A Lady’s Handkerchief
I found myself mixed up with a French regiment on the right. I wanted to go forward with them, but the officer in charge shook his head and smiled. “They will spot you in your khaki and put you out in no time,” he said in English; “make your way to the left; you’ll find your fellows on that hill.” I watched the regiment till it disappeared; then I made my way across a field and up a big avenue of trees. The shells were whistling overhead, but there was nothing to be afraid of. Half-way up the avenue there was a German lancer officer lying dead by the side of the road. How he got there was a mystery because we had seen no cavalry. But there he lay, and someone had crossed his hands on his breast and put a little celluloid crucifix in his hands. Over his face was a beautiful little handkerchief—a lady’s—with a lace edging. It was a bit of a mystery because there wasn’t a lady for miles that I knew of: A British Infantryman.