"'And what became of him?' I asked.
"'Oh, I had him shot,' he told me.
"You see, sir," concluded the corporal, "he shot my chum. That's all, sir."
"But I don't understand," exclaimed the staff captain.
"He shot my chum," repeated the corporal, "so there was only one thing to do."
"So you shot him?" asked the officer, drumming his fingers on the table.
The soldier nodded. Then he saluted smartly and marched out.
V—THE STERN CALL OF DUTY
No embroidery is required to elaborate the following episode: it is a bit of grim reality. The Prussian Guard had just delivered an attack around Ypres. For days they had been paving the road to Calais with their own corpses. At that time, you will remember, we had no high explosive to spare to beat off these assaults; only shrapnel, and none too much of that. In an advanced trench before the British lines were the Northumberland Fusiliers, firing with another regiment. Commanding a fraction of the latter regiment was a young lieutenant, whose greatest chum happened to be directing the fire of our batteries. In those days each shot had to tell, and it was resolved that when the enemy rallied again for another attack, fire was to be held until the Germans were immediately in front of our trenches. Among the "Fighting Fifth," as the Northumberland Fusiliers are affectionately called, was Corporal R. J. Glasgow, of the 2nd Battalion. Many of his comrades had fallen that morning, and as he crouched in the ill-sheltered trench, an old "pal," who as a boy had worked with him on the Elswick Shipbuilding Yard on the Tyne, talked with him of old times. He offered the corporal a cigarette, and, as Glasgow felt through his pockets for a match, said:—
"I want to enjoy this smoke. It'll be our last together."