by Francis Gough

The article which follows is an unashamed and very moving piece of nostalgia which reflects the centrality of the Tridentine Mass in the lives of Catholics born and raised in the years prior to Vatican II. It certainly reflects the universal appeal of the traditional Mass. Perhaps other readers have memories they would like to share with us?

I WAS READING one day about a parish in North Pembrokeshire where the faithful attended Mass in a loft because their church was in the process of being built, and it reminded me of the many unusual places at which I, too, had attended Mass—some very far removed from the formal atmosphere we enjoy today.

I remember, as a boy, serving Mass at the historic altar in the small room we used to call the Museum at St. Edmund's College at Ware. This altar was so constructed that it could be changed into a convincing imitation of a bookcase in a matter of seconds. During the Reformation it had been used by priests who had to be ever on the look-out for the arrival of the priest hunters. To bring home the stark reality of those days, close behind where I knelt, was the battered leaden coffin in which was discovered the body of St. John Southworth, the martyr. It was not too difficult to imagine the Saint saying Mass at just such an altar.

But it was during the war years that Mass had to be celebrated in the most unusual places, in fact, anywhere it was possible, provided there was a flat surface.

During the early days of 1939 I was attached to an Army hospital at Aldershot, and our Sunday Mass was said in the dining hall. After breakfast was over and the crumbs and spilt tea had been removed from the tables, we would select the best one we could find, place it at the end of the room and there Mass would be said. Afterwards, we would return it to circulation.

Later on, before we moved overseas, we were stationed on a large country estate. There our Padre had to say Mass in a small space under the stairs at the top of the mansion. There was little room, even to change the Missal from one side of the altar to the other—a distance of about two feet—let alone accommodate the congreation, who had to kneel along the passage outside. I sometimes wonder what that space is used for now, probably a broom cupboard, but however unimportant it may be it can certainly boast that it once "had its hour."

Serving Mass at sea can at times be a hazardous experience, especially when the weather is rough. On the day before we invaded Algeria we heard Mass in the ship's restaurant. There was quite a swell on the sea and every now and then the priest had to steady himself by clutching the altar for support. It was a strange sight to see priest, server and congregation swaying to the movement of the boat. The priest preached a sermon at the Mass, telling us that as we were going into action the next day we would do well to examine our consciences. His words came back to me three weeks later as I climbed a hill with the same priest up to the Basilica of St. Augustine in Bone to serve his Mass for the souls of sixty-one of our men who had been killed in a raid the night before.

On Christmas Eve 1942, a few of us attended Midnight Mass in a bell tent in a field hospital in Zarizar. I can remember kneeling on the muddy floor, feeling the dampness on my knees coming through my trousers and thinking back to those pre-war days on Christmas Eve when, with the full choir singing, "Come to the Manger," we would walk in procession between pews packed with people, to the crib, the church ablaze with light. How different now, with only the light of a hurricane lamp hanging from the tent-pole casting long, dark shadows on the wall, the priest in his badly creased vestments, saying Mass at a little table. The only sound to break the silence of the night was the flapping of the canvas in the breeze. Indeed, it was only the occasional ringing of the Mass bell which had any similarlity with that other world so far apart—that and the tremendous reality of the Mass itself.

Sometimes we went weeks without hearing Mass or receiving Holy Communion when there was no "Padre" attached to our unit, as was often the case. On one such occasion we were out of the line, and resting in a field, when I was told there was a Roman Catholic priest attached to the unit next to us, so I went to find him. He was standing in the middle of the field, saying his Office. All around were groups of soldiers. I approached him and asked if he would hear my confession. He said that he would and that we could do it walking along. So priest and penitent strolled in and out of the groups of men, some playing cards, some writing home. When he had given me absolution I asked if it were possible for me to receive Holy Communion; he told me he always carried the Blessed Sacrament with him so I knelt down then and there and received It. I did not say good-bye, but walked back to my unit, saying my thanksgiving as I went. I never saw him again as we moved out next morning, back up the line.

ANOTHER unusual incident occurred when I was delivering a message to another unit. Having just a few minutes to spare, I wandered into a nearby wood. Hearing a distant muttering I became curious and, following the sound, I came upon a clearing where I discovered a priest saying Mass. He was alone—no server or congregation, just the birds of the forest as his witnesses, his little altar propped against a tree. He was vested in thin utility vestments that field Padres wore. He was one of those priests who recite the prayers in a loud voice, accompanied by large, expansive gestures. As I approached he swung round, spreading his arms wide apart and said, "Dominus vobiscum," his voice echoing through the forest. Instinctively I answered, "Et cum spiritu tuo." For just one second he seemed to lose his composure at the unexpected response but almost immediately pulled himself back together, turned back to the altar and continued Mass. I would have given anything to have stayed and served for him, but time would not allow. Reluctantly I hurried away with his strong, resonant voice getting fainter as I retraced my steps back to the lorry. The last words I heard were, "Lavabo inter innocentes manus meas," and then they were lost altogether in the thickness of the forest.

We were fortunate then in having the Latin Tridentine Mass still with us. No matter which country we were in we could enter a church and hear Mass, knowing it would be said in the same language and performed in the same way as it was at home. We were witnessing the great outward sign of the universality of the Church, an experience sadly lost to us today, pray God not forever! In no way was this universality displayed so vividly as one Sunday in the little town of Setif in North Africa, in the Atlas Mountains. I happened to attend a Mass said by the local French priest. The congregation consisted of British, French, Polish and Christian Arab troops, as well as German and Italian prisoners of war. At least six different nationalities were present—neither able to speak the others' language—yet all united as one in the familiar form and language of the Mass. I often think it is so tragic today, when travel is made so much easier and the world so much smaller, that we have had the familiar Latin Tridentine Mass taken from us just when it is needed most, leaving us rather like a Tower of Babel, split apart and all going our separate ways.

On many occasions I served or attended Mass said by Fr. Dan Kelleher, M.C., Chaplain to the Irish Brigade. He was a fine priest and a man of indomitable courage whose motto was "Put your trust in God." What is more, he lived up to it, for in the height of battle he would be seen with his walking stick in hand, his corpin set at a jaunty angle on his head, strolling from one position to another, giving comfort to the wounded and consolation to the dying, completely oblivious to the flying steel around him. On one occasion he was discovered walking unconcerned through a minefield. It was only after frantic persuasion that he stopped to allow a pathway to be swept for him. He seemed to lead a charmed life, yet, ironically, after coming through all this, he lost his life in a car accident just after the war was over.

Looking back on those troubled times one realizes how much the Mass meant to us and what consolation it brought, yet when things returned to normal we tended to grow careless. It was Father Kelleher, I think, who put it in a nutshell. He was preaching to the troops one day on this very subject, and I can see him now with his eyes closed as was his wont when speaking. "When things are bad," he said, "and you are up the line you go out of your way to find me and make your peace with God. But when you are out of danger I never see you at all. Believe me," he said, raising his voice, "if it takes a good 'helty' shell to bring you to the Sacraments, then it is a gift from God," adding with a faint smile, "even if it does come from a German '88'."