The Sky Pilot in No Man’s Land by Ralph Connor (page 6)

“Oh, darn it, you know what I mean!”

“No, Fatty,” said the sergeant solemnly. “I don’t know what you mean, but I’ll suggest this to you, Fatty. You go down to that Pete mule, down there at the end of the line and talk to him. I guess he’ll understand you. I’m busy just now.”

“I don’t see what you’re so hot about,” said the pioneer sergeant in an aggravated voice, “but I’m going to see the boys come in anyway.”

When the distant sound of the pipes coming from the direction of the front line was heard in camp, men of the various transport lines and base units lined up to watch the battalion come in. For the rumour had run that they had had a bad go, that they had beaten back no less than three rather formidable raids of the enemy and had been badly cut up. More than that, by reason of the lack of reinforcements, they had had to do a double tour, so that they were returning from an experience of thirteen days, in what was indeed the veritable mouth of hell.

“I guess they are all pretty well all in,” said Sergeant Matthews, who, standing with his pioneers, had been carefully avoided by his friend Sergeant Mackay. That enthusiastic Scot had for the time being abandoned his transport, and was fraternising with the transport men of the Highlanders, with whom he was sure he would feel himself in more complete accord.

“Here they come, boys,” said a Scot, as the sound of the pipes grew louder. “There’s a drummer for ye. Listen ’til that double roll, wull ye?”

“Ay, Danny, the boys will be shovin’ out their chests and hitchin’ their hips about something awful.”

“Ye may say that, Hec. Will ye look at young Angus on the big drum, man, but he has got the gr-rand style on him.”

“Ay, boys, they are the la-ads,” said Sergeant Mackay, yielding to the influence of his environment and casually dropping into the cadence of the Highlanders about him, which, during his ten years in the west, his tongue had well-nigh lost. “It’s a very fine thing, your pipers are doing, playing our boys out in this way, and we won’t be forgetting that in a hurry.”

“Why for no?” enquired Hec, in surprise. “It’s the Highlanders themselves that love a bonny fighter.”

Down the road, between lines of silent men, came the pipers with waving kilts and flying tartans, swinging along in their long swaying stride, young Angus doing wonders on the big drum, with his whirling sticks, and every piper blowing his loudest, and marching his proudest. Behind them came the men of the battalion marching at attention, their colonel at their head, grave of face and steady. Behind the colonel marched Major Bayne, in place of the senior major, whom illness had prevented from accompanying the battalion on this last tour, no longer rotund and cheery as was his wont, but with face grey, serious and deep lined. After him at the head of A Company marched Captain Duff, his rugged, heavy face looking thinner and longer than its wont but even fiercer than ever. With eyes that looked straight before then, heedless of the line of silent onlookers, the men marched on, something in their set, haggard faces forbidding applause. At the rear of the column marched the chaplain alone, and every one knew that he had left up in the Salient behind him his friend and comrade, the M. O., whose place in all other marching had been at his right hand. All knew too how during this last go, in the face of death in its most terrifying form, they had carried out their wounded comrades one by one until all were brought to safety. And all knew too, how the chaplain carried with him that day a sore and lonely heart for the loss of one who was more to him than batman, and who had become his loyal and devoted friend. The chaplain’s face was gaunt and thin, with hollow cheeks, but for all that, it wore a look of serene detachment.

“Say, he looks awful tough,” said a voice in Sergeant Mackay’s ear.

Sergeant Mackay turned sharply around upon Fatty Matthews.

“Tough! Tough!” he exclaimed, with a choke in his voice. “You’re a damned liar, that’s what you are. He looks fine. He looks fine,” he added again furiously. “He looks as if hell itself couldn’t scare him.”

In the sergeant’s eyes strange lights were glistening.

“Yes, you’re right, sergeant,” said Fatty Matthews humbly. “You’re right, and that’s where he’s been, too, I guess.”

Bravely and gallantly, with the historic and immortal “Cock o’ the North” shrilling out on the evening air, the pipers played them on to the battalion parade ground, where they halted, silent still and with that strange air of detached indifference still upon them. They had been through hell. Nothing else could surprise them. All else, indeed, seemed paltry.

Briefly, but with heart-reaching words, the colonel thanked the pipers for what he called “an act of fine and brotherly courtesy.” Then turning to his men, he spoke a few words before dismissal.

“Men, you have passed through a long and hard time of testing. You have not failed. I am not going to praise you, but I want you to know that I am proud of you. Proud to be your commanding officer. I know that whatever is before us, you will show the same spirit of endurance and courage.

“We have lost this time twenty-nine men, eleven of them killed, and with these three very brave and very gallant officers, among them our medical officer, a very great loss to this battalion. These men did their duty to the last. We loved them. We shall miss them, but to-day we are proud of them. Let us give three cheers for our gallant dead.”

With no joyous outburst, but with a note of fierce, strained determination, came the cheers. In spite of all he could do, Barry could not prevent a shudder as he heard the men about him cheering for those whom he had so recently seen lying, some of them sorely mutilated, in their grey blankets.

“Now, men,” concluded the O. C., “we must ‘carry on.’ You will have a couple of hours in which to clean up and have supper, and then we shall have to-night a cinema show, to which I hope you will all come, and which I hope you will all greatly enjoy.”

The colonel’s little speeches, as a rule, elicited appreciative cheers, but this afternoon there was only a grave silence. After dismissal, the men went to their huts and were soon busy giving themselves a “high mark scrub” preliminary to the hot bath and “jungle hunt” in which they would indulge themselves to-morrow.

As Barry was moving off the parade ground, the junior major caught up to him, and took him by the arm and said:

“I have sent around my batman to your hut. He will look after you until I can pick out a man from the new draft. We all know how you feel about Hobbs, old man.”

“Thank you, major,” said Barry quietly. “I appreciate that.”

“You will be around to-night,” continued the major.

“No, I think not. I have a lot of things to do. All those letters to write.” Barry shuddered as he spoke. For nothing in all his ministerial experience was to him a more exhausting and heartbreaking task than the writing of these letters to the relatives and friends of his dead comrades.

“I think you had better come,” said the major earnestly. “I know the O. C. would like it, and the boys would like it too.”

“Do you think so?” said Barry. “Then I’ll be there.”

“Good man,” said Major Bayne, patting him on the shoulder. “That’s the stuff we like in this battalion.”

Barry found his hut in order, his things out for airing, his tub ready, and supper in preparation.

“Thanks, Monroe,” he said to Major Bayne’s batman, as he passed into his hut.

As he entered his hut and closed the door, for the first time there swept over his soul an appalling and desolating sense of loneliness. It was his first moment of quiet, his first leisure to think of himself for almost two weeks. With the loss of his batman there had been snapped the last link with that old home life of his, now so remote but all the dearer for that. It came to him that while he remained a soldier, this was to be his continual experience. Upon his return from every tour new gaps would stare at him. Up in the lines they did not so terribly obtrude themselves, but back here in rest billets they thrust themselves upon him like hideous mutilations upon a well loved face. He could hardly force himself to remove his muddy, filthy clothes. He would gladly have laid himself down upon his cot just as he was, and given himself up to the luxury of his grief and loneliness, until sleep should come, but his life as a soldier had taught him something. These months of discipline, and especially these last months of companionship with his battalion through the terrible experiences of war, had wrought into the very fibre of his life a sense of unity with and responsibility for his comrades. His every emotion of loss, of grief, of heart-sickness carried with it the immediate suggestion and remembrance that his comrades too were passing through a like experience, and this was his salvation. Weary, sick, desolate as he felt himself in this hour, he remembered that many of his comrades were as he, weary, and sick and desolate. He wondered how the major’s batman felt.

“Well, Monroe,” he said with an attempt at a voice of cheer, “pretty tough go this time.”

“Yes, sir, very tough,” said Monroe. “I lost my chum this time,” he added after a few moments’ silence.

“Poor chap,” said Barry. “I’m awfully sorry for you. It’s hard to leave a friend up there.”

“It is that, sir,” replied Monroe, and then he added hurriedly but with hesitation, “and if you will pardon me, sir, we all know it’s awful tough for you. The boys all feel for you, sir, believe me.”

The unexpected touch of sympathy was too much for Barry’s self- control. A rush of warm tears came to his eyes and choked his voice. For some minutes he busied himself with his undressing, but Monroe continued speaking.

“Yes, sir, the Wapiti bunch is getting pretty small. Corporal Thom was with me–“

“Corporal Thom!” cried Barry. “Was Corporal Thom your chum?”

“Yes, sir, for six years we was on the Bar U. M. together. We was awful close friends. He was a good chum.”

“Corporal Thom!” exclaimed Barry again; “he was your chum! He was a great friend of mine too. You have indeed suffered a great loss.”

“He thought a lot of you, sir,” said Monroe. “He has often talked to me about you.”

“But what a splendid death!” cried Barry. “Perfectly glorious!”

“I didn’t hear, sir,” said Monroe; “I came down three days ago, and only heard that a bomb got him.”

“Oh, splendid,” said Barry. “Nothing finer in the war. Let me tell you about it. There was an enemy raid coming up. The corporal had got wind of it and called his men out. They rushed into the front line bay. Just as they got there, eight or ten of them, a live bomb fell hissing among them. They all rushed to one end of the bay, but the corporal kicked the bomb to the other end, and then threw himself on top of it. He was blown to pieces, but no one else was hurt.”

During the recital of this tale, Monroe stood looking at Barry and when he had finished his eyes were shining with tears.

“Ay, sir, he was a man, sir,” he said at length.

“Yes, you have said it, Monroe. He was a man, just a common man, but uncommonly like God, for He did the same thing. He gave Himself for us.”

Monroe turned away to his work in silence.

“Monroe,” said Barry, calling him back, “look here, lad, it would not be right for us to grieve too much for Corporal Thom. We ought to be thankful for him and proud of him, should we not?”

“Yes, sir, I know, sir, but,” he added while his lip trembled, “you hate to lose your chum.”

Only under compulsion of his conscience did Barry go to the cinema show that night, which in this camp was run under the chaplain service and by a chaplain. He knew what the thing would be like. His whole soul shrunk from the silly, melodramatic films which he knew would constitute the programme as from a nauseating dose of medicine. The billboard announced a double header, a trite and, especially to Canadians, a ridiculous representation of the experiences of John Bull and his wife and pretty daughter as immigrants to the Canadian Northwest, which was to be followed by the immortal Charlie Chaplin.

The cinema hut was jammed–the whole battalion, now much reduced in numbers, officers and men being present, and with them the men of the base units and transports of other battalions. It was in some senses an unusual gathering. There was an entire absence of the wonted chaff and uproarious horseplay; instead a grave and almost bored air rested upon the men’s faces. The appalling experiences of the past thirteen days seemed to dwarf all other things in comparison. They had been in the presence of the Big Thing; all else seemed petty; they had been looking into death’s cold eyes; after that other sights seemed trivial. Many of them carried sore hearts for their comrades with whom they had at other times foregathered in just such circumstances as these, but nevermore again.

It was the custom in the battalion, as the officers came into such gatherings as this, to receive them with a ripple of applause, but to-night there was silence. Barry arrived late. When he appeared there fell upon the men a hush, and then as he moved toward the front seats reserved for the officers, the men began to rise until the whole battalion was standing silent and motionless, and so remained until he had found a seat. It was Major Bayne who called his attention to this unusual demonstration, which was reserved only for great occasions and for nothing less than a battalion commander.

“They are saluting you, Pilot,” said Major Bayne in a whisper, himself standing with the other officers.

Barry quickly lifted his eyes, saw the men standing, with all eyes directed toward him, slowly looked over the rows of faces, smiled a bright but slightly wavering smile, turned and saluted the Commanding Officer, and sat down all trembling and shaken by this most touching tribute of sympathy and affection.

The show began with some pictures of great allied leaders which excited a mild interest and drew some perfunctory applause. Then came the tragic comedy of John Bull’s experiences as an immigrant, when just as the interest began to deepen, the machine blew up, and the pictures were off for the night.

Ordinarily such a contretemps would have been by no means fatal to the evening’s enjoyment, for in the battalion there was no lack of musical and other talent, and an impromptu entertainment was easily possible. Ordinarily, too, in such an emergency there would at once have arisen a demand for the chaplain, who had come to be recognised as a great standby in times of need such as this. To- night, however, everything seemed changed. The mild suggestion of one of the men that the chaplain should take the piano was promptly discouraged by the dissenting growls of the others present. They knew well how their chaplain was feeling.

“What shall we do?” asked Major Bayne of Barry.

“Get Coleman to the piano. He is a perfect wizard,” suggested Barry, indicating a young lieutenant who had come to the battalion with the recent draft, and who had done some accompaniments for Barry’s violin playing.

Lieutenant Coleman, on being called for, went to the piano, and began to play. He was indeed a wizard as Barry had said, with a genius for ragtime and popular music hall ditties, and possessed also of the further gift of improvisation that made his services invaluable on just such an occasion as this.

From one popular air to another he wandered, each executed with greater brilliance than the last, but he failed to excite anything more than a mild interest and approval. The old songs which on other occasions had been wont to let loose the song birds of the battalion seemed to have lost their power. It was not gloom, but a settled and immovable apathy which apparently nothing could break.

“This is going awfully slow,” said Major Bayne to Barry. “I wish something could be done.”

“The boys are tired out,” answered Barry, himself weary and sick of the performance and longing more than anything else for solitude and his cot.

The Commanding Officer came over and sat beside them. He was obviously worried and uneasy.

“I don’t like this,” he said to the major. “Coleman is doing his best, and is doing mighty well, but there is no heart in the boys, and it isn’t entirely due to physical weakness. I wish we could start something that would wake them up before they leave. They would sleep much better.”

“The Pilot here can do it,” said Major Bayne in an undertone, “but I rather hate to ask him for he is pretty much all in.”

They sat a little while longer listening to the men’s half hearted drawling of “The Tulip and the Rose.”

“This won’t do,” said the O. C. abruptly. “Get Dunbar over here.”

“Dunbar,” said the O. C. when Barry had come to him. “This thing is as dull as ditchwater. I want to get the boys started up a bit. They are hopelessly dull. Look at their eyes. Do you know what they are seeing?”

“Yes, sir,” said Barry, “they are seeing what they have been looking at for the last thirteen days.”

“You are right, Dunbar, and that’s what I want them to forget. Now I know you don’t feel very fit, and I hate to ask you, but I believe you can do something for the men with that violin of yours. What do you say?”

“I have already sent a man for it,” said Major Bayne. “I knew he’d do it, and his violin lies there under the piano.”

Without announcement or preface Barry walked straight to the stage where Coleman, having miserably failed to strike fire with “The Tulip and the Rose,” was grinding out, with great diligence and conscientious energy, “Irish Eyes.” Barry picked up his violin from the floor, mounted the stage, laid his violin on the piano, then he took his place behind the pianist and, bending over him, reached down, caught him under the legs and while still in full tide of his performance, lifted him squarely off the stool and deposited him upon a chair at one side of the stage. Then, ignoring the amazed look upon Coleman’s face, he proceeded gravely to tune his violin to the piano. The act itself, the cool neatness with which it was performed, the astonished face of the outraged pianist, all together created a situation excessively funny. The effect upon the audience was first one of surprise, then of unalloyed delight. Immediately every man in the hall was wide awake, and as the humour of the situation grew upon them, they began to cheer in quite a lively manner.

When Barry put his violin to his chin they cheered again, for often had he bewitched them with the magic of his instrument.

Before he began to play, he glanced over his shoulder at the discomfited Coleman and remarked in an undertone, perfectly audible throughout the hall, “Now we’ll have some music.”

Again the audience went off in a perfect storm of delighted cheers, which were renewed from time to time as Barry would turn looking with a grave face upon the still amazed Coleman, not yet quite recovered from his first astonishment.

When quiet was finally restored, Barry began to play. For his opening number he made a daring choice. It was the intricate but altogether tuneful Ballade and Polonaise by Vieuxtemps. Throughout the somewhat lengthy number he held his audience fixed under the mastery of his art. It was a triumph immediate and complete. When he had finished the last brilliant movement of the Polonaise, the men burst again into enthusiastic cheering, moved not only by the music but more by the spirit of their chaplain, which they could not fail to understand and appreciate.

He had already achieved what the O. C. had desired, but he was not yet done with them. Having finished his classical selection, which he was quite well aware Coleman could not touch, he turned to the latter and gravely motioned him to the piano stool. Coleman hesitated, not knowing quite what would be demanded of him.

“Come on, Coleman, be a sport,” shouted a young officer, the audience joining once more in encouraging cheers.

Still Coleman hesitated. One never knew just what vagary the chaplain might put on. Failing to move him by imploring gesture, Barry finally approached him, and with elaborate, courteous formality, offered him his hand, and finally conducted him to the piano stool. Again the delighted audience went into a roar of cheers.

From that moment, and for a full hour, Barry had them at his will, now listening spellbound to some simple old heart song, now beating hand and foot to a reel, now roaring to the limit of their lung power some old and well-loved popular air.

“Ain’t he a bird?” said the major to the Commanding Officer.

“He’s fine,” assented the Commanding Officer with a great sigh. “I can’t tell you what a burden he has lifted from me. It’s worth a week’s rest to the men, and, poor chaps, they need it.” Lowering his voice, he leaned over to the major and said, “We may be going up again to-morrow night.”

“To-morrow night, colonel!” exclaimed the major, aghast.

“Not a word, but I have exceedingly grave news. The front line is driven in. One of the battalions holding is completely wiped out.”

“Wiped out? Good God, and where are the enemy?”

“As far as I can hear, although I haven’t the particulars, they have broken through from Hooge to Hill 60, are through Sanctuary Wood, and down to Maple Copse. Two relief battalions have gone up and are holding. The chances are we shall have to go to back them up to-morrow evening. It’s hard on the boys, for they have come through a long and bitter experience, but not a word of this, major, to any one. We shall let them have their rest to-night. That’s why I was so anxious about this entertainment. That’s why I am particularly grateful to that Pilot of ours. He is a wonder, and by the look of him he is about all in. He is staying magnificently with the game. And now, major, I am going to do something that will please him immensely. At least I think it will.”

At a pause in the music, the O. C. arose and moved toward the stage. Barry at once stepped back to the rear. Standing before the men, the O. C. spoke briefly:

“I wish to thank in your name, men, our chaplain, and his assistant, Mr. Coleman, for the very delightful evening they have given us. I know how you feel by the way I feel myself. I need say no more, and now, seeing that we have missed our parade service for the last two Sundays, and as I should not like the chaplain to become rusty in his duty, I’m going to ask him to bring our very pleasant evening to a close with a little service such as he himself would suggest.”

Hardly were the words out of his mouth, when Barry took up his violin and said:

“Boys, did you have a good time to-night?”

“Yes, sir; you bet we had, sir.”

“Well, then, if you had, sing this,” and recited for them the first verses of the old hymn,

“Abide with me, fast falls the even tide.”

When they had sung the first verse, he said again:

“Now sing these words,” and once more he recited the stirring verse:

“I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless.”

When they had finished the verse, he said to them

“Shall we have another?”

“Go on, sir!” they said. “Sure thing!” “Finish it up!”

“Then,” said Barry, “sing these words”:

“I need Thy presence every passing hour, What but Thy grace can foil the tempter’s power.”

Then when he had finished the verse, he dropped the violin and, moving to the edge of the platform, said, in a voice vibrant with emotion:

“Don’t sing these words, but say them as I play them for you.”

He then recited the moving words with which the old hymn closes:

“Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes; Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies; Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee, In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.”

“I want every one of you to say the words to himself as I play them.”

In long-drawn, tremulous notes he voiced the beautiful plea for aid in the hour of man’s supreme need, which finds expression in the first two lines. Then, with his bow gripping the strings in a great sweeping crescendo, he poured forth in full strong chords the triumphant faith with which the hymn closes.

He laid his violin on the piano, stood quite a few moments looking upon them, then said:

“Men, listen to these great words. They might have been written for us, and for these days;” and he recited to them the words of the Hebrew psalm, eloquent of courage in the face of a crumbling world:

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.

Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.

Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. Selah.

There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God, the holy place of the tabernacles of the Most High.

God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved. God shall help her and that right early.

The heathen raged, the kingdoms were moved; he uttered his voice, the earth melted.

The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah.

Come, behold the words of the Lord, what desolations he hath made in the earth.

He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; he breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder: he burneth the chariot in the fire.

Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth.

The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge.”

Then they followed him in the General Confession, and the Lord’s prayer.

“Captain Dunbar,” said the O. C., offering him his hand, “you have done for us to-night a greater thing than you know just now. You will understand better tomorrow. With all my heart I thank you on the men’s behalf and on my own behalf, for I assure you I needed it as much as they did. I want to assure you, too, sir, that I received to-night the thing I needed.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Barry simply, too weary to utter another word, and staggered out, half dead with exhaustion.

Half an hour later, as he was leisurely undressing, and drinking the cup of cocoa which Monroe had prepared for him, a message summoned him to the orderly room. There he found Colonel Leighton with Major Bayne and the company commanders.

“I have a communication here for you, Captain Dunbar,” said the O. C., “from your D. A. C. S.,” and he passed him a little slip.

It was the announcement of his “leave.”

“Well, what do you think of that?” said the O. C. “How does that suit you?”

“Well, sir,” said Barry, uncertainty and hesitation in his voice, “I’d like the leave, all right, but can I conveniently be spared just now?”

“Most certainly,” said the O. C., “and, what’s more, I want you to go to-night. Can you get ready?”

“I suppose so, sir,” said Barry, wearily.

“By Jove! listen to him,” said the O. C. “He hates to leave us, doesn’t he?” And they all laughed. “Now, Dunbar,” he said, “no more posing. You catch the leave train to-night at Poperinghe. As a matter of fact, I think it starts somewhere about twelve.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Barry. “I think I can catch it.”

“Then good luck!” said the O. C., rising from his chair. “Every one of us here would like to be in your place, but since it isn’t himself, every man is glad that it should be you.”

Still Barry hesitated.

“I really hate to leave you, sir, just now,” he said. “I mean that,” he added with a little nervous laugh.

“Oh, come on, Dunbar,” said the O. C. in a voice whose gruffness might signify almost any emotion, but with a touch upon his shoulder that Barry knew meant comradeship. “Say good-bye to the boys here, and get out.”

They had just finished the plan for the campaign of the next night, and every man in that little company knew that for him this might be his last “Good-bye” to the chaplain. It only added to the depth of their feeling that they knew that of all this Barry was unconscious. But, whether it was that unconsciously he had gathered something of the real significance of the situation, or whether it was that he himself had reached the limit of emotional control, as he passed from man to man, shaking hands in farewell, his lips refused to utter a single word, but in his eyes were unshed tears that spoke for him.

Major Bayne followed him to the door, and outside:

“Take my horse and Monroe with you, and good-bye, old man. All sorts of good luck. Remember that we all feel to-night that you are really one of us, and that we are better men because we have known you. Goodbye.”

Again Barry was conscious of that strange suggestion, almost of impending calamity.

“I hate to go, major,” he said. “I believe I’ll wait.”

“Nonsense,” said the major impatiently. “Take your leave when you get your chance, and have a good time. You have earned it.”

CHAPTER XVI

THE PASSING OF McCUAIG

At Poperinghe the leave train was waiting in the station, and a little company of officers and men were having their papers examined preparatory to their securing transportation. Some of the officers were from his own brigade and were known to Barry.

“A big push on at the front, I hear,” said one of them to a friend.

“Yes, major,” said his friend. “They have been having a perfect hell of a time.”

“By the way, your men are going in to-morrow, I understand,” said the major, turning to Barry.

“I don’t think so, major,” replied Barry. “We have just come out.”

“Oh, well, I had it from fairly good authority that they were going in to-morrow night.”

Barry hunted up Monroe, whom he found talking to a signaller of the battalion.

“Did you boys hear anything about the battalion going up to-morrow?”

“Yes, sir,” said the signaller promptly. “We had it over the wires. They are going in, all right, to-morrow night.”

Monroe kicked the signaller on the ankle.

“Did you hear anything about it, Monroe?” enquired Barry.

“No, sir. I don’t believe these rumours at all. They are always flying about.”

“But you say you got it over the wires?” said Barry to the signaller.

“Yes, sir. That is, sir, of course, we get a lot of messages. Perhaps I’m mixed up,” said the signaller in very evident confusion.

“And you haven’t heard anything, Monroe?” said Barry.

“No, sir, not a thing, and I think I would have heard if there had been any truth in it.”

Something in the childlike expression of innocence upon Monroe’s face wakened Barry’s suspicion.

“Look here, Monroe,” he said, “don’t lie to me. Now, I’m talking to you as your chaplain. Tell me the truth. Have you heard of the battalion going in to-morrow?”

Under Barry’s eye Monroe began to squirm.

“Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I did hear a rumour of that kind.”

“And you?” said Barry, turning upon the signaller, “tell me the truth.”

“Well, sir, it’s just as I said. We had it over the wires. The battalion is going in.”

“Very well, get my stuff, Monroe,” said Barry, quietly. “I’m going back.”

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

“Do you hear me? Get my stuff; I’m not going out to-night.” Barry’s tone admitted no further talk, and Monroe, swearing deeply at his friend the signaller and at his own stupidity, and especially at his own “lack of nerve to see his lie through,” hunted out Barry’s baggage and stood ready for his officer to return.

“Hello, Dunbar,” said the major, as he saw Barry about to mount his horse. “What’s up? Forgotten something? You’ll surely miss your train.”

“I’m not going,” said Barry briefly, getting himself settled in his saddle.

“Not going!” exclaimed the major. “What do you mean? I thought you were on leave.”

“Changed my mind,” said Barry cheerfully.

“I say, old man,” said the major, “there may be nothing in what I told you about the push. Anyway, you know we cannot postpone our leave until all the fighting is over.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” replied Barry. “There are lots of you combatant chaps in a battalion, but there is only one chaplain.”

“Oh, hang it all,” cried the major, “take your leave. Well,” seeing that Barry paid no heed to his advice, “the best of luck, old man,” he said, offering his hand. “I guess you’re all right after all.”

The exhilaration that had sustained Barry during the evening suddenly fled, leaving him flat in spirit and limp in body. What he wanted most of all was sleep, and morning was not so far away. He rode back to his hut, and, bidding Monroe let him sleep all day, he tumbled into bed and knew nothing until late in the afternoon. Monroe, too, had slept in, and, after rising, had been busy about the hut, so that he had no further information as to the battalion’s movements. The chaplain’s hut was some distance from Headquarters and from the battalion camp. Hence it came that while Barry was writing hard at his letters throughout the remainder of the afternoon, he was quite unaware of what was taking place. Monroe, however, returned about six o’clock to say that the battalion had been “standing to” all afternoon, but that the general feeling was that there would be no advance until late at night.

Glad of the opportunity to catch up with his correspondence, Barry paid little heed to the passing of time. His last letter was to the V. A. D., in which he poured out the bitterness of his disappointment that he was not even now on his way to Boulogne and to her, and expressing the hope that after this “show” was over, he would be granted leave, upon which happy event he would with all speed proceed to her. She had been speaking of a trip to England. Would it not be a very wise and proper proceeding that she should make her leave to synchronise with his? Now he must be off, and so with love to her, and with the hope that they might see London together–

Just then Monroe came with the startling news that the battalion had “moved up” hours ago.

“Which road?” enquired Barry, springing to his feet.

“Don’t know, sir,” replied Monroe, who had evidently his own opinion about matters. “But I met a padre,” he continued, “who told me that there was a stream of wounded passing through the Brandhoek Clearing Station. He said they were very short-handed there, sir,” and Monroe regarded his officer with anxious eyes.

“I hate to take you up there, Monroe,” said Barry with a smile.

“Oh, that’s all right, sir,” said Monroe, hastily, “but I guess we’ll have to hurry.”

“I remember, Monroe, that your major and you would have sent me out of this, but you know well enough that there’s only one place for me to-night, and the question is, where is the battalion–Ypres Barracks, Chateau Beige, Zillebeck, or where?”

“I enquired at the transports, sir,” said Monroe, “and no one appeared to know. They moved out quietly and left no word behind.”

“All right, we’ll go up to Chateau Belge, and if they are not there, we’ll make a shot at Zillebeck,” said Barry. “We’ll go right away. We don’t need a lot of truck this trip.”

It was a long and tiresome march, but Barry found himself remarkably fit, and already under the exhilaration of what was before him. At the Chateau Belge they found no word of their battalion, but they were informed that the shelling on the Kruisstraat road had been bad all afternoon, and was still going on. The Boches were paying particular attention indeed to the crossroads.

“All right,” said Barry. “We’ll go up and have a look at it, anyway.”

A hundred yards further up the road they were held up by a sudden burst of H. E. shells, which fell in near proximity to the crossroads before them.

“Well, we’ll just wait here a few minutes until we can time these things,” said Barry, sitting down by the roadside.

As they were waiting there, three soldiers passed them at quick march.

“Better wait, boys,” called Barry; “they are dropping quite a few shells at the crossroads.”

“We are runners, sir,” said one of them. “I guess we’ll just take a chance, thank you, sir.”

“All right, boys, if you think best,” replied Barry. “Good luck!”

“Thank you, sir,” they said, and set off at a smart pace.

While Barry sat listening to the sound of their footsteps upon the pavement, there came that terrific whine, followed by an appalling crash, as a H. E. shell landed full upon the road. Barry sprang to his feet. Three other shells followed in quick succession, then there came the sound of hurrying feet and a man appeared, bleeding horribly and gasping.

“Oh, my God! My God! They are gone! They are gone!”

“Sit down,” said Barry. “Now, where’s your wound?”

“My arm, sir,” said the man.

Barry cut off the blood-soaked sleeve, ripped open his first aid dressing, and bound the wound up tightly. Then he put a tourniquet upon the arm above the wound.

“The other boys killed, you say?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir, blown to pieces. Oh, my God!” he groaned, shuddering. “My chum’s whole head was blown off, and the other has his belly all torn up.”

“Now look here, old man,” said Barry, “you lie down here where you are, and keep perfectly still,” for the man was throwing himself about, more from shock than from pain. “We’ll get you to the dressing station in a few minutes. Monroe, run and get the stretcher bearers, and I’ll go and see how things are up yonder.”

He threw his coat over the wounded man, and set off at a run toward the crossroads. He found matters as the man had said, the two bodies lying in a dark patch of bloodsoaked dust, one with head quite blown off, and the other with abdomen horribly torn.

He hurried back to the wounded man, who had recovered somewhat from his shock and was now lying on his side quietly moaning. Barry got from him the names and units of the men who had been killed.

“I will drop a note to your mother, too, my boy,” he said, “and tell her about your wound.”

“Oh, sir,” said the boy quickly–he was only a boy after all– “don’t tell her–at least, tell her I’m all right. I’ll be all right, won’t I?”

“Sure thing,” said Barry, “don’t you fear. I won’t alarm her, and I’ll tell her what good stuff you are, boy.”

“All right, sir. Thank you, sir,” said the boy quietly.

“And I’ll tell her, too, that you are not worrying a bit, and that you know that you are in the keeping of your Heavenly Father. How is that?”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy in a low voice. “I will be glad to have you tell her that. She taught me all that, sir. Poor mother, she’ll worry though, I know,” he added with a little catch in his throat.

“Now you brace up,” said Barry firmly. “You have got off mighty well. You have got a nice little blighty there, and you are going to be all right. I’ll give your mother the best report about you, so that she won’t worry.”

“Oh, thank you,” said the boy, with fervent gratitude, “that will be fine. And you are right,” he added, a note of resolution coming into his voice. “I got off mighty well, and it’s only my left arm, thank goodness. I’ll brace up, sir, never fear,” he added between his teeth, choking back a groan.

Barry accompanied the stretcher-bearer back to the chateau and gave the man over into the care of the C. A. M. C.

“Can you put a squad on to digging a grave?” he inquired of the officer in charge. “If so, though I’m in an awful hurry, I’ll stay to bury those poor chaps.”

“Sure thing, we can,” said the officer. “We’ll do the very best we can to hurry it.”

In about an hour and a half Barry was on his way again. He dodged the shelling at the crossroads, and following a track across the open fields, arrived at the Zillebeck Bund without adventure.

Here to his relief he found the battalion. He made his way at once to Headquarters, and walked in upon a meeting of officers.

“Well, I’m–” exclaimed Colonel Leighton, checking himself hard, “who have we here! What in hell are you doing here, Pilot? I thought you would be safely in old Blighty by this time,” he added, shaking him warmly by the hand.

“Oh, you couldn’t work that game on me, colonel,” said Barry cheerily, going round the group of men, who gave him an eager welcome. “You thought you had shipped me off, just as the fun was starting, but I got on to you.”

“Well, I’ll be darned,” said Major Bayne. “How did you find out?”

Barry told him, adding, “You will have to train your man to lie more cheerfully.”

“That’s what comes of a man’s environment,” said the major, disgustedly. “I was always too truthful, anyway.”

“Well, sir,” said Barry, turning to the colonel. “I’m awfully glad to find you here. I was afraid I’d lost you.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said the colonel, “you have all got your orders. Does any one want to ask a question? Well, then, it’s pretty simple after all. Two companies advance as far as Maple Copse, and gradually work up until they feel the enemy, then put in a block and hold against attack, at all costs. The other two companies are to follow up in support at Zillebeck Village. Later on, when our reserves come up, and when our guns return–I hear they are pushing them up rapidly–we are promised a go at those devils. Meantime we have got to hold on, but I expect the battalion will be pulled out very shortly.”

The flickering candles lit up the faces of the men crowding the dugout. They were elaborately careless and jolly, but their eyes belied their faces. Under the careless air there was a tense and stern look of expectation. They were all sportsmen, and had all experienced the anxious nervous thrill of the moments preceding a big contest. Once the ball was off, their nervousness would go, and they would be cool and wary, playing the game for all they had in them.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the colonel, as they prepared to leave the dugout, “before I let you go, there is one thing I want to say. It’s a tradition of the British army that any soldier or officer who has lost his unit marches toward the sound of the guns. I am proud to-night that we have an example of that old tradition here. We left our chaplain behind, and he didn’t know where his battalion had gone, but he moved toward the sound of the guns. That is what I would expect from any of you, gentlemen, but it’s none the less gratifying to find one’s expectations realised.”

Only his flaming face revealed Barry’s emotion as the colonel was speaking.

“Now then, gentlemen, carry on, and the best of luck.”

“Sir,” said Barry, “what about a little prayer?”

“Fine,” said the colonel heartily, while round the room there ran a murmur of approval.

Barry pulled out his little Bible and read, not one of the “fighting psalms” but the tenderly exquisite words of the Shepherd’s song. His voice was clear, steady and ringing with cheery confidence. His prayer was in the spirit of the psalm, breathing high courage and calm trust, even in the presence of the ultimate issue.

In a single sentence he commended his comrades to the keeping of the Eternal God of Truth and Justice and Mercy, asking that they might be found steadfast in their hour of testing and worthy of their country and their cause.

Together they joined in the Lord’s prayer; then lifting over them his hands, he closed the little service with that ancient and beautiful formula of blessing, which for two thousand years has sent men out from the Holy Place of Meeting to face with hearts resolved whatever life might hold for them.

One by one, as they passed out the officers shook hands with Barry, thanking him for the service, and expressing their delight that he was with them again.

“What are we going to do with you, Pilot?” inquired the colonel.

“I thought I’d stick around with the boys,” said Barry.

“Well,” said the colonel, gravely, “of course, there’s no use of your going up to the attack. You would only be in the way. You would be an embarrassment to the officers. That reminds me, there was a call from Menin Mill for you this afternoon. They are having an awful rush there. Our own R. A. P. will be in Zillebeck Village, and our Headquarters will be there.”

“I’ll go there, sir, if you agree,” said Barry, and after some discussion the matter was so arranged.

In a ruined cellar in the village of Zillebeck, a mile and a half further in, the R. A. P. was established and there carried on during the desperate fighting of the next three days. Through this post a continuous stream of wounded passed, the stretcher cases all night, the walking cases all day and all night. In spite of its scenes of horror and suffering the R. A. P. was a cheery spot. The new M. O. was strange to his front line business, but he was of the right stuff, cool, quick with his fingers, and undisturbed by the crashing of bursting shells. The stretcher bearers and even the wounded maintained an air of resolute cheeriness, that helped to make bearable what otherwise would have been a nightmare of unspeakable horror. Attached to the R. A. P. was an outer building wherein the wounded men were laid after treatment. Thither in a pause of his work, Barry would run to administer drinks, ease the strain of an awkward position, speak a word of cheer, say a prayer, or sing snatches of a hymn or psalm. There was little leisure for reflection, nor if there had been would he have indulged in reflection, knowing well that only thus could he maintain his self- control and “carry on.”

With each wounded man there came news of the progress of the fighting. The boys were holding splendidly, indeed were gradually eating into the enemy front. They brought weird stories of his comrades, incidents pathetic, humorous, heroic, according to the temperament of the narrator. But from more than one source came tales of Knight’s machine gun section to which McCuaig was attached. Knight himself had been killed soon after entering the line, and about his men conflicting tales were told: they were holding a strong point, they were blown up, they had shifted their position, they were wiped out, they were still “carrying on.” McCuaig was the hero of every tale. He was having the time of his life. He had gone quite mad. He was for going “out and over” alone.

The first authentic account came with young Pickles, now a runner, who made his way hobbling to Headquarters with a message from A Company, and who reported that he had fallen in with McCuaig by the way, and by him had been commandeered to carry ammunition, under threat of instant death.

“Where did you see McCuaig first, Pickles?” Barry inquired, anxious to learn the truth about his friend.

“Way up Lover’s Walk,” said young Pickles, who was in high spirits, “under a pile of brush and trees. I though it was a wildcat, or something moving and snarling–the light was kind of dim–and when I went up there was McCuaig. He was alone. Two or three men were lying near him, dead, I guess, and he was swearing, and talking to himself something fierce. I was scart stiff when he called me to him. I went over, and he says to me, ‘Say, youngster,’ just like that, ‘you know where this walk used to drop down into the trench? Well, there’s a lot of machine gun ammunition over there, all fixed up and ready. You go and bring it up here.’ I tried to get out of it, sayin’ I was bringing a ‘hurry up’ message down, but he turns his machine gun on me, and says, ‘Young man, it’s only a couple of hundred yards down there, and fairly good cover. They can’t see you. Go and bring that stuff here. If you don’t I’ll blow you to hell just where you stand.’ You bet I promised. I got that ammunition so quick. Oh, of course, he’s crazy, all right,” said young Pickles, “but he is fighting like hell. I beg pardon, sir.”

“Doctor, I’m going after him,” said Barry. “He will stay there until he bleeds to death. He is my oldest friend.”

“All right, padre, if you say so,” said the M. O., “but it’s a nasty job. I should not care for it.”

Barry knew the area thoroughly. He got from young Pickles an exact description of the location of the spot where McCuaig had last been seen, and with the returning stretcher bearers set off for the wood, which was about a thousand yards further on.

The communication trench leading up to the wood, which had been constructed with such care and of which the Canadians were so proud, had been blown up from end to end by the systematic and thorough bombardment of the three days before. The little party, therefore, were forced to make their way overland by the light of the star shells.

They reached the wood in safety. Barry looked about him in utter bewilderment. Every familiar feature of the landscape was utterly blotted out. The beautiful ambrosial wood itself, of heavy trees and thick tinder-brush, was a mat of tangled trunks, above which stood splintered stubs. Not a tree, not a branch, hardly a green leaf was left. Under that mat of fallen trunks were A and C Companies, somewhere, holding, blocking, feeling up toward the Hun.

The shells were whining overhead, going out and coming in, but mostly coming in. None, however, were falling on the wood because here friend and foe were lying almost within bayonet length of each other. Only an occasional burst from a machine gun broke the silence that hung over this place of desolation and death.

“That’s the company Headquarters,” said the stretcher bearer, pointing to what looked like a bear den, under some fallen trees. Barry pushed aside the blanket and poking his head in, found Duff and a young lieutenant working at a table by the light of a guttering candle.

“For the love of God, Pilot,” exclaimed Duff, springing up and gripping Barry’s hand, “it’s good to see you, but what are you doing here?”

“I came up for McCuaig,” said Barry, after a warm greeting to both.

“Oh, say, that’s good. We have got him as far as the next dugout here, the old bear. I’ve been trying to get him out for half a day. There’s a soldier for you! He’s been potting Boches with his blessed machine gun, scouting from one hole to another for the last two days, and he’s got a nasty wound. I’m awfully glad you have come.”

“How are things going, Duff?”

“We have got the —-s so that they can’t move a foot, and we’ll hold them, unless they bring up a lot of reserves.”

“By Jove! Duff, you boys are wonderful.”

“I say,” said Duff, brushing aside the compliment, “did young Pickles get through? That young devil is the limit. You’d have thought he was hunting coyotes.”

“Yes, he got through. Got a blighty though, I guess. It was he that told me about McCuaig.”

“Well, Pilot, old man,” said Duff, taking him by the arm, “get out! Get out! Don’t waste time. There may be a break any minute. Get out of here.”

Duff was evidently in a fever of anxiety. “You had no right to come up here anyway; though, by Jove, I’m glad to see you.”

“What’s the fuss, Duff?” said Barry. “Am I in any more danger than you? I say,” he continued, with tense enthusiasm, “do you realise, Duff, that as long as Canada lasts they will talk of what you are doing up here these days?”

“For Heaven’s sake, Pilot, get out,” said Duff crossly. “You make me nervous. Besides, you have got to get that wounded man out, you know. Come along.”

He hustled Barry out and over to the neighbouring dugout, where they found McCuaig with his beloved machine gun still at his side. The wounded man was very pale, but extremely cheerful, smoking a cigarette.

“I’m glad to see you, sir,” he said quietly, reaching out his hand.

“Good old man,” said Barry, gripping his hand hard, “but you are a blamed old fool, you know.”

McCuaig made no reply, but there was a happy light on his face. Under Duff’s compelling urging they got the wounded man on a stretcher and started on their long and painful carry.

“Now, boys,” warned Duff, “you are all right up here, except for machine guns, but don’t take any chances further out. That’s where the danger is. When the shells come, don’t rush things. Take your time. Now, good-bye, Pilot, it’s worth a lot to have seen you anyway.”

“Good-bye, old man,” said Barry, smiling at him. “You’re the stuff. Good luck, old man. God keep you.”

Duff nodded, and waved him away. The return trip was made in comparative quiet.

“What do you think, doctor?” said Barry, after the M. O. had completed his examination.

“Oh, we’ll pull him through all right,” said the M. O. “When did you get this, McCuaig?” he continued, touching a small wound over the kidney.

“Dunno, rightly. Guess I got it when we was blown up, yesterday.”

“Then why didn’t you come in at once?” inquired the M. O. indignantly.

McCuaig looked at him in mild surprise.

“Why, they was all blown up, and there wasn’t anybody to run the gun.”

The M. O. examined the wound more closely and shook his head at Barry.

“We won’t touch that now. We’ll just bandage it up. Are you feeling pretty comfortable?”

“Fine,” said McCuaig with cheerful satisfaction. “We held them up, I guess. They thought they was going to walk right over us. They was comin’ with their packs on their backs. But the boys changed their minds for them, I guess.”

A reminiscent smile lingered upon the long, eaglelike face.

Half an hour later Barry found a minute to run into the adjoining room where the wounded lay.

“Anything you want, McCuaig?” he asked.

“A drink, if you ain’t too busy, but I hate to take your time.”

“Oh, you go to thunder,” said Barry. “Take my time! What am I for? Any pain, Mac?”

“No, not much. I’m a little sleepy.”

Barry turned the flash-light on his face. He was startled to find it grey and drawn. He brought the M. O., who examined the wounded man’s condition.

“No pain, eh, Mac?”

“No, sir,” said McCuaig cheerfully.

“All right, boy, just lie still,” said the M. O., beckoning Barry after him.

“He is going out,” he said when they reached the dressing room, “and he’s going fast. That wound in the back has been bleeding a long time.”

“Oh, doctor, can’t anything be done? You know he’s got a remarkable constitution. Can’t something be done?”

“There are times when a doctor wishes he had some other job,” said the M. O., “and this is one of them.”

“I say, doctor, will you get along without me for a while?” said Barry.

“Go on,” said the M. O., nodding to him.

Barry took a candle and went in beside his friend. As he sat there gazing upon the greying face, the wounded man opened his eyes.

“That you, Barry?” he asked with a quiet smile.

Barry started. Only in the very first weeks of their acquaintance had McCuaig called him by his first name, and never during the past months had be used anything but his rank title. Now all rank distinctions were obliterated. They were as man to man.

“Yes, Mac, it’s me. Do you know what I was thinking about? I was thinking of the first time I saw you coming down that rapid in your canoe.”

“I remember well, Barry. I often think of it. It’s a long time ago,” said McCuaig in his soft, slow voice. “I’ve never been sorry but once that I come, and that time it was my own fault, but I didn’t understand the game.”

“You’ve made a great soldier, Mac. We are all proud of you,” said Barry, putting his hand upon McCuaig’s. McCuaig’s long thin fingers tightened upon Barry’s hand.

“I think I’m going out,” he said, with his eyes on Barry’s face. “What do you think?”

It was the time for truth telling.

“Oh, Mac, old man,” said Barry, putting his head down close to him to hide from him the rush of tears that came to his eyes, “I’m afraid you are, and I hate to have you go.”

“Why, Barry, you crying for me?” asked McCuaig in a kind of wonder. “Say, boy, I’m awful glad you feel that way. Somehow I don’t feel quite so lonely now.”

“Oh, Mac, you are my oldest, my best friend in the battalion, in all the world,” said Barry.

“Oh, I just love to hear you say that, boy. Do you know I wanted to tell you how I felt about that time on the boat, you remember?” Barry nodded. “Barry, tell me, honest Injun, did I make good as a soldier?”

“The best ever,” said Barry. “They all say so, officers and men. I heard the colonel say so the other day.”

Again the smile came.

“Barry, it was you that done that for me. You showed me, and you done it so nice. I never forgot that, and I always wanted to tell you how I felt about it. Barry, you done a lot for me.”

“Oh, Mac, don’t talk like that,” said Barry, trying to keep his voice steady. “I did so little and I wanted to do so much.”

“Say, I like to hear you. I’d like to stay a little longer just to be with you, Barry. I’ve watched you just like you was my own boy, and I’ve been awful proud of you, but I didn’t like to say so.”

The uncovering of the great love of this simple, humble hearted man broke down Barry’s self-control. He made no effort to check his falling tears.

“I’m getting–kind of weak, Barry,” whispered McCuaig. “I guess I won’t be long, mebbe.”

His words recalled Barry’s nerve.

“Mac, would you like me to say a prayer?” he asked. “Just as you feel about it, you know.”

“Yes–I would–but I ain’t–your religion–you know–though–I like–awful well–the way–you talk about–Him.”

“I know you are R. C., Mac, but after all you know we have just the one Father in Heaven and the one Saviour.”

“Yes,–I know, Barry. It’s all the same.”

Barry had a sudden inspiration.

“Wait, Mac, a minute,” he said.

He hurried out to the dressing room, seeking a crucifix, but could find none there.

“I’ll run across to Headquarters,” he said.

“Say, there’s a machine gun playing that street awful,” said the M. O.’s sergeant, “to say nothing of whizzbangs.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Barry. “I’ll make a dash for it.”

But at Headquarters he was no more successful. He went out into the garden in the rear of the R. A. P., and returned with two small twigs. The M. O. bound them together in the form of a cross. Barry took it and hastened to McCuaig’s side.

The hurried breathing and sunken cheeks of the wounded man showed that the end was not far. As Barry knelt beside him, he opened his eyes. There was a look of distress upon his face, which Barry understood. God was near. And God was terrible. He wanted his priest.

“Barry,” he whispered, “I’ve not–been a good man. I haven’t been– mean to anybody,–but I used–to swear–and fight, and–“

“Mac, listen to me. We’re all the same,” said Barry, in a quiet, clear voice. “Suppose I’d injured you.”

“You wouldn’t–Barry.”

“But suppose I did some real mean thing to you, and then came and said I was sorry, would you forgive me?”

“Would I–I’d never think–of anything–you did–to me, Barry.”

“Mac, that’s the way your Father in Heaven feels to you. We have all done wrong, but He says, ‘I will blot out all your sins.’ You needn’t fear to trust Him, Mac.”

“I guess–that’s so, Barry–I guess that’s–all right.”

“Yes, it’s all right. Now I’ll say a prayer. Look, Mac!”

He held up the little wooden cross before his eyes. A smile of joy and surprise transfigured the dying face.

“I see it!–I see–it!” he whispered, and made a movement with his lips. Barry laid the cross upon them, and with that symbol of the Divine love and of the Divine sacrifice pressed to the dying lips, he prayed in words such as a child might use.

For some time after the prayer McCuaig lay with his eyes shut, then with a sudden accession of strength, he opened them and looking up into Barry’s eyes, said:

“Barry, I’m all right now. . . . You helped me again.”

The long thin hands, once of such iron strength, began to wander weakly over the blanket, until touching Barry’s they closed upon it, and held it fast.

“I–won’t–forget–you–ever–” he whispered. The nerveless fingers with difficulty lifted Barry’s hand to the cold lips. “Good–bye–Bar–ry–” he said.

“Good-bye, dear old comrade. Good-bye, dear old friend,” said Barry in a clear quiet voice, gazing through his falling tears straight into the dying eyes.

“Good–night–” The whisper faded into silence. A quiet smile lay on the white face. The eyes closed, there was a little tired sigh, and the brave tender spirit passed on to join that noble company of immortals who abide in the Presence of the Eternal God of Truth and Love, and “go no more out forever,” because they are akin to Him.

In the sorely tortured graveyard, beside the little shell-wrecked Zillebeck church, in a hole made by an enemy shell, they laid McCuaig–a fitting resting place for one who had lived his days in the free wild spaces of the Canadian west, a fitting tomb for as gallant a soldier as Canada ever sent forth to war to make the world free.

That night the battalion was relieved. Worn, spent, but with spirit unbroken, they crawled out from under that matted mass of tangled trunks, sending out their wounded before them, and leaving their buried dead behind them, to hold with other Canadian dead the line which from St. Julien, by Hooge, Sanctuary Wood, and Maple Copse, and Mount Sorel, and Hill 60, and on to St. Eloi, guards the way to Ypres and to the sea. To Canada every foot of her great domain, from sea to sea, is dear, but while time shall last Canada will hold dear as her own that bloodsoaked sacred soil which her dead battalions hold for Honour, Faith and Freedom.

CHAPTER XVII

LONDON LEAVE AND PHYLLIS

The leave train pulled into the Boulogne station exactly twenty-six hours late. As Barry stepped off the train he was met by the R. T. O., an old Imperial officer with a brisk and important military manner.

“You are the O. C. train, sir?” he inquired.

“I am, sir,” replied Barry, saluting.

“You have had a hard time, I understand,” said the R. T. O., drawing him off to one side and speaking in a low tone.

“Yes sir, we HAVE had a hard time,” replied Barry, “at least the men have. This is my report, sir.”

The R. T. O. took the document, opened it, glanced hurriedly through it.

“Ah,” he said, “ninety-seven casualties, thirteen fatal. Very bad. Six burned. This is truly terrible.”

“There were only two soldiers burned, sir,” replied Barry, “but it IS terrible, especially when you think that the men were going on leave and were supposed to have got quit of the danger zone.”

“Very, very terrible,” said the officer. “You ran off the track, I understand.”

“No, sir, it was a collision. There must have been gross carelessness, sir,” said Barry. “I trust there will be an investigation. I have taken the liberty to suggest that, sir, in my report.”

Barry’s voice was stern.

“You need have no apprehension on that score, sir,” said the R. T. O., with his eyes still upon the report. “This is very clear and concise. I see you make no mention of your own services in connection with the affair, but others have. I have had a most flattering telegram from the officer commanding the R. A. M. C., as also from the Divisional Commander, mentioning your initiative and resourcefulness. I assure you this will not be forgotten. I understand you are a padre?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Barry, who was getting rather weary of the conversation.

“All I have to say, then, sir, is that the Canadian army must be rich in combatant officers for, if you will pardon me, it strikes me that there is a damned good combatant officer lost in you.”

“If I were a better padre,” replied Barry, “I would be content.”

“I fancy you have little ground for complaint on that score,” said the R. T. O., for the first time smiling at him.

“May I ask, sir,” replied Barry, “if my responsibility ends here?”

“Yes, unless you want to take charge of the boat.”

“I’d rather not, sir, if you please. How long before she sails?”

“About three hours. Have you anything to do?”

“I should like to visit the R. A. M. C. hospital. I should also like to phone the American hospital at Etaples.”

“Very well, you can easily do both. I will run you up in my car, if you care to wait a few moments until I put through some little matters here. Then if you will be good enough to join me at breakfast, I can drive you up afterwards to the hospital. This is my car. I think you had better step in and sit down; you look rather used up.”

“Will you allow me to speak to some of the men first, sir?”

“Oh, certainly. Do anything you like. There are your men.”

As Barry moved along the line of men drawn up on the platform, he was followed by a rising murmur of admiration, until, as he reached a group of officers at the end, a little Tommy, an English cockney, lifting high his rifle, sang out:

“Naow then, lads, ‘ere’s to our O. D,” adding after the cheers, “‘e’s a bit ov ol raa-ght, ‘e is!”

“Men,” said Barry, “I thank you for your cheers, but I thank you more for your splendid behaviour night before last. It was beyond praise. You couldn’t save all your comrades, but you would willingly have given your lives to save them. That’s the true spirit of the Empire. It’s the spirit of Humanity. It’s the spirit of God. If I were a combatant officer–“

“You’d be a good ‘un, sir,” cried a voice.

“If I were a combatant officer, I should like to lead men like you into action.”

“We’d follow you to ‘ell, sir,” shouted the little cockney.

“Oh, I hope not,” replied Barry. “I’m not going that way. May I say, in wishing you every good luck, that you are a credit to your country, and I can say nothing higher. I wish to thank the officers who so splendidly did their duty and gave such valuable service. Good luck to you, boys, and give my love to all at home.”

Again the men broke into cheers, and Barry, shaking hands with the officers, turned away toward the car. As he was entering the car, Sergeant Matthews came over to him.

“I want to thank you, sir, for getting me free of the R. A. M. C. up there. I feel rather bad, but since my wife is waiting to meet me in London, I was anxious to get through.”

“All right, sergeant,” replied Barry. “I’ll get you to a hospital in London, when we arrive. You are not feeling too badly, I hope.”

“A little shook up, sir,” said the sergeant.

At the R. A. M. C. hospital a bitter disappointment awaited him. He found that the V. A. D. had departed for England, but just where no one seemed to know. In her last letter to him, received before the last tour in the trenches, she had mentioned the possibility of a visit to London, and had promised him further information before her departure, but no further word had he received.

His inquiry at Etaples was equally unproductive of result. Paula and her father had also gone to England. They had taken the V. A. D. with them, and their address was unknown. The matron of the hospital believed that they had planned a motor trip to Scotland, for they had carried Captain Neil Fraser off with them, and were planning a visit to his home. They expected to return in about three weeks.

By the bitterness of his disappointment, Barry realised how greatly he had counted on this meeting with his friends. Were it not for the hope of being able to discover them in England, he would have turned back up the line, there and then, and found among the only friends he had on this side of the ocean relief from the intolerable weight of loneliness that was bearing him down.

He walked out to the cemetery, and stood beside his father’s grave. There for the first time it came over him that henceforth he must go all the way of his life without the sight of that face, without the touch of that hand on his shoulder, without the cheer of that voice. In floods his sense of loss swept his soul. It took all his manhood to refrain from throwing himself prone upon the little mound and yielding to the agony that flooded his soul, and that wrought in his heart physical pain. By a resolute act of will, he held himself erect. While he blamed and despised himself for his weakness, he was unable to shake it off. He did not know that his mental and emotional state was in large measure a physical reaction from the prolonged period of exhausting strain, his treble tour in the trenches, with its unrelieved sense of impending destruction, that its endless procession of broken, torn bodies, with its nights of sleepless activity, with its eternal struggle against depression, consequent upon the loss of his comrades, its eternal striving after cheeriness and more than all the shock of the train wreck, with its scenes of horror; all this had combined to reduce his physical powers of resistance to the point of utter exhaustion.

As he stood there in that cemetery with its rows of crosses, silently eloquent of heroism and of sacrifice, the spirit of the place seemed to breathe into him new life. As his eyes fell upon the cross bearing his father’s name, he seemed to see again that erect and gallant figure, instinct with life and courage. There came to him the memory of a scene he had never forgotten. Again he was with his father in the little home cottage. How dear it had been to him then! How dear to him, today! Once more he felt the strong grip of his father’s hand and heard his father’s voice:

“Good night, boy. We don’t know what is before us, defeat, loss, suffering, that part is not in our hands altogether, but the shame of the quitter never need and never shall be ours.”

Unconsciously as if he were in the presence of a superior officer, he lifted his hand in salute, and with a sense of renewal of his vital energies he returned to the boat.

During the crossing his mind was chiefly occupied with the problem of discovering the whereabouts of the V. A. D. or his American friends. He had never learned her London address, if indeed she had one. He remembered that she had told him that her home had been turned into a hospital. He had some slight hope that he might be able to trace her by the aid of her uncle.

Arrived in London, his first duty was to see Sergeant Matthews, whose injuries in the wreck were apparently more serious than at first supposed, safely disposed in a hospital ambulance. Thereupon he proceeded to the Hotel Cecil, and set himself seriously to the solution of his problem. He was too weary for clear thinking and as the result of long, confused and very vexing cogitation, he resolved upon a letter to Commander Howard Vincent, R. N. R. This, after much labour, he succeeded in accomplishing. Thereafter, much too weary for food, he proceeded to his room, where he gave himself up to the unimaginable luxury of a bath in a clean tub, and with an unstinted supply of clean towels, after which riotous indulgence, he betook himself to bed. As he lay stretched between the smooth clean sheets, he found it impossible to recall a state of existence when clean sheets had been a nightly experience. The chief regret of these semi-unconscious moments preceding slumber was that sleep would rob him of this delicious sense of physical cleanness and well-being.

He was wakened by a knock at his door, followed by a hesitating apology for intrusion. Rejoicing in the luxury of his surroundings, and in the altogether satisfying discovery that he might sleep again, he turned over and once more was lost in profound slumber. A second time he was aroused by a mild but somewhat anxious inquiry as to his welfare.

“I want nothing, only a little more sleep,” and again luxuriating for a few moments in his clean sheets and his peaceful environment, he resigned himself to sleep, to waken with a comfortable sense of pleasant weariness, which gradually passed into a somewhat acute sense of hunger.

He decided, after due consideration, that he would plumb the depths of bliss, unmeasured and unknown, and have breakfast in bed. He went to the window and looked out upon the murky light of a London day. He decided that it was still early morning, and rang for the waiter. He was informed by that functionary that breakfast was impossible, but that if he desired he could be supplied with an early dinner.

“Dinner!” exclaimed Barry.

He looked at his watch, but found that he had neglected to wind it, and that consequently it had stopped.

“What time do you make it, waiter?”

“Half after six, sir.”

He decided that he would rise for dinner, ‘phoned for a paper and his mail, and lay back between the sheets once more, striving to recapture that rapturous sense of welfare that had enwrapped him the night before. Luxuriating in this delightsome exercise, he glanced lazily at the heading of his paper, and then cried, as the paper boy was leaving the room,

“Hello! here, boy! what day is this?”

“Friday, sir,” said the boy, gazing at him in astonishment.

“Friday? Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir, Friday, sir. What does the paper say, sir?”

“Oh, yes, of course. All right.”

He had gone to bed on Wednesday night. He knew that because he remembered the date of his letter to Commander Howard Vincent, R. N. R. He made the astounding discovery that he had slept just forty-four hours. Then he made a second discovery and that was that of his precious eight days’ leave, three were already gone.

After he had dined he inquired at the desk for his mail, and searched through the telegrams, but there was nothing for him.

Then he betook himself to the streets, aware that the spectre of loneliness was hard on his trail, and swiftly catching up with him. London was roaring around him in the dark, like a jungle full of wild beasts, of whose shapes he could catch now and then horrid glimpses. Among all the millions in the city, he knew of no living soul to whom he could go for companionship, nor was there anything in form of amusement that specially invited him.

There was Grand Opera, of course, but from its associations with his father he knew that that would bring him only acute misery. Gladly would he have gone to the hospitals, but they would be shut against him at this hour. He bought an evening paper, and under a shaded lamp studied the amusement columns. Some of the Revues he knew to be simply tiresome, others disgusting. None of them appealed to him. Aimlessly he wandered along the streets, heedless of his direction, conscious now and then of an additional pang of wretchedness as he caught a glimpse now and then at a theatre door of young officers passing in with sweet faced girls on their arms,

At length in desperation he followed one such pair, and found himself listening to Cinderella. Its light and delicate fancy, its sweet pathos, its gentle humour lured him temporarily from his misery, but often there came back upon him the bitter memory of his comrades in their horrid environment of filth, danger and wretchedness.

He found some compensation in the thought that these officers beside him were like himself on leave, and while he envied them, he did not grudge them their delight in the play, and their obviously greater delight in their lovely companions beside them, but this again was neutralised by the bitter recollection of his own hard fate which denied him a like joy.

After the play he stood in the entrance hall, observing the crowd, indulging his sense of ill-usage at the hands of fate as he saw the officers lingering with many unnecessary touches over the cloaking of their fair partners, and as he caught the answering glances and smiles that rewarded their attentions.

His eyes followed the manoeuvrings of the painted ladies as they hovered about the doors, boldly busy with their profession. He understood as never before the nature of their lure and the overpowering subtlety of the temptation cast by them over the lonely soldier in London.

Close at his side he heard a voice:

“How do you like it, boy? Not bad, eh?”

“Awfully jolly, dad. It’s perfectly fine of you.”

He turned and saw a grey-haired gentleman, with upright soldierly figure, and walking with him, arm in arm, a young officer, evidently his son. He followed them slowly to the door, and eager to share if he might the joy of their comradeship, he listened to their talk. Then as they disappeared into the darkness, sick at heart, he passed out of the door, stood a moment to get his bearings, and sauntered beyond the radius of the subdued light about the entrance, into the darkness further on.

He had gone but a few paces, and was standing beneath a shaded corner light, meditating the crossing of the roaring street, when he heard behind him an eager voice crying,

“Captain Dunbar! Captain Dunbar!”

Swiftly he turned, and saw in the dim light a dainty figure, opera coat flowing away from gleaming arms and shoulders, a face with its halo of gold brown hair, with soft brown eyes ashine and eager parted lips, a vision of fluttering, bewildering loveliness bearing down upon him with outstretched hands.

“What,” he gasped, “you! Oh, you darling!”

He reached for her, gathered her in his arms, drew her toward him, and before either he or she was aware of what he intended to do, kissed her parting lips.

“Oh, how dare you!” she cried, aghast, pushing him back from her, her face in a red flame. “Oh, I’m so glad. I was afraid I should lose you.”

Barry, appalled at his own temerity, his eyes taking in the sweet beauty of her lovely face, stood silent, trembling.

“Well, aren’t you going to tell me you are glad to see me?” she cried, smiling up at him saucily.

“Phyllis,” he murmured, moving toward her.

“Stop,” she said, putting her hands out before her, as if to hold him off. “Remember where you are. I ought to be very angry, indeed.”

She drew him toward a dark wall.

“But you aren’t angry, Phyllis. If you only knew how I have wanted you in this awful place. Oh, I have wanted you.”

She saw that he was white and still trembling.

“Have you, Barry?” she asked, gently. “Oh, you poor boy. I know you have been through horrible things. No, Barry, don’t. You awful man,” for his hands were moving toward her again. “You must remember where you are. Look at all these people staring at us.”

“People,” he said, as if in a daze. “What difference do they make? Oh, Phyllis, you are so wonderfully lovely. I can’t believe it’s you, but it is, it is! I know your eyes. Are you glad to see me?” he asked shyly, his hungry eyes upon her face.

“Oh, Barry,” she whispered, the warm flush rising again in her cheeks, “can’t you see? Can’t you see? But what am I thinking about? Come and see mamma, and there’s another dear friend and admirer of yours with her.”

“Who? Not Paula?”

“No, not Paula,” she said, with a subtle change in her voice. “Come and see!”

She took his arm and brought him back to a motor standing at the theatre entrance.

“Oh, mamma, I have had such a race,” she cried excitedly, “and I have captured him. Barry, my mother.”

Barry took the offered hand, and gazed earnestly into the sad brown eyes that searched his in return.

“And here’s your friend,” said Phyllis.

“Hello, Pilot,” said a voice from a dark corner of the car.

“What, Neil! Oh, you boy,” he cried in an ecstasy, pushing both hands at him. “You dear old boy. How is the arm, eh? all right?”

“Oh! doing awfully well,” said Captain Neil. “And you?”

“Oh, never so well in all my life,” cried Barry. “Yet, to think of it, ten minutes ago, or when was it, I was in there a miserably homesick creature, envious of all the happy people about me, and now–“

While he was speaking, his eyes were on Mrs. Vincent’s face, but his hand was holding fast to her daughter’s arm. “Now it’s a lovely old town, and full of dear people.”

“Where are you putting up?” asked Mrs. Vincent.

“The Cecil.”

“Let us drive you there then,” she said.

During the drive Barry sat silent for the most part, listening to Phyllis talking excitedly and eagerly beside him, answering at random the questions which came like rapid fire from them all, but planning meanwhile how he should prolong these moments of bliss.

“How about supper?” he cried, as they arrived in the courtyard of the hotel. “Come in. I want you to; you see I have so much to ask and so much to tell Captain Fraser here, and three of my days are gone already. Besides, I want you to awfully.”

Mrs. Vincent looked at his face, which for all its brightness was worn and deep-lined, and her compassionate motherly heart was stirred.

“Of course we’ll come. We want to see you and to hear about your experiences.”

“Oh, bully!” cried Barry. “I shall always remember how good you are to me to-night.”

He was overflowing with excitement.

“Oh, this is great, Neil. It’s like having a bit of the old battalion here to see you again.”

While waiting for their orders to be filled at the supper table, Captain Neil turned suddenly to Barry and said, “What’s all this about a train wreck and the gallant O. C. train?”

“Yes, and this rescuing of men from burning cars,” exclaimed Phyllis.

“And knocking out insubordinates.”

“And being mentioned in despatches.”

“And receiving cheers at the station.”

“Now where did you get all that stuff?” inquired Barry.

“Why, all London is ringing with it,” said Captain Neil.

“Nonsense,” said Barry; “who’s been stuffing you?”

“Well,” said Phyllis, “we came across your sergeant to-day in the hospital. Such a funny man.”

“Who? Fatty Matthews?” asked Barry, turning to Captain Neil.

“Yes, it was Fatty,” said Captain Neil, “and if you had your rights by his account, you ought to be in command at this moment of an army corps at the very least. But you were O. C. leave train, were you not?”

“Yes, to my dismay I was made O. C., but I met a chap, Captain Courtney, a very decent fellow, my adjutant, and made him carry on.”

“My word, that was a stroke!”

“We had a wreck, a ghastly affair it was, though it might have been a lot worse. The R. A. M. C. people did magnificently, and the men behaved awfully well, so that we managed to get through.”

“And what about the O. C.?” inquired Captain Neil.

“Oh, nothing special. He just saw that the others carried on. Now tell me about you people. What have you been doing and what are you going to do?”

“Well, ‘we’re here, because we’re here,'” chanted Captain Neil.

“And why didn’t you send me word as to your movements?” said Barry. “What hours of agony you would have spared me!”

“But I did,” replied Phyllis. “I sent you our town address and told you everything.”

“Now isn’t that rotten!” exclaimed Barry. “Never mind, I’ve found you, and now what’s the programme?”

“Well,” cried Captain Neil with great enthusiasm, “we are all off to Edinburgh to-morrow, where we meet the Howlands, and then for a motor trip through the Highlands and to my ancestral home.”

Barry’s face fell. “To-morrow?” he said blankly, with a quick look at Phyllis. “And you are all going?”

“Not I,” said Mrs. Vincent, “but why should you not join the party? You need just such a change. It would do you good.”

“Sure thing he will,” cried Captain Neil.

During the supper they had firmly resolved to taboo the war. They talked on all manner of subjects, chiefly of the proposed motor trip, but in spite of the ban their talk would hark back to the trenches. For Captain Neil must know how his comrades were faring, and how his company was carrying on, and Barry must tell him of their losses, and all of the great achievements wrought by the men of their battalion. And Barry because his own heart was full of all their splendid deeds let himself go. He told how Sally and Booth had met their last call, of the M. O. and his splendid work in rescuing the wounded.

“No word in all of this of the Pilot, I observe,” interjected Captain Neil.

“Oh, he just carried on!”

Then he told how at last the M. O. went out, and how on his face there was only peace. He had to tell of Corporal Thom, and how he gave himself for his comrades and how Cameron kept the faith, a long list of heroes he had to enumerate, of whom the world was not worthy, whose deeds are unknown to fame, but whose names are recorded in the books of God. And then reverently he told of McCuaig.

As Barry talked, his heart was far away from London. He was seeing again that line of mud bespattered men, patiently plodding up the communication trench. He was looking upon them sleeping with worn and weary faces, in rain and mudsoaked boots and puttees, down in their flimsy, dark dugouts. He was hearing again the heavy “crash” of the trench mortar, the earth shaking “crumph” of the high explosive, the swift rush of the whizbang. Before his eyes he saw a steady line of bayonets behind a crumbling wall, then a quick rush to meet the attack, bomb and rifle in hand. He saw the illumined face of his dying friend.

As he told his tale, his face was glowing, his eyes gleaming as with an inner fire.

“Oh, God’s Mercy!” he cried, “they are men! They are men! Only God could make such men.”