At the offertory, I played the sad melody on the organ I had improvised during the night. I put all my heart and emotion into it. But soon everything seemed to grow dark within me—saw in the distance the towers of Bruges and, close, a coffin and a sheet of blood——
"Dies irae, Dies illa——"
ON PATROL BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
May, 1915.
Before starting out I have taken my automatic pistol out of its scabbard and slipped it in my pocket.
I must go to the other side of the canal to the farm of the "Dead Cow." An ensign from the cruiser X—— accompanies me with a dozen or so men.
Two of my sappers go along to aid the installation over there of an infernal machine. As German patrols reconnoiter the farm it will be a good turn at their game——
As darkness falls we tumble into a boat and cross the evacuation canal. All this is done with marked silence. We creep along revolver in hand. There is no one in the ruins of the farm. The patrol spreads itself around us, and during this interval, with my two poilus, I install the snare for the boches!
The work ended, we fall silently back.
Not a shot!
We have returned to our lines without an incident!