William Doyle was born in Dublin on 3 March 1873 into a hardworking middle class family. The Doyles prized virtue and high ideals more than material things and were noted for their generosity, joyfulness and deep commitment to their Catholic religion.

Willie, as he was known, combined a lively personality - much given to pranks - with great kindness. His used his wit to lift the spirits of many a downhearted friend or neighbour. As he grew up he became ever more religious, but his piety was an unpretentious and manly sort of piety, not the showy sentimental sort which seeks to attract attention.

He developed a burning love of Jesus and found himself drawn to the Jesuits. When Willie entered the Irish Jesuit novitiate in March 1891 he wrote a beautiful prayer with his own blood: "Darling Mother Mary, in preparation for the glorious martyrdom which I feel assured thou art going to obtain for me, I, thy most unworthy child, solemnly commence my life of slow martyrdom by earnest hard work and constant self-denial! Do thou, sweet mother assist me and obtain for me the one favour I wish and long for: to die a Jesuit Martyr."

William Doyle took his religious vows on the feast of the Assumption, 15 August 1893. On that day he penned a few lines in his private spiritual notebook which reveal his whole approach to his high priestly vocation: "The Jesuit without sanctity is no true son of Ignatius. O loving Saviour, I am going to become with Thy assistance a thorough Jesuit and a Great Saint."

The determination with which he pursued that goal until his death on the battlefield makes astounding reading. But he was no sentimentalist: he measured and weighed exactly what his heroic quest would cost him, and his own lack of strength.

"What would people think of me if they really knew me? My pride and desire for praise; my mean and uncharitable thoughts about others; my fear of humiliation. I deceive myself that I am pleasing God! But I will strive for a great contempt of myself, to think little of and despise myself, and pray and desire that others may do the same to me."

As time passed Willie Doyle's love for Jesus grew. He could not rest unless he was offering his Beloved some new sign of love.

For Willie that sign was prayer, self-denial and penances. The latter were countless. He would slip out at night and stand up to his neck in a freezing pond for hours. He scourged himself with a small whip, but in time this did not satisfy him. "So I made a discipline of some thorn branches with long strong thorns. Some of these must have gone in pretty deep, for in a few moments there was a pool of blood on the floor. I did not suffer much at the time, but very much for two days afterwards."

However, no long face though was ever seen on Willie Doyle! A colleague in the Society of Jesus wrote: " He was a combination of real solid piety with a truly human character, bright and joyous himself, he always made others happy."

Fr Doyle had above all to "wage an everlasting war" against his own pride. Religious obedience obliged him to write down all his penances, and the fact that another person - his spiritual director - was reading them was truly mortifying. Speaking of his self-flagellation, he wrote: "The pain of that was nothing compared to the intense humiliation of making it known."

Willie found he was literally in love with Jesus. The mere thought of Him sent his chest heaving with love until the pain in his heart became almost unbearable. "I often press my throbbing heart to the door of the tabernacle to let Him hear its beats of love, and to ease the pain of love."

His penances increased. "Jesus seems to stretch out His bleeding hands to me, imploring me for penance almost merciless in its severity."

Meanwhile, his ordinary duties meant considerable self-sacrifice. These included teaching, writing, confessions, missions and retreats. His fame as a retreat master spread so much that during the summer of 1902 over 40 religious houses in Ireland and Britain requested him to lead retreats. One grateful nun recalled: "Many of us never realised before what religious life means, but now we are going to give God everything." And a mother superior commented: "That man is a saint! The house was filled with grace after he was in it."

But nobody knew the personal price Fr Doyle had to pay. After a retreat in Newry he wrote: "For three-quarters of an hour I preached in agony, with perspiration rolling from every pore. I was not afraid of breaking down before the congregation - that would have been a relief - but the physical effort to utter every word was a torture, and the longing to come down from the pulpit was almost irresistible. Only God knows what I went through."

War swept Europe in 1914 and Fr Doyle volunteered as a front line military chaplain. By February 1916 he was with the Irish regiments in their forward

staging camps close to the front and thousands of men were beseeching spiritual help. "We are having desperate work these days," wrote Fr Doyle, "God is pouring out His grace on these poor fellows and reconciling them before they die. It has to be quick work, no time for 'trimmings'. I have a pain in my arm from giving absolution and communions. I love my brave lads like my own brothers and sisters. Yet I shall soon have to see the majority of them blown to bits, torn and mangled out of shape."

He writes that he dreaded what was to come, but his heart was "full of gratitude to Jesus for giving me this chance of being truly generous and of leading a life that will be truly crucified."

And thus it was. For the next year, until the night an exploding shell took Willie Doyle's soul to his Beloved, his life was "truly crucified." Day in, day out, he assisted the maimed and the dying and buried countless bodies.

The following is a typical extract from Fr Doyle's letters home: "I came across one young soldier horribly mutilated, all his intestines hanging out, but quite conscious and able to speak to me. He lived long enough to receive the Last Sacraments and died in peace."

His courage was legendary, and his presence inspired the soldiers. One day, during a heavy artillery barrage, he noticed that: "It was quite evident the men were rapidly becoming demoralised. Little groups were running from place to place for greater shelter and the officers seemed to have lost control." Oblivious of his own safety he walked along the line encouraging and consoling. "I was amused to see a ripple of smiles light up the terrified lads' faces as I went by. By the time I got back again the men were laughing and chatting as if all danger was miles way."

"Word reached me about midnight that a party of men had been caught by shell-fire nearly a mile away. I dashed off in the darkness as the enemy was firing gas shells. A moments pause to absolve a couple of dying men, and then I reached the groups of smashed and bleeding bodies, most of them still breathing."

"The first I saw almost unnerved me; a young soldier lying on his back, his hands and face a mass of blue phosphorous flame, smoking horribly in the darkness. The poor lad recognized me, and I anointed him on a little spot of unburnt flesh. As I hurry back I hear that two men have been hit 20 yards away. I am with them in a moment, splashing through mud and water. A quick Absolution and the Last Rites of the Church, then a flash from a gun shows me the poor boy in my arms is my own servant, a wonderfully good and pious lad."

It was on the feast of the Assumption 1917 that Father William Doyle joined the "ranks of death".

Just before he went to war, Fr Doyle had written: "I have little attraction for the hardship and suffering that life on the front would mean - however, if I get killed I shall die a martyr of charity, so the longing of my heart will be gratified."