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"The Absent Ones"
By DOROTHY BERNARD
The French have a word for it. The word isn't P.O.W.
It translates into a poignant phrase:
"The Absent- Ones."
That phrase has an identical meaning. And we read
that France had expected her released prisoners of war
to return* in rivulets; the Allied advance into Germany
proved so rapid that they arrived in torrents. They came
home by truck, on foot, by 'plane.
I
T has taken longer for our
own P.O.W.'s to sight Australian
* shores again. But
they are coming . . . coming . . .
coming all the time. Boats are
racing them back, breaking new
records to bring joy nearer.
P.O.W.'s have Priority No. 1,
and no effort is spared on their
behalf.
•A house at the end of our
street has had "An Absent One"
for years. He said good-bye,
and, shortly afterwards, fell
silent. No word came through.
He was P.O.W. Would they
ever again see their "Absent
One'"! There seemed no telling
—but faith, hope and love remained.
The years were hard
and sad for a mother who remembered
a fair-haired lad who
had played at soldiers not so
long ago, winning every battle.
The warfare was in earnest now.
Had he 'won the last battle of
all?
She knows the answer now.
After this week, her "Absent
One" won't be absent any more.
He is coming home. Already
the flags are out, a gay, triumphant
bunting, with a streamer
that says "Welcome HomeHe
is not expected to-day, to-morrow,
nor the next day—yet certainly
within the week. And,
after all the years of waiting,
joy may come with a rush at the
last. They are trying so hard
to get them home ahead of time,
and, with so long in which to
plan, in wistful hope, for this
wondrous moment, how could
one let it come upon one unawares?
They are not preparing anything
lavish at that house just
down the street. But they havesmartened
up his dog, short only
of shampoo and set, and the
newest puppy is on the lookout,
too. Love is the principal
plank of their plan. They have
a fair idea of what he will want,
because they- know . how it has
been with those other mothers'
sons who have already returned.
"What bit of home meant most
to you, when you thought of it
in camp?" was question put to
one.
"I used to long to walk right
into this kitchen and get myself
a drink of water from the tap,"'
came his answer pat.
Another lad, in the days before
the ' war, had driven grocer's delivery cart through a
pleasant Australian country
town. He went away, and they
gave him an Army truck to drive
through Greece. On his last trip,
he didn't reach the coast in time.
When he came back, after years
of captivity, he was nervous of
meeting all "the folk" at once.
So his mother and father took
him with them for a holiday by
the sea. I met them at a guesthouse
there. He was a fine, up-,
standing lad, and the years of
hardship hadn't taken away his
friendly smile, although the
father said that smile was slower
than in pre-P.O.W. days and his
speech less ready. He told you
this as well:
"My boy never set out on hi6
round without taking a big bag
of sweets for children he met
on the way."
One remembered that story
when, a few days later, a very
small boy arrived with his
mother. It so happened he was.
the only child in the house, but
he wasn't lonely long.
"Come down the street with
me?" said the quiet soldier to
him soon.
An 6ager hand went out, and
the two boys strolled off together.
They returned, after a leisurely
interval, the smaller of them
proudly clasping a-toy yacht.
"The soldier boy gave it to
me!" said the six-year-old to his
mother.
That particular time of day
was "off-season" for the bathroom,
and there the yacht presently
made her maiden voyage,
guided by a captain and first
mate who simply loved their job.
Which face looked younger then?
That which had placidly passed
six pleasant suiwners; or that
which, for the last six of its
twenty-six, had looked at death
and danger open-eyed? It was
hard to decide: simplicity makes
short work of time.
Last Sunday I met a doctor
P.O.W., who had been back in
Australia for less than thirty-six
hours. One of his very first
calls was to a home where he
remembered well that "love and
friendship dwelt." Quiet and
smiling, his whole bearing somehow
recalled that phrase: "My
soul is in my hands." His words
confirmed this first impression:
"Oh, it wasn't too bad. Certainly,
they did their best to
humiliate us, but then—one
always had one's faith."
Faith brings freedom—even
within prison bars. In peacetime,
he had been a daily Communicant.
During his long
bodily captivity, this doctor's
soul had savoured the perfect
freedom of God's grace and
love. He was content.
Others there are to-day who
know sore need of faith. Their
comfort lies in lines like these:
"God's arms are around the undying
dead
Who serve Him."
Those words were written by
someone who shared a sorrow
such as theirs—Walter Sichel.
They are taken from his Elegy
in honour of his elder son, killed
in battle during the last war.
Not every soldier survives the
battle or the prison-camp. They
do not all make a return journey
to their homeland. Day
after day, during these closing
months of 1945, anxious eyes
scan the lists of freed prisoners,
searching for a loved name they
may never, never find. And,
all the ^ime, in those self-same
papers, they glimpse pictures of
joyous reunions: wives and
mothers, long left lonely, enfolded
once again in the strong
arms of "Absent Ones" who
have at last come home.
Fiances are together again, ready
to face the future in mutual
love and trust. But what does
the future hold for them? Every
day it seems more sure that their
man has given his life. No
prisoij camp has so far disclosed
his whereabouts. Where, oh
where, is he? Faith finds the
simple answer:
"God's arms are around the undying
dead
Who serve Him"
There is no death—only a new
life, lived nearer God, within
His very arms. Enfolded, too,
in those tender arms are those
who serve Him still on earth, so
that the whole family is truly
together in Christ, No earthly
photograph could capture the unfading
beauty of that scene, or
picture felicity that will endure
throughout Heaven's eternity.
But not every' prisoner has
been freed. True, earth's
"Absent Ones" and P.O.W.'s
were quickly succoured once the
opportunity arose. Indeed, the
greatest grief of those whose
loved ones were recently held
P.O.W. seems to have been this:
no effort of theirs could lessen
their sufferings or hasten their
homecoming. There was nothing
for it but to wait.
Strangely enough, the "forgotten
prisoners" are in far different
case. At any moment of their
long captivity, those who wished
them well could have afforded
them relief. 'Planes and ships
are not needed between Purgatory
and Heaven—prayer provides
the passage. No effort has
been spared to secure speedy
liberation for our prisoners in
this war. Must the prisoners of
Purgatory alone be left unaided?
What disappointment there
would be in that house just
down the street if their "Absent
One," who is so eagerly awaited,
were to return not this week or
the next . . . this mohth or the
next .• . . this year or the next
—or for many years! How
tediously, too, for him would
pass slow-footed time.
Heaven is waiting for her
"Absent Ones" — particularly
now that November has come
round again. Their "Welcome
Home" is ready. On earth, who
could deliberately disappoint a
prisoner's hopeful anticipation?
"The Allied advance proved so
rapid that they arrived in torrents."
Those prisoners have
been trickling home to Heaven
in rivulets long enough. Now is
the time for the Church Militant
to come to the aid of the
Church Suffering, in a true
Allied advance. To free the
prisoners of Purgatory is fitting
thanksgiving for "the safe return
of our own freed prisoners.
It will do greater honour to our
dead than composing the most
sublime Elegy. Our high privilege
it is to make the poet's
words come fully true:
"God's arms are around the undying
dead
Who serve Him."
Let "The Absent Ones"
find home in Heaven this
November
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