"Show a leg, Grant, show a leg, cookhouse up," was yelled at me as daylight broke, and up we tumbled. I was much relieved that Billy was looking and acting as if nothing whatever disturbed him, except the possibility of being a second behind anybody else in getting to the cookhouse.
Although we were bosom friends and companions, there was just a shade of the big-brother idea on my part of the fellowship, and I kept track of him whenever and wherever I could. This was not alone because of the congenial soul that was within him, but, also, because I had learned through him to know his mother. And such a mother! It is a forward impetus on life's journey to know such a woman, and I knew instinctively she would expect me to keep an eye on him. And so, while I was fulfilling my duty, I had the double satisfaction of having combined with it the pleasure of association with a fellow whose tastes and ideals were absolutely akin to my own. There was no confidence we did not share; we laid bare our hearts to each other; in short, we were chums in every sense that the word implies.
Billy was ready for breakfast a second or two ahead of me, and he started up the steps, out through the door of the dugout. "I'm coming," I called, and grabbed my mess-tin and went up the steps two at a time. I reached the top and the door of the dugout, and, simultaneously, a roar and rush of air struck me, and I was thrown to the floor, stunned for the moment. My senses quickly recovered themselves, and I found my face and clothes dripping with blood. I commenced looking for my wound, but failed to find any. The discovery momentarily mystified me. It was blood, but whose? There was no report or explosion. A dead shell! A terrible fear took possession of me, and I shot up the steps into the trench. The Thing that met my eyes stilled my heart with a chill. The headless body of Billy lay at my feet. It was his life's blood that covered my face and clothes. A mist shrouded my brain for a moment, as I leaned against the side of the trench, utterly unable to speak or think. Then as the truth of the Thing worked its way into my brain, I glanced around for the cause. A large, jagged hole had been torn through in our front trench wall by a 300-pound shell, had snuffed out my pal's life in its course, and buried itself in the parados of the trench. There it was, the rear end of it just inside the outside edge of the hind trench wall, and when it exploded it meant death for any living thing within a radius of several yards.
Nature's primal law asserted itself and I dragged the remains of my best-loved friend several yards away and took from his pockets all his belongings and trinkets, and when I came to the photograph, partly stained with his heart's blood, hot, scalding tears blinded my eyes, and in deference to my dead friend's desire, I retained the photo, intending to get the news and picture back to her—in person, if possible. The O.C. took charge of the balance of his effects.
Disregarding all thought of my own peril from the unexploded shell which lay at the mouth of our dugout, I ran down the steps and got a blanket, in which I wrapped the poor headless body, and then reported to the O.C. and received orders to keep my men away from the spot for twelve hours. I hastened to the cookhouse and imparted the news to the men, as well as the orders. Heartfelt expressions of regret came from all, for in spite of his constitutional nervousness, Billy was a prime favorite. But I knew that I was the only one with whom the pain and sting would live; the men were so calloused by such happenings that they no longer made a lasting impression.
That was the longest and dreariest day I ever remember throughout my three years of campaigning. No thought of my turn coming entered my head, as I had so schooled myself into the belief that Fritz could not make a shell for me that I had long since ceased to give the matter any consideration whatsoever.
The day's work kept me from giving way to grief, and at nine o'clock that night, when in the cookhouse, I heard a whistle and someone shouted my name. It was our O.C., Major Wright. I hastened to his dugout.
"Sergeant Grant, I want you to take a party of six and make a grave and bury poor McLean. I know something of the relationship that existed between you, and I know that you will spare no effort to see that he is properly buried. While you are working I will try and fashion a cross for him. Report as soon as you are finished."
"Yes, sir," and I saluted and went to the dugout occupied by my squad. The men were either reading or writing letters, and not only the six, but the ten of them responded, dropping their letters and books, and asked to take part in the burial. So we paddled through the darkness and the mud to where the body lay, and as we approached we noticed several huge rats scurrying away from it. A hatred for the vermin almost as intense as for the Hun has possessed me ever since. Of course, the bestiality of the latter has descended to such depths of infamy that it is impossible quite to class them with any other breed of vermin; it would be an insult even to the rat.
We dug the grave as well as we could, assisted by such light as we got from the intermittent flashes of the guns and the edge of the flare gleams sent up by the enemy every little while. When the melancholy work was almost complete, I hurried over to the O.C. and he handed me the simple cross he had made,—just two pieces of wood with the inscription, "William McLean, C.E.F., September 30th, 1916, R.I.P."