15 ~ At the Chaplain School, Fort Devens
We arrived in Worcester, Massachusetts, about 4:30 p.m. I inquired as to how far it was to Ayers, the place where I was to go to get to Fort Devens. They told me it was about an hour’s drive on the bus. I was dead tired and hadn’t had a bath since I left home, so I decided a good night’s rest and a bath would be just what I needed. I headed to the hotel, which was across the street from the train depot and got a room for the night. I had the luxury of a nice tub bath and shower. From this hotel I wrote my wife saying, “As I look out the window on this large city I see the dusty, dirty old buildings that are typical from Chicago to New York; when I observe the smoke it seems that I am in a foreign country more than in America. These are strange sights to me, and I am making the most of them.”
Feeling refreshed after a night’s rest, I caught a bus for Ayer, Massachusetts. Arriving there, I caught a taxi out to Fort Devens. Fort Devens was a big, big place for a small preacher from Texas. It covered 46 square miles and included several small towns. It was a very beautiful place with lakes and some beautiful brick buildings, ordinary barracks, a naval flying base, and many other things I was to discover while I was there. I was assigned to the Chaplain School, Section Three. I was really in the Army and was to be busy as I could be for the next five or six weeks.
I arrived at the Chaplain School headquarters, signed in, waited about an hour, and then began to be processed. I discovered that being processed meant that I would be signing and filling out applications much as one would fill them out in the beginning of the school year. I then had to go to the building officer and get assigned a barracks and a bed. I discovered the beds had two decks, and as luck would have it, I was assigned to an upper berth. However it seemed as good as a lower; both had their advantages and disadvantages.
In my early experiences at the Chaplain School I met several chaplains, but only one from Texas. I met him just after signing up. His name was Norman Gilbert. He had pastored at the Memorial Baptist Church in Corsicana at the same time I pastored in the same association at Angus Baptist Church. The school was made up of about 150 chaplains, and I was assigned to the upstairs barracks that housed thirty-eight. We were situated on a high hill overlooking a lake. After the experience of lugging my baggage up the stairs, I began to meet the fellows around me. I discovered that the preacher in the lower bunk was a Lutheran. In the neighboring bunk from me were a Methodist and a Presbyterian. All of these seemed to be fine gentlemen, and I looked forward to working with them.
When I had my first mess call I found it quite different from civilian restaurants. We called it mess hall. We lined up and got a tray. The food was dished out to us in cafeteria style. It was plenty of food and the army made it as tasty as they could. They lectured to us and made us understand that while we were here in chaplain school our rank didn’t amount to anything. They reminded us over and over again that we were rookies and must undergo the same training that the GI’s got, except for rifle training. Chaplains were not expected to carry guns, but they were expected to march, go on night patrols, and crawl under real live fire just like the regular soldier. Being spoiled all my life as far as house work was concerned, I soon discovered that they expected me to make up my own bed and to keep our floors clean. They told us that we had to buy a pair of GI shoes for marching. I found this smart because I wore out a pair during the five weeks I was there. We needed leggings and coveralls and thick socks, a footlocker to put our things in, and a field jacket because they told us it got cold in the mornings there. Then I was issued three army blankets, a gas mask, four sheets, and two pillow cases.
After this we were given our schedule. I found it to be very interesting. At 5:30 in the morning we were expected to get up at the sound of the bugle call and to dress. At 5:50 we were expected to be outside the barracks and stand inspection outside the barracks. That left us, after our inspection, time to go back in, shave, make the bed, and get ready for breakfast. At 6:30 we were expected to be at breakfast. Breakfast was served from 6:30 to 7:15. If you were not present at that time you did not get to eat. Then after breakfast we were expected to be in classes until 12:00. At 12:00 we were able to go to lunch from 12:00 to 12:45, and if we were not present we did not get to eat. Then we were in classes from 1:00 to 2:00. From 2:00 until 6:00 we had the marching drills, and I discovered that since this was the first Chaplain School away from Harvard, they made up for it by giving us the real “G.I. Treatment.” From 6:00 to 6:45 we had dinner. Of course being from Texas it was supper to me, and after that we had classes until 10:30 in the evening, except on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays, at which time they told us we could leave the post if we would be back by twelve midnight.
As you may observe, I was getting a full schedule and learning what Army life was like. On Saturdays our commanding officer came to the barracks for our inspection. Inspection meant that we had to have the floors clean, our beds made up, and the blankets so tight you could drop a quarter on it and it would bounce. We had to stand beside our footlocker, being sure that everything in the footlocker was neat and in its place. How humiliating it was for me who had been petted and pampered all my life! My mother had to pick up after me, and so did my wife. But these Saturday-morning inspections were good for me; before I knew it I had fallen in line and learned how to make a bed and keep my things in proper order.
These days would have been difficult indeed if I did not have an opportunity to have a break. Fortunately, each weekend I managed to go into Boston, and what a great time I had! The first thing I did was to get on a tour bus and learn some things about Boston. We had a tour guide with a good sense of humor. When he took us by one of the old cemeteries, he said one of the inscriptions on the headstone was: As you are now / So once was I / So follow me and / Prepare to die. He said a Harvard student once slipped into the cemetery and wrote on the tombstone, To follow you / I am not content / Until I know / Which way you went.
Later, what a delight it was for me to go back to Copley Square! I read that it was considered one of the finest municipal squares in the country. The Copley Plaza had been New England’s distinctive society hotel for twenty years, but the thing that pleased me most in Copley Square was the Boston Public Library. This is the place that my professor at Baylor University, Dr. A. J. Armstrong, had spoken so often about, for there were John Singer Sargent’s murals of The Triumph of Religion, including some remarkable friezes of Adam and Eve, the Passion, angels, and The Prophets.
Then I learned that the U.S.S. Constitution, or “Old Ironsides,” the famous warship, was stationed at Boston, and I made my way to see it. There was a special reason: when I was in Bonner School in Tyler, Texas, word came to the students that they were about to do away with “Old Ironsides.” The public school children were given an opportunity to give their nickels and dimes and pennies to “Old Ironsides.” So I felt that since I had a part in saving the ship it would be a wonderful experience to stand on its deck. The experience linked the present to a very happy past.
Of course, no visit to Boston is complete unless you have seen Paul Revere’s house, the oldest house in the city of Boston, which was built in 1660 and purchased by Paul Revere in 1770, where he resided until 1800. Then there was Faneuil Hall, affectionately called the “Cradle of Liberty.” Faneuil Hall was built in 1742 by Peter Faneuil and given to Boston as a town hall. Burned in 1761 and rebuilt in 1763, it was the focus of the revolutionary movement in Boston and the colonies. I was pleased to visit the Old State House and see the balcony where George Washington delivered his farewell address to the Continental Army.
One weekend I thought I would return to Boston and have the usual experience. This is how I described a trip to my wife in a letter:
We completed the day Saturday with exercise and drill the competence time on the chart. After we had seen two movies, Prelude to War, a film giving the background of why we were fighting, and For God and Country, a film dealing with the actual work of the chaplain in this war, we came back to the barracks. I took a bath, shaved, and then called a taxi for Ayer–fifteen cents with five or more persons in the taxi. And I bought a round trip ticket to Boston, thirty-five miles from Ayer, which costs one dollar, round trip. It was about 4:30 by this time, and I arrived in Boston about 5:30. It’s an old, old city and looks just as old as it is. Cultured to the core. They speak a little differently from the way they do in Texas.
Well, I thought I could just look around and find a room in a fairly good hotel and spend the night, but I was definitely wrong. Boston on ordinary weekends, as I understand, fairly overflows with sailors and Army men, and for my trip little did I realize I had chosen a Labor Day weekend. The crowds were there for Labor Day, and not a room could be found in Boston. This didn’t excite me much at first, for I continued along taking in the sights and asking for a room every now and then, and was not much disappointed when I did not find one–and besides there were sights to see just up ahead. This continued without exception until ten o’clock–no room, eleven p.m.–no room, twelve p.m.–no room. Well I began to worry then, but no room could be found. Finally at 2 o’clock in the morning, weary and worn but happy over the wonderful sights of Boston, I decided to take the next course: go back to the train station and sleep on the bench until morning, and then continue my visit.
This I did but found the benches in the station pretty well taken up by service men, and here something wonderful happened. A young taxi driver no doubt seeing my silver crosses on my uniform said ‘Chaplain, don’t you have a place to sleep?’ And when he heard that I did not, he said, ‘I have two rooms in my apartment, and you are welcome to use one of them. I shall not be in until six o’clock in the morning.’ Well, at first I hesitated about taking him up, but with his insistence and the feeling of the throbbing in my feet, I decided it was a good deal, and I accepted. He took me to his apartment in his taxi and would not let me pay him for the trip. His name was John Hamilton, and on entering his apartment I realized what a good Christian environment the Lord had allowed me to have for the rest of the night. For on the wall was a motto with my favorite scripture, ‘My grace is sufficient for you’ and stacked around were religious books all over the place. He began to talk to me about his church. I found that he was an usher in a congregational church, that on Sunday, despite the fact that he worked all night, he did not go to bed, but came home and dressed and went to his church and ushered and enjoyed the sermon by his minister Dr. Harold Ockenga.
Well, to make a long story short, he left me among his books in a pleasant little apartment and he went back to work. I confess that as much as I would like to have read some of his books, I was dead tired and fell fast asleep. I did not wake until ten the next morning when the taxi cab driver reminded me that it was about time for church. His church service begins at 10:30, and Sunday school follows that at twelve. We dressed and then walked on to the church. The church we attended is one of the famous ones in New England, the Park Street Congregational Church. You can imagine how much I enjoyed the service when you realize its historical significance.
The whole city fairly breathes with history. The young taxi driver pulled a good one, I thought, in describing the city. He said, “Boston has no present, no prospect of a future, therefore she lives in her past.” How true that seemed to be. I worshiped in this [Park Street] Church, which is associated in history with the War of 1812. For here gunpowder was stored and the name Brimstone Corner was given to this locality. I am told that it used to be famous for its great discussions on hell fire. It is said that the immortal Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes at one time in one of his speeches in the church said that the corner had so many “Hellfire and Brimstone” sermons that this congregation sifted the air for brimstone. Thus they could use it to store brimstone in the War of 1812. In the same church on July 4, 1832, [Samuel Francis Smith's] hymn “America” [The one that begins, "My Country, 'tis of Thee . . .] was first sung. Don’t you think this was a wonderful experience? It was a wonderful experience!
And may I add another post script to my experience? Twenty-five years later, one of my deacons flew Mrs. Morris and me back to Boston. I wanted her to see some of the sights that I had seen. On Sunday we went back to this same church, Park Street Congregational church. Imagine my surprise when I learned that the same pastor, Dr. Harold Ockenga, was the visiting preacher on that particular morning. After the service I wanted my wife to meet the pastor; we walked down the aisle. I introduced him to Faye and mentioned the fact that a young taxi driver had allowed me to spend the night in his home, in his apartment, and then brought me to visit his church twenty-five years before. Immediately the pastor said ‘Why that was John Hamilton! Let me tell you about him. He was a devout Communist until one Saturday night we were having our Saturday night services on the Boston Common and John Hamilton was converted. He became a dedicated Christian and an anti-communist. In fact, he has just recently moved from Boston to the Chicago area where he is involved in an anti communist organization.”
On one occasion I found that a wagon pulled by two horses offered a tour of Boston for two dollars. Therefore I reserved a seat on the wagon, went to lunch, and came back to board the wagon. The tour began in front of the Boston Public Library on Copley Square. From an artistic point of view the architectural splendor of the square is unsurpassed in the country. On the south side and east corner of the square are two of the finest hotels in the city. The Copley Plaza–I refreshed myself here at the noon hour and lounged in their mammoth lobby. An interesting thing occurred while I was in the hotel. I asked one of the men employed there if they had a men’s restroom. He didn’t know what I was talking about. Finally it dawned on him, ‘Oh you mean the gentlemen’s room. That’s what they call it here. Always. It is either a gentlemen’s room or a men’s room. Never anything else!”
The other hotel is the Westminster. At the Northwest corner of the square was the New Old South Congregational Church, and on the East side, facing the library, Trinity Church. It is considered to be one of the finest examples of ecclesiastical architecture in New England. It was the most beautiful sight I found in a church, it sparkled with beauty. There the famous Phillips Brooks, of whom I have read so much, was once the pastor. He wrote the hymn, “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” There is a large statue of him in front of the church.
My visits to Boston gave me a nice change of scenery from what the experiences of the Army camp. The final exams for the Army chaplain were a real testing time. For weeks we had heard rumors about how we had to crawl on our stomachs. I am reminded of the little poem ‘Satan trembles when he sees the weakest Christian on his knees.’ And I wondered what he would do if he saw all of the chaplains on their stomachs. It was Napoleon who said, An army travels on its stomach. And so on the occasion of our final exams we had to crawl on our stomachs under live tracer bullets whizzing by our heads. When we experienced it, it was not near as bad as the gossip we had heard around the barracks. Some were saying the last class that went through there was a man who didn’t keep his head down and he was killed on the course. Others told of the snake that had bitten one of the soldiers.
Regardless of the stories we had heard, we had to face up to our final exams. Perhaps it is best for me to read what the paper said. The local paper reported it in this fashion,
Final exams for army chaplains simulate real battle condition. [Title of article] 150 Army chaplains, students at the Army Chaplain School took their final examination here this week, preparatory to graduating next Wednesday. For the men who had spent years in scholastic pursuit, it was the toughest exams that they had ever taken. Performed under the most adverse circumstances, this time they weren’t in a class room. They were flat on Mother Earth, crawling desperately ahead under a vicious blanket of machine gun crossfire, with the Earth shaking under them. Geysers of earth ascending with sporadic ear-splitting explosions about them. These chaplains were going through the Infiltration Course at this fort that has indoctrinated thousands of men into actual conditions and sounds of battle. It was their baptism of fire, a prelude of things to come. Toughest exam of all. It was the toughest exam they had ever run into simply because the things they learned crawling under the barbed wire of the course would be the difference between life and death when in battle overseas. And if they didn’t know their lessons the chances were they would never finish the course without injury let alone survive to get overseas. To pass the exam the chaplains had to crawl, climb, jump, hurdle, and every other verb of motion over a rough and hazardous obstacle course that precedes the infiltration course. They started bunched up on the road each with a disquieting feeling as to what lay ahead.
The newspaper account continued,
Whatever uneasiness prevailed, it was soon dispelled, for Colonel Howell M. Estes, post commander, addressed the group, explaining in detail the simple rules one had to follow–that the only danger of injury is panic. Once assured, the chaplains started out like a bunch of school kids impatient to be over the course. They were held up by barbed wire entanglements. And the general run of conversation was, “Hurry up, Collins, we haven’t all day!” And the man who said that went under the wire, realized what took Collins so long. After hurdling or bypassing as some did all of the obstacles, the chaplains crawled into the long, narrow trench that led to the start of the Infiltration Course. There they received further instructions. They were to start crawling once the machine guns opened fire, keep their heads and the rest of them down or else. From their end it was bite dirt, eat it, and hug it. No incidents marred the chaplains’ performance on the course. Actually, they managed to go through faster and more orderly than the previous group. Officers and some enlisted men passed the compliment that [their performance] may have been due to the greatest peace of mind peculiar to clergy men. Paradoxically, the indoctrination of fire was not an indoctrination for some of the chaplains, for more than a half a dozen of them are veterans of overseas service–men who have been under enemy fire. One other fact made the chaplains stand above the many soldiers who have gone through the course in recent months here. Usually, as soldiers leave the final trench with a yell, a great many denunciatory expletives can be distinguished, to put it nicely. Not so among the chaplains; they have amazing will power.