The London Irish love Father Lane-Fox; he visited the men in the trenches daily, and all felt the better for his coming.
Often at night the sentry on watch can see a dark form between the lines working with a shovel and spade burying the dead. The bullets whistle by, hissing of death and terror; now and then a bomb whirls in air and bursts loudly; a shell screeches like a bird of prey; the hounds of war rend the earth with frenzied fangs; but indifferent to all the clamour and tumult the solitary digger bends over his work burying the dead.
"It's old Father Lane-Fox," the sentry will mutter. "He'll be killed one of these fine days."
CHAPTER XV
A Lover at Loos
The turrets twain that stood in air
Sheltered a foeman sniper there;
They found who fell to the sniper's aim,
A field of death on the field of fame—