The Colonel walked to the foot of each grave in turn, and gently threw on each poor shattered remnant a red rose. Straightening himself, he stood long at the salute, and then, with a stern, set face, he strode away, to where the Padre awaited him, not caring that his eyes were wet. The Padre said nothing, but took his hand and gripped it.
“Padre,” said the Colonel, “those three were more to me than any other of my officers; I thought of them as my children.”
ADJUTANTS
If Fate cherishes an especial grievance against you, you will be made an Adjutant.
One of those bright beautiful mornings, when all the world is young and, generally speaking, festive, the sword of Damocles will descend upon you, and you will be called to the Presence, and told you are to be Adjutant. You will, perhaps, be rather inclined to think yourself a deuce of a fellow on that account. You will acquire a pair of spurs, and expect to be treated with respect. You will, in fact, feel that you are a person of some importance, quite the latest model in good little soldiers. You may—and this is the most cruel irony of all—be complimented on your appointment by your brother officers.
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, saith the preacher!
As soon as you become the “voice of the C.O.,” you lose every friend you ever possessed. You are just about as popular as the proverbial skunk at a garden-party. It takes only two days to find this out.
The evening of the second day you decide to have a drink, Orderly Room or no Orderly Room. You make this rash decision, and you tell the Orderly-Room Sergeant—only heaven knows when he sleeps—that you are going out.
“I will be back in half an hour,” you say.
Then you go forth to seek for George—George, your pal, your intimate, your bosom friend. You find George in your old Coy. head-quarters, and a pang of self-pity sweeps over you as you cross the threshold and see the other fellows there: George, Henry, John, and the rest.