“I’m afraid he’s some way off that yet; in the meanwhile, he is seeing a good bit of life.”
“And death,” mentally added Shafto.
“I say,” exclaimed Tremenheere, glancing at his wrist-watch, “it’s time for our dinner—come on!”
In the autumn of the same year, Shafto, who had again been severely wounded, was granted a month’s leave, and he and Sophy were married. It was the usual war wedding, no bridesmaids and no reception. Among the friends, “welcome at the church,” were the Gregorys, Tebbs, Larchers, MacNabs, Mrs. Malone, Mr. Hutton, and the Tremenheeres. Captain Tremenheere supported his friend as best man.
One specially bidden guest was absent from the gathering. He lay beneath a black wooden cross, near by to Guinchy, where gallant Irish regiments had immortalised their colours. Alas! Sergeant-Major Michael Ryan was among the missing. To the unspeakable grief of his comrades, he had gone West—but not to Ireland.