“This is where we say good-bye,” the youngster began regretfully, “thanks awf’ly for——”
“Rot,” broke in the other brusquely, taking the proffered hand in his big brown one. “Best of luck, old man, and don’t forget to drop me a card.”
“A nice boy, a very nice boy,” he mused, as he climbed into the military bus, and was rattled off, back to the mud and slush and dreariness of it all.
“Have a good time?” asked the Transport Officer the next morning, as the Lonely One struggled into his fighting kit, preparatory to rejoining the battalion in the trenches.
“Yes, thanks. By the way, any mail for me?”
“One letter. Here you are.”
He took it, looked an instant at the handwriting, and thrust it inside his tunic. The postmark was the same as that of the wire he had received at the port of embarkation.
THREE RED ROSES
In the distance rose the spires of Ypres, and the water-tower, useless now for the purpose for which it was built, but still erect on its foundations. The silvery mist of early April hung very lightly over the flat surrounding land, hiding one corner of Vlamertinghe from sight, where the spire of the church still raised its head, as yet unvanquished. A red sun was rising in the East, and beyond Ypres a battle still raged, though nothing to the battle of a few short days before. Hidden batteries spoke now and then, and the roads were a cloud of dust, as men, transport, guns, and many ambulances passed along them. Overhead aeroplanes droned, and now and again shells whistled almost lazily overhead, to fall with a thunderous “crrumph” in Brielen and Vlamertinghe.
By the canal there was a dressing-station. The little white flag with its red cross hung listless in the still air. Motor ambulances drove up at speed and departed with their burdens. Inside the dressing-station men worked ceaselessly, as they had been working for days. Sometimes shells fell near by. No one heeded them.