“Now, may God help me,” said the major standing quite still a moment or two. “How did he get it?” he asked of a stretcher bearer. “Do you know?”
“Yes, sir, we had just picked up the last man. Sergeant Matthews got a wound in the leg, and we had to carry him. Just as we started, they got to shelling pretty bad and we dropped into a hole. I looked over my shoulder and there was the Pilot, the chaplain, sir, I mean, with his body spread over Sergeant Matthews, to keep off the shrapnel. It was there he got it.”
“Damn Sergeant Matthews,” exclaimed the major, and passed on.
Barry was lying on a stretcher, very white and very still, but the smile with which he welcomed the major was very bright.
“Awfully sorry—for you,—old chap,” he whispered. “Couldn't really—help—it—you know—we—got—them all—I'm—awfully—glad—to see you—just a minute—before—before—”
The major, by this time, was weeping quietly.
“You have—been—a good friend—to me—major—. We—have had—a good—time—together—. Say—goodbye—to—the boys—for—me—and——to to—Neil.”
“Oh, Barry, boy,” said the major, brokenly. “It's hard to have you go. You have helped us all.”
Barry fumbled with weak fingers at his breast. The major opened his tunic thinking that he needed air.
“My—my—let-ter—” he whispered.