The Padre of the Atolls

Editor: This true story was originally published in the La Salette magazine, Our Lady’s Missionary in April, 1944. Please read the unaltered text, realizing it needs “editing” due to our present-day sensitivities. It is republished here in honor of the many La Salette Missionaries around the world who served valiantly as Chaplains in many wars for many countries and the soldiers in arms.

The scene could have been almost anywhere on the Pacific Fighting Front of World War II. It happened to be on a coral reef in the Marshalls of the Central Pacific. . .

From the beginning it must be said that the “Padre” was dead. He had died like... but wait, let’s not get ahead of the story. You see, the “Padre” was our Chaplain. He had “fathered” us across the Pacific through thick and thin. He got so that he knew every one of us as though we were his own sons. And we, like sons, loved him as a father.Lt. Alexander Bonnyman and his assault party storming a Japanese stronghold on Nov. 20-23, 1943 on Betio Island, Tarawa Atoll, Gilbert Islands (now part of Kiribati); photo: WO Obie Newcomb, Jr.

And now we were smoothing the white sand over where he rested. Strong men wept, hardened marines, unashamed, had tears trickling down their bronze faces. We had just finished erecting the rows of white crosses that rested on the men who reached the beach, but not a step farther in this world. Most of them were called to their Maker while wading through the so-called “Suicide Stretch,” that half-and-half area between the transport and the beach.

It was while we were in this stretch that the soprano whine of Jap bullets was at its highest pitch, and casualties were at their heaviest. It was over with now. The Japs were mopped up in fine style. But this was the hardest, bitterest part of the battle — burying your buddies... and now the “Padre.” The C.O. said the prayers as best he knew how. It was strange having someone else taking over the “Padre’s” job.

At Tarawa and Makin, hearing the story of Christ’s passion

At Tarawa  and Makin things were different. The losses were terrific, but the “Padre” had a way of easing the sorrow. There was a certain quiet courage about him that captured our admiration and confidence as we watched him perform. A sort of subdued dynamite was in his veins — or as one Marine described it: “He certainly was worthy of the cross he wore on his shoulder.” And now we had placed a white one on his breast. Some day we would return to build a fitting shrine to his memory.

Soldiers of the U.S. Army's 2nd Battalion, 165th Infantry, struggle to shore on Yellow Beach on Butaritari Island during the Battle of Makin; photo: GdrWhen the “Padre” used to speak in his controlled way, he commanded the attention of hardened sergeants as well as starry-eyed privates. At Tarawa and Makin he was there beside us and his presence did something to us. He would speak with so much conviction and feeling about Christ... how He suffered all the pains of heart and body that we were going through — and more... how He was made to die in deepest disgrace on a painful cross, not for any crimes that were His, but for each and every one of us... and how each and every Marine who had died unafraid with Christ by his side really stole his way into Heaven just like the good thief on Calvary.

The story of Calvary was different when the “Padre” told it. He seemed to live it. It really was something to see the rapt attention on those faces as every word went home. Somehow we liked being compared to the Good Thief — there was a certain comforting thought about “today thou shalt be with Me in Paradise.”

Before taking this last atoll, most of the men had seen the “Padre,” received a word of encouragement, a blessing, and, above all, the consoling words of absolution over our bent heads. After that we no longer seemed to be afraid. We had that pre-battle tenseness and nervousness, of course, but there was a certain peace in our souls — the resignation, the “Padre” used to speak about. If our name was on the bullet, we were going to be there; and as long as we were going to be present, there was nothing like being prepared.

We took the atoll easy enough. The Navy big guns pumped huge shells into the reel. When they lay down a barrage, it’s like the infernal regions breaking loose. We had heard and seen it many times before, but it’s something you never get used to, or ever forget. Your blood seems to freeze over and cease circulating. You maneuver around on pure “guts.” You discover that you can’t think straight any more. All your thinking was done before the big guns opened up.

It was H-Hour— the beginning of combat action

It was H-hour minus forty-five minutes and that meant they were getting ready to lower the landing craft. At H-hour minus thirty-five minutes we would scramble into the boats and be swung out into the drink. We waited tensely for the signal.

Then a peculiar thing happened. One of the corporals broke ranks, pushed his way through the crowd until he got back where the “Padre” stood. He wasn’t really scared. In fact most of us thought he had forgotten to tell the “Padre” to drop a line to his mother or someone. The “Padre” was a great hand at letter writing. This corporal, though, was a funny fellow. He had some strange slants on things, especially religion. For the “Padre” he had the greatest respect, but as far as his “religious stuff” went, well, that was milk mush for women and children, not the diet of men, least of all Marines.

The Crucifix

Now the “Padre” was never one for forcing his views on anyone. He left all the “forcing” up to God. But apparently God had decided to take a hand in this, because the corporal didn’t go back to ask the “Padre” to write a letter at all. Some of us were near enough to hear what happened. The corporal was evidently a bit embarrassed, but the “Padre” soon put him at his ease.

“Father, would you do a fellow a favor?”

“Why, of course,” the Chaplain assured him.

“I would like to look at your crucifix.”

The “Padre,” not a bit phased, as though he were expecting him to say those exact words, produced his crucifix for the corporal's inspection. The corporal took it in his hands lovingly and gazed intently on the figure of Christ as though he were seeing it for the first time. Tears were in his eyes. The “Padre” was so struck by the Marine’s evident sincerity, and seeing him so moved, said: “Corporal, you keep the crucifix. Take it with you.” And then, half-jokingly, he added: “But be sure not to lose it. It’s the only one on the ship.”

The corporal beamed with pleasure, tucked the crucifix under his shirt, murmured a hurried thanks, and returned to his party.

It was H-hour minus thirty-five minutes. We piled quickly into our “floating box cars.” The hottest part of the show was yet to start as we headed into “Suicide Stretch” for, the kill or be killed. We were fired on continually, but heavy Mitchells were distracting the Japs’ aim no end, what with their tree-top strafing and delayed action bombs.

Exactly on H-hour, perfectly timed, the first craft hit the shore. When four or five boats had landed on the strip, the beach suddenly opened up and the Japs came to life and poured heavy millimeter fire into us. How we fought back but glorious is now history.
Catholic Chaplain, Fr. Edouard Versailles, M.S. (1899--1985) says Mass on bed of a Jeep near a battlefield during World War II
One of the first to go down was the corporal who carried the cross. He was hit badly. You can always tell when a bullet has a name on it or not. The First Aid men came up later while firing was still going on and found him bleeding critically.
The “Padre” came in on the last boat to hit the beach. He reminded one of our Lord, standing up in the boat on the sea of Galilee. Landing on the shore, he immediately went into action. Seeing the corporal, he rushed to his side with a canteen of water.

The wounded Marine, recognizing the Chaplain, groped inside his shirt for the crucifix, and handing it back to the “Padre’' with an effort he said: “I didn't lose it Padre, did I? And now tell me what I have to do to become like the Good Thief.”

The “Padre” lost no time in telling him.

Catholic Chaplain, Fr. John Sheehan, M.S. (1911-1962), says Mass for thousands of soldiers during World War IIAnd shortly thereafter the corporal passed to his final reward in the arms of the Chaplain with all the Rites of the Church. In the light of subsequent events, the “Padre” could just as well have said “today thou shall be with me in Paradise.” For just then a Jap bullet with the “Padre’s” name on it was fired and pierced his great heart. Maybe it was our imagination, but a dead silence fell on the island for a few moments as though some dreadful tragedy had just taken place. The “Padre” went down, and lying on the cross, he died.

Then a most significant thing happened. The bullet that killed the “Padre” had gone through the canteen he held in his hand, in such fashion that it gave the effect of a mixture of blood and water flowing from the “Padre’s” heart!

Maybe we should not mention it, but the bullet with the “Padre’s” name on it was fired on Good Friday! But men like the “Padre” don’t die. Easter is coming, and then his spirit will rise gloriously and it will again march with us.

And we have a secure feeling that with our good “Padre” by our side, we can't possibly lose . . . neither here nor hereafter.