THE DEATH OF THE TERRITORIAL, NIEUPORT.
May, 1915.
It has rained all day. Toward nightfall only did rain cease to fall. The sky is gray and heavy, but the air is fresh. The Marines in their dripping oilskins walk to and fro in the trench. The air is so clear that we can see, over there on the horizon, the silhouette of Bruges, with its old houses and high towers.
"It is sad to see you so mirage-like and far away, oh! Bruges the captive, brave city, in all your history you have thirsted for liberty——"
Two hours pass and it is time to rejoin my comrades at the cantonment. But I turn again and again to review the panorama before me.
I come at last to Nieuport. As I enter the principal street, I see going ahead a brave Territorial, who also returns to the cantonment unshaven and unkempt after his long vigil in the trenches. He is completely equipped with all his personal belongings, but is in no hurry. This brave man is leaving the front for good because he is the father of five children. He precedes me some thirty paces and I hasten to catch up with him.
We arrive at the top of the Casino, when, suddenly, a whistling announces the arrival of a shell—explosion, smoke—a jagged piece of metal strikes him in the head and I see the man fall in front of me.
The acrid smoke gags me, but I am quickly at his side. He is dead: fractured skull—his face purple—mouth open—his brains strewn on the pavement——
That night while I am at dinner with my comrades, an orderly comes to say that there is someone outside who wishes to speak with me. In the darkened passageway I scarcely recognize the chaplain of the 16th Territorials, a man very simple and good.
"Lieutenant, you know, without doubt, that we have had one of our men killed but a short while ago. We are going to bury him at sunrise. Unfortunately we have no one to play the organ—Figon is in the trenches—you will be very kind to play something for us."