A most unlikely-looking person suggested "Abide with Me." When it was over, and the party, standing as rigid as their own rifles, had sung "God Save the King," the preacher announced awkwardly—almost apologetically—
"If any of you would like to—er—communicate, I shall be very glad. May not have another opportunity for some time, you know. I think over there"—he indicated a quiet corner of the wood, not far from the little cemetery—"would be a good place."
He pronounced the benediction, and then, after further recurrence to his saddle-bag, retired to his improvised sanctuary. Here, with a ration-box for altar, and strands of barbed wire for choir-stalls, he made his simple preparations.
Half a dozen of the men, and all the officers, followed him. That was just a week ago.
Captain Wagstaffe broke the silence at last.
"It's a rotten business, war," he said pensively—"when you come to think of it. Hallo, there goes the first star-shell! Come along, Bobby!"
Dusk had fallen. From the German trenches a thin luminous thread stole up into the darkening sky, leaned over, drooped, and burst into dazzling brilliance over the British parapet. Simultaneously a desultory rifle fire crackled down the lines. The night's work had begun.
(Ian Hay relates innumerable stories, each filled with absorbing human emotions. Among them are: "The Conversion of Private M'Slattery;" "Shooting Straight;" "Deeds of Darkness;" "The Gathering of the Eagles;" "The Battle of the Slag-Heaps," all of which are the narratives of a trained novelist direct from the battlefield.)
FOOTNOTES:
[4] All numerals relate to stories herein told—not to chapters in original sources.