayer, and the call for prayer should be cried by a fine-voiced Imam."

Now, it is pleasing to record that no such order was necessary in the ranks of the Australian division. Our chaplains since the memorable day of the landing played their part manfully in the great game. McKenzie of the Salvation Army was real grit; one of the finest of our militant Churchmen. They were in the trenches day and night, talking with the men, writing letters home to their people, visiting the sick; and every man in our brigade was supplied with a neat little pocket Testament by a friend of the New South Wales Auxiliary of the British and Foreign Bible Society. And on Sundays there were services in all the brigades—in the gullies, or under the crests of the hills behind the firing line. And sometimes we couldn't hear the singing because of the cannons' roar; there was not one solitary spot in Anzac absolutely safe from the enemy's fire. And yet I have never heard of any soldier being wounded at any of these services! Once Padre Miller was conducting a service in Shrapnel Valley, and had finished his firstly, secondly, and thirdly, and was just coming to the peroration, when shrapnel shells burst overhead. So the service had to be abandoned. That was a "sair" trial to the "Meenister."

Yet, in spite of his many estimable qualities, I regret to state that Padre Miller had one besetting sin. It was a secret sin. Only a few of us knew of his weakness. He played chess. Yes, played chess over and over and over again. When in Cairo others of us would play tennis, he would slink away with some old crony and play chess. I have known him play till two o'clock in the morning at a game. (There is no doubt about the hour, because he called for me on the way back to camp.) He was often late at mess, playing chess. He scarce had time to dress, playing chess. Admittedly he played well, and after defeating the Ma'adi champions he sought fresh victims in Cairo. The Scotch engineer on the transport was a fine player, but he couldn't checkmate the padre.

When we landed in Gallipoli the first thing the padre did was to dig a dug-out. The second was to seek a chess-mate. There was no chessboard, so he got the lid of a box. There were no chessmen, so he carved Queens and Bishops and Knights and Pawns out of the flotsam and jetsam on Anzac Beach. Then, safely ensconced in a snug little dug-out, the padre and his mate stalemated and checkmated to their hearts' content, oblivious of the shells which burst around. Immediately after his tour of the trenches, and his visit to the sick, the padre would make for his chess-mate.

Later on we found him making periodical visits to the hospital ship. I admit he religiously did the rounds of the wards, and looked after the wounded, and I frankly admit that I went on board to see the nurses, but I'm positive the driving force behind the padre's visits was the prospect of a game of chess with the skipper.

After a few months on Gallipoli the Padre was transferred to the hospital at Lemnos. We all sympathized with him, stuck at the base, and missing all the fun of the fighting. Then we heard that the M.O. at the hospital was a great chess-player, and we knew that the Padre never deserved our sympathy.