“That makes seven in a week,” said Tommy after a pause. “How’d it happen?”
“Same old thing. Wings came off.”
A bugle called. Most of the flying lieutenants went outside and, joining others from near-by barracks, formed in line. A few commands, and they were in one of the rivers of mud which served as roads at the field. Presently they were halted behind three long two-wheeled pushcarts; each cart bore a long box covered with an American flag. The mourners stood in the mud for half an hour waiting, and then a dispirited looking band appeared. Its bass drum echoed boom-boom-boom-boom-boom, and the procession started.
Through the gate of the camp it went, and out on to the main road, while the drum kept up its sad, hollow sound. Yard after yard, rod after rod, until the cortège had walked two miles. Then it turned into a young but flourishing cemetery, with red, raw mounds in orderly lines.
The men were formed around three fresh graves. A pale-faced Y. M. C. A. man stumbled through the burial service. A red-faced Knight of Columbus did likewise. A Frenchman flew over and dropped some dessicated roses. Then they all marched away again; only the boxes and a small burial party remained behind.
The band struggled with its one tune, a lively quickstep, according to regulations. Two old peasants drew their cart to one side of the road to let them pass.
“Comme ils sont trists, les ’tits Americains!” said the woman.
“Quelle musique!” answered her spouse.
The three chums went back to their bunks.