"He thinks it is, probably," said the O. C.

Barry found a great hole in the road with the officer's horse lying disembowelled beside it, kicking in his death agony. There was no sign of his rider anywhere. Fortunately there was a gap in the column, so that no one else was near enough to be injured.

As Barry stood gazing about, a voice hailed him from the ditch, which was several feet deep.

"I say, sir," said the voice, "I wouldn't just stay there. They generally send over four of 'em. That's only the third. I find this ditch very convenient, though somewhat mucky."

Barry looked at him in astonishment. He was white and shaken, covered with mud, but trying to get his cigarette case open.

"I'd get off, sir, if I were you," he said, "until the next one comes. Quick, sir, I hear it now."

Barry needed no second invitation. He flung himself headlong into the ditch beside the young fellow, but the shell dropped into the field beyond.

"That's as near as I like 'em," said the young officer, scraping the mud off his clothes. "My poor, old gee-gee got it though." He drew his revolver and shot the wounded animal. "It's hard on the horses. You see, they can't dodge," he added.

"I say, my boy," said Barry, for the lieutenant was only a boy, "that was a near thing for you. What are you going to do now?"

"Oh, just carry on," said the boy. "The relief will be along in a few hours. Beastly mess, eh?" he continued, but whether he referred to the disembowelled horse or the state of his own uniform, Barry could not say.

"You are sure you are all right?" said Barry, as he shook hands with him. "I'm awfully glad you weren't hurt."

"So am I," said the boy heartily. "Awfully rotten to be potted out here playing a bally policeman, eh? What? Well, good luck, sir," and Barry rode off to join his column with a deep admiration in his heart for the English school boy who, when war began, was probably a fifth form lad, in whose life the most dangerous episode would be a ball taken full off bat at point, or a low tackle on the Rugby field.

At Divisional Headquarters, they met the general, who after a conversation with the O. C. greeted Barry warmly.

"So you have gone and done it, young man. Well, I admire your nerve, and I congratulate you. I happen to know the family very well. As a matter of fact there is some remote connection, I believe. By the way, I have a communication from London for you," he added, drawing Barry to one side, and giving him a little slip. "I happen to know about it," he continued, while Barry was reading his telegram, "and say, if I can be of any assistance, I shall be very glad. It's a step up, you see. I have no doubt it can be put through quite easily and quickly, and I believe the step is coming to you."

Barry stood with his eyes upon the dispatch. It was an offer of a hospital appointment at the base, and carried with it his majority.

"I have no doubt the missus will be pleased, eh?" said the general with a grin.

Barry pulled out a letter from his pocket, opened it and handed it to the general, pointing to a paragraph. The general took it and read,

"And Barry, dear, remember that though you have a wife now, your duty to your country is still your first duty. I would hate that any thought of me should make it harder for you to carry on."

The general folded up the letter, put it slowly into its envelope, and handed it back to Barry.

"I know her," he said simply. "I should expect nothing else from her. You are a lucky dog, but, of course," he added, with a swift glance at Barry's face, "some one must take that job."

"I fancy, sir, there are many for it, who are hardly fit for this work up here," replied Barry quietly. "I think, sir, I'll just carry on where I am."

"You are quite sure?" inquired the general. "Don't you want a day or two to think it over?"

"I am quite sure, sir," said Barry, "I am quite sure that my wife would approve."

"Very well, then," said the general, "let me handle this for you, and let me say, sir, that I am proud to have you in my division."

So saying, he gripped Barry's hand hard, and turned abruptly away to the others.

They rode to their camp in almost complete silence, except for a grunt or two from the O. C. who seemed in a grumpy mood.

When they arrived at Headquarters, the O. C. drew up his horse and turning to the major, said,

"I don't know just what to do with this Pilot of ours. He is a fool in some ways."

"A darned fool, sir," said the major emphatically.

"And," continued the major, "I am selfish enough to say that I am damned glad—I won't apologise, Pilot—that he decided to stay with us. It would have been just a little harder to carry on if he had left us."

"Yes," growled the major, "but, oh, well, we have got to stick it I guess. The Pilot is a soldier all right."

There was nothing further said about the matter, but next day as Barry walked about the camp, among the men, their eyes followed him as he passed, and every officer in the mess seemed to discover an errand that took him to Barry's tent.

Two days later the Canadians moved up into the line and took over from the Australians. They followed the Bapaume Road toward Pozieres, passing through a country which had seen the heaviest fighting in the war.

"This," said the O. C., drawing aside from the road, and riding to a slightly rising ground, "is La Boiselle, or at least where it was, and that I fancy is the famous mine crater. Sixty thousand pounds of gun cotton blew up that hole."

There was absolutely no sign of the village, the very foundations of the houses, and the cellars having the appearance of a ploughed field.

"That was a desperate fight," continued the O. C. "It was here that the Middlesex men made their great charge. Fifty men reported from the battalion when it was over. In that village they had a whole division fighting before they were through, Middlesex men, Royal Scots and Irish, for three days and three nights."

As they rode along, the guns on either side began their evening chorus and from the far rear came the roaring rush of the H. E.'s like invisible express trains hurtling through the air. It was music to their ears, and they rode forward with a new feeling in their hearts, for there appeared to be almost no reply from the enemy guns.

The battalion took to the trenches at the crossing of the Pozieres Road, and so effective was the counter-battery work that they were able to settle down into their battle positions without casualties. The R. A. P. was in a deep German dug-out thirty feet below the surface, with double entrances and heavily timbered. It had been most elaborately prepared, planked on sides and floor, and fitted with electric lights. There were two main rooms, with a connecting corridor, leading to each entrance. They found an Australian medical officer in charge.

"These chaps were regular settlers, weren't they?" said Barry, after they had exchanged greetings.

"Yes, sir, they intended to sty, apparently," said the Australian, in his slow drawl. "We found some letters on a wounded officer indicating their intention to remyn for the durytion, but we wanted the plyce—couldn't carry on without it in fact. It's quite a good plyce, too," he added with a cheerful grin.

"Why, it's just bully," said the M. O. "I am only sorry that we can't promise you as good in The Salient."

"I hear it is rather rotten, eh, sir?" said the Australian.

"Not as bad as Gallipoli, though," said Barry. "By Jove! You Australian chaps did magnificently down there. Must have been a perfect hell."

"Oh, yes, quite hot for a while, but I fancy you Canydians didn't have any afternoon tea party in The Sylient, eh? My word, there was some fighting there. Oh, there it comes," he added.

As he spoke a muffled explosion was heard, and the dug-out rocked, and the candles flickered.

"Can they get you down here?" inquired the M. O.

"I fancy a direct hit from a really big H. E. would disturb our little home, but nothing else would. Of course, a shell in the door wye would be a bit awkward, you knaow," replied the Australian.

The night, however, passed quietly, and except for a few slightly wounded walking cases, there was little work to do. The Canadians decided that in coming to the Somme, they had made a most happy exchange.

A quiet day followed the night, but the whole battalion was keyed up with intense expectation for the attack which they knew was fixed for the night following. With expectation mingled curiosity. They knew all about raiding; that was their own specialty, but they were curious as to the new style of fighting which they knew to be awaiting them, the capturing, holding and consolidating of a line of enemy trenches.

Nightfall brought the opportunity to gratify their curiosity. For two hours before the attack, their guns put down the barrage to cover the front line of enemy trenches, and to dispose of his wire.

The M. O. and Barry, with the Australian and their whole staff, made their way to a ridge a few yards distant to see the show.

"Great Heaven, what is that?" inquired the M. O., pointing to what seemed to be a line of flickering watch fires upon the crest of a neighbouring rising ground.

"Guns! Ours," said the Australian, surprised at the M. O.'s excitement.

"Guns! My Lord, guns, Barry," shouted the M. O.

"Guns? And in the open! And on a hill! And wheel to wheel!" cried Barry. "Thank the good Lord I have lived to see this day. Look at the boys," he added in a low tone, to the Australian beside him.

They glanced over their shoulders and saw two of the orderlies executing a fox-trot in the heavy shell-ploughed soil.

"What's the row?" inquired the Australian.

"Why, my dear chap," replied the M. O., "don't you know we have never seen a gun in action in the open that way. Our guns operated only from holes and corners, from hedges and cellars. Otherwise they'd be spotted and knocked out in an hour."

"Ow!" said the Australian, "our bird men attended to that the first dye of the fight. They sye there was a double line of observation balloons along the lines, ours and theirs up to the 30th of June. The next morning not a Boche balloon was to be seen. Our plynes put their eye out in a single afternoon. Since that time, we hold over them in the air. Ah! There are the heavies coming up now. The full chorus will be on in half a minute."

A few seconds later, the truth of the Australian's prophecy was demonstrated. The full chorus was on. For two hours the barrage raged, and the din was such that they had to shout in each other's ears to be heard. The hilltops were ringed with darting tongues of red flame as though belched out by a thousand fabled dragons. It was as if the air above was filled with millions of invisible demons, whining, moaning, barking, shrieking in a fury of venomous hate, while at regular intervals came the express train roar of the twelve, fifteen and sixteen inch guns.

"It's almost worth while to have lived through those months in The Salient," said Barry, "to get the full enjoyment of this experience. Well do I remember the day when our O. C. asked for 'retaliation,' and was told he could have six rounds, I think it was, or eight. Meanwhile our trenches and dug-cuts were going up in bloody mud."

"I think we might as well go below," said the Australian. "They will be coming in presently."

But Barry and the M. O. remained long after the first coming in shells began to drop around. That barrage so long waited for, and so ardently desired, was worth some risk.

Soon the wounded began to arrive, and throughout the whole night, the M. O. and his staff were busy at their work. On the arrival of the zero hour, the barrage lifted.

"Well, good luck go with the boys," said the Australian, fervently. "They are out and over now. We'll get some of them presently."

Throughout the night, a stream of walking wounded kept flowing in. Jubilant, exultant in spite of their pain, they bore with them the joyful report that they had shifted the Hun from his trenches and his deep dug-outs, and were still advancing. Singing at the top of their voices, they came limping in, bloody and muddy, but wild with exultation and joy. The day long looked for by the Canadians had arrived. They were getting something of their own back.

The next day revealed the full extent of the achievement. The whole Canadian line had swept forward for over a thousand yards, had captured strong points, a fortified sunken road, the famous "sugar refinery" and, overrunning their objective, had captured the village of Courcelette, as well. It was a gallant little fight, and quite a notable achievement.

After two days the battalion was pulled out, having suffered comparatively slight losses, and more than ready to return when the opportunity should come.

The next three weeks were spent in minor operations, consolidating positions, repelling counter-attacks, and preparing for the real "big go," in which the Canadians were to take their part in the advance of the whole allied line, after which the battalion was sent into reserve for a few days' respite.

The Canadian line was gradually wearing thin, but the spirit of those who survived was the spirit of the whole allied line,—the spirit that claimed victory and was not to be denied. As to the nature of the task awaiting them, however, they well knew that it was to be a fight in which the last ounce of resolution and only the last ounce would carry them through to their objective.

The experiences of the allies during the past months had wrought in them a settled conviction that victory was awaiting them, and a settled resolution that that victory they would secure at all cost soever.

At length the day arrived, a dull October day, overhung with rain clouds and thick with chill mist. On the parade ground the battalion was drawn up for the service which always preceded an attack.

The operations of the past month had reduced the battalion to about half its fighting strength. Only some five hundred men, with officers barely sufficient to direct their movements, looked back at Barry through the mist as he faced them for the service.

"Truly my soul waiteth upon God: from him cometh my salvation," he read. The psalm might have been written for the occasion.

"He only is my rock and my salvation; he is my defence: I shall not be moved.

"My soul, wait thou only upon God: for my expectation is from him.

"He only is my rock and my salvation: he is my defence: I shall not be moved.

"In God is my salvation, and my glory: the rock of my strength, and my refuge is in God.

"Trust in him at all times; ye people, pour out your heart before him. God is a refuge for us."

Barry made only a single comment upon the psalm, "Men, nothing can move God, and nothing can move those whose trust is in God. Remember God is to be trusted."

The reading was followed by the General Confession, the Absolution and a brief extemporary prayer, concluding with the Lord's Prayer. As Barry was mounting his horse a runner brought him an order from his divisional chief, directing him to report at the casualty clearing station in Albert for immediate duty. He carried the order to the O. C.

"Look at this!" he stormed.

"Too bad! Too bad!" said the O. C. "Rotten luck for you."

"Look here, sir," said Barry, "I have always gone up with the battalion, and I think—"

"I fancy they are getting on to you, Dunbar. You know you have rather shirked the C. C. S. duty," said the O. C. with a smile.

"Isn't there some way out of this? If I got a substitute—"

"A soldier obeys orders, Captain Dunbar," said the O. C. gravely.

"Yes, sir, I know, but—"

"And he doesn't say 'but'," continued the O. C. "No, Barry," he added in a kindly voice, "I have no responsibility or authority in this. I'd be glad to have you come up with us. We are going into the 'big thing' this time, I know, but perhaps it's just as well. You go your way and we'll go ours. I'd like to say this to you, however, my boy, you have been a great help to me with the men."

His tone was grave but kind, and it sent to Barry's heart a chill of foreboding. "Good-bye, Barry," he added, shaking hands with him.

"Good-bye, sir. Good luck, sir. May I say, sir," said Barry, "that you have helped me immensely with my duty."

"Do you say so, Barry?" said the O. C., a note of surprise in his voice. "I'm delighted to know that."

"God keep you, sir," said Barry earnestly.

"Thank you, sir. We are in His keeping, aren't we?" and turning in his saddle, he gave the order to advance.

Barry rode with the column to the very mouth of the communication trench running to Pozieres, dropping into step with each company commander for a time, and leaving each with a cheery word of farewell. At the mouth of the trench, he stood watching the men as they stepped down and out of his sight, giving them a word of good cheer and good luck as they passed, and receiving in return answering smiles and greetings. Then with eyes unseeing, he rode back to camp, heavy of heart, for he knew well that many of these faces he would see no more.

The zero hour was fixed for five a. m. the following morning. As the hour drew near, Barry at his work in the C. C. S., found in his heart the words of the psalm, "My soul wait thou only upon God . . . I shall not be moved." That wounds and death were awaiting many of them he well knew, and his prayer was that they might meet the fate appointed them with unshaken faith and courage.

By seven o'clock the wounded began to arrive and an hour later the C. A. M. C. marquee was filled to overflowing with a cue of wounded men forming outside in the falling rain. The suffering in their pale and patient faces stirred in him a poignant sympathy. There was the chaplain service tent adjoining. He ran to find the chaplain in charge.

"Tell me," he said, "may we use your marquee for wounded men?"

"Sure thing. It will never be used for a better purpose."

Barry returned to the O. C. of the C. C. S.

"Why not direct that a part of this stream be sent to the adjoining tent for registration, and for anti-tetanus hypodermics? These poor chaps are standing out in the rain, chilled to the bone and ready to drop."

"For Heaven's sake do it," said the O. C. "We are really up against it here. Can you take that off my hands?"

"I'll try," said Barry.

In a few minutes the congestion at the door of the marquee was relieved and the wounded men, to their own vast comfort, were bestowed upon the benches and chairs in the chaplain service tent. But something further was necessary to their comfort.

"Draper," said Barry to the chaplain in charge of the tent, "you see these men? They have had nothing to eat since last night. They have fought a battle, been wounded, and walked out some five miles or so, since then. It's eight o'clock now. What about it?"

"What about it?" exclaimed the chaplain. "You watch me!"

He ran to the Y. M. C. A. tent, enlisted the secretary's aid and in twenty minutes they together had transported to the chaplain service tent coffee and cocoa urns, and with an organised band of assistants were supplying the wounded with warming and comforting nourishment. Never had those splendid services more quickly and effectively justified their place in the army.

With the wounded came rumours, more or less fantastic, of disaster. Something terrible had befallen the whole Canadian line. It was difficult to get at the truth. As with all rumours, they contradicted each other and left the mind in a chaos of perplexity. The battalion had run into wire, where the machine guns had found it, the battalion was practically wiped out, it had found cover in a trench and was still holding on, the O. C. was wounded, the O. C. was killed, and with him every company commander.

Again and again, Barry sent men to the signals to learn the truth, but it was found impossible to get a message through. That an overwhelming disaster had befallen his battalion was abundantly evident from the numbers of wounded. With his heart growing numb with pain he struggled with his work. Gradually, he was forced to accept as true that a large proportion of the battalion were casualties, that the O. C. was wounded, possibly dying, that many of the officers had fallen and that the remainder were still holding a precarious position, and fighting for their lives.

"I shall not be moved," he had read to them last night. The promise was being fulfilled in the men of his battalion. They could die at the wire or in the trench, but they could not be moved. While mechanically carrying on his work, his mind was with the fighting, dying remnant of his comrades. The O. C. of the C. C. S. passing on his rounds found Barry carrying on with tears blinding his eyes so that he could hardly see the figures he was entering in his record.

"Your men are having a hell of a time, I hear," said the O. C. "I say, boy," he added, glancing at Barry's haggard face, "let up for a while."

"I'm all right, sir," said Barry, through his teeth. "Excuse me, really I'm all right. It is a bit difficult to carry on when you know that your friends are being cut to pieces, but I'm all right, sir."

"All right, my boy," said the O. C., "we're up against it to-day. I'll come for you in a few minutes, and we'll have a bit to eat."

Barry shook his head. He was too sick to eat, but the O. C. knew better than he just what he wanted. In a few minutes he returned with an assistant who took Barry's place.

"Come along, boy," said the O. C. cheerfully. "We have got to feed the living that we may care for the wounded and dying."

"You are quite right, sir," said Barry. "I am ashamed of myself. I'll be fit in a few minutes."

"Don't apologise for one moment," said the colonel, "if you felt any less deeply than you do, you'd be something less than a man. We'll get into touch with the Divisional Headquarters, and try to get the facts."

He had no sooner reached his private room than his signaller informed him that Divisional Headquarters had just been trying to get him. It took some time, however, to get the message through. Meantime, the Colonel was handling Barry with a wise and skillful touch. He made him eat and eat heartily, seeking to divert his mind in the meantime from the disaster that had befallen the battalion to the big issues at stake, and pointing out with resolute cheerfulness that the calamity that had befallen the battalion was only a temporary setback.

"We're winning, my boy, and we're paying the price," he said.

At length signals got the D. H. Q. and called the colonel to the phone. After a few minutes' conversation, the O. C. called Barry.

"The general wants to speak to you, padre," and Barry with an apprehensive heart went to the phone.

"Oh, that you, Captain Dunbar?" It was the general's voice and somehow it carried with it an atmosphere of calm and cheerful confidence. "How are you getting on?"

"Oh, sir, very well. We are terribly anxious, of course."

"That's natural," said the general quietly. "We have had rather a serious reverse. Your whole brigade met with wire, and I fear they suffered heavily. The men behaved with great steadiness and are still splendidly holding. We are, of course, making every effort to relieve them, and with good hope of success."

"Have you heard of my O. C.?" inquired Barry.

"I fear rather bad news, Dunbar. Indeed, I fear he is seriously wounded. We have sent him straight on to Contay. Your officers have suffered quite severely."

"Have you heard what the casualties are, sir?"

"Not exactly," replied the General. "We shall not know until evening, but we must be prepared for a heavy loss. By the way, can you be spared from the casualty clearing station? I hear you are doing fine work there. If you can run up, I can send my car for you."

"I'm afraid not, sir, just now. Perhaps later on in the afternoon."

"Let me speak to Colonel James," said the general.

The O. C. came to the phone.

"Yes, sir," he said.—"Well, we are short handed just now.—He is really necessary at the present moment.—Yes, later on we'll send him up.—Very well, sir.—We are doing our best."

The calm and confident bearing of his superior officer, made Barry ashamed of the unnerving emotion from which he had been suffering all morning. He returned to his work resolved to put aside all personal considerations. The thing in which they were engaged was vastly more important than the fate of any individual or of any battalion. Victory was necessary, was guaranteed, and was demanding its price. That price was being paid, and to that price every man must make his contribution.

Toward night the stream of wounded gradually grew less, and the O. C. sent Barry, in a returning ambulance, up to the Divisional Headquarters. The serenity with which the general received him did much to restore Barry's poise, which had been severely shaken by the strain of the night and day with the wounded in the casualty clearing station and by the heartracking agony he had suffered over the loss of his comrades.

"Come in, Dunbar," said the general kindly. "Take a seat for a few minutes. Have a cigar. These you will find are good, I think."

"Thank you, sir. I will take a cigarette, if I may," said Barry, helping himself from a box on the table.

He had not been many minutes in the dug-out until he began to catch the reactions of the place. The spirit was one of controlled but concentrated energy. It was the spirit of the divisional commander, and it passed from him to the humblest orderly in the room. There was swiftness of action, alertness of mind, and with these a complete absence of hurry or confusion. Runners were continually arriving with urgent messages, phones insisting upon immediate answer, officers coming in with business of vast importance, but with no sign of flurry, the work of the Divisional Headquarters went swiftly and smoothly on.

At length there was a pause in the rush of calls upon the general's attention.

"Come in this way," he said to Barry, and led him to a smaller room at the back of the dug-out.

"Very comfortable quarters these. They seem to have done themselves quite well, haven't they? It is most convenient, for we certainly should not have taken pains to construct such elaborate dug-outs as these we have fallen heir to. Find a seat, Dunbar. I have got the latest reports." His voice was very gentle and very kindly. "Yes," he continued, "we have had a bad night's work. Uncut wire and an enfilade from a redoubt which should have been blown up. The casualties are very heavy."

"What are they?" Barry asked.

"Quite heavy, Dunbar, I'm afraid. Only some fifty have reported so far."

"Fifty!" cried Barry. "Out of five hundred!"

"There will doubtless some more drop in," added the general, "but we must be prepared for a heavy loss, far heavier, both in officers and men, than we can afford. The Battalion Headquarters was terribly wrecked by a succession of direct hits. Only a few of the staff escaped unhurt. Colonel Leighton was a fine officer. I had a great admiration, indeed, affection, for him. I know how you felt towards him, and he to you."

The steadiness in his voice brought quiet, but the kindness in it brought strength, and comfort. Barry became suddenly aware of the crushing load of responsibility upon this gentle-voiced man. He was eager to help.

"I wish I could help you, sir," he said. "I am sure we are all ready to do our best."

"I know that, Dunbar, and all are needed. Major Duff has gone out badly injured. The only officers remaining unhurt in the front line are Major Bayne and Captain Fraser, both of whom are splendidly carrying on. And you, too, have given great help to-day. Colonel James assures me that your initiative and resourcefulness were of the greatest service to him. Oh, by the way, a message came through in a letter the other day, that I should have sent you, but other things put it out of my mind, I am sorry to say." He touched a bell. "You see I had to tell your wife, Dunbar, of your determination to stay by us," he added with a smile. "Get me my private post-bag, please," he said to the orderly. He selected a letter from a packet, opened it, and pointed to a page. Barry recognised the handwriting as his wife's. He read:

"I need not assure you it was none of my family's doing to get that appointment for Barry. I was not surprised that he declined it, but then you see I know Barry. He is at the place where I would want him to be."

Barry kept his eyes steadily upon the words until he should be sure of his voice. His heart was thrilling with pride in the girl who had given herself to him. As the moments passed, he there and then vowed that by God's grace, he would not shame her nor belie her trust in him.

"Thank you, sir," he said quietly, handing the letter back.

"Helps a bit, eh, what?" said the general. "We can't let our women down, can we?"

"No, sir," said Barry. "Is there nothing I can do?" His voice was as steady and quiet as the general's.

"Oh, thank you, just the C. C. S., I fancy, at present."

At that point the door opened, and the corps commander came in, wearing a very tired and anxious face.

"Bad business, general," he said, with a single word of greeting and ignoring Barry.

"Yes, a very bad business, sir," said the divisional commander, and Barry fancied he caught a new note in his voice, a note of sternness, almost of challenge.

"Seems that we missed that wire, eh, along here?" said the corps commander, putting his finger upon a map which lay on the table.

"We must have that patrolled very carefully, you know." There was a note of criticism in his voice.

"Yes, sir," replied the corps commander courteously. "I wasn't at all sure that the wire was cut, and so reported."

"Ah!"

"This strong point should have been removed," continued the divisional commander, putting his finger upon a point of junction. "That I asked to be done, but McDowell seems to have missed it."

"Ah!"

"The enfilade got us from that point, of course." There was no mistaking the implication in the general's words.

"Ah! You reported that, eh?"

"You will find it in my report, sir. My division has suffered very heavily from that strong point."

The corps commander turned, and apparently observing Barry for the first time started and said,

"You are—"

"My friend, Captain Dunbar," said the general.

"Ah, Captain Dunbar," said the corps commander, obviously annoyed at his presence at the interview. "I trust Captain Dunbar is quite—"

"Captain Dunbar's reticence," said the general with quiet courtesy, "can be entirely trusted. He has just been doing some fine work at the C. C. S."

"Ah, yes. You are a padre, Dunbar? Oh, I remember to have heard about you. Very glad, indeed, to meet you, sir. Well, I must be off. We'll see to that strong point at once, general. Good-night—good-night, Dunbar."

The general returned from seeing his visitor out. "Of course, we keep these things to ourselves."

"Of course," answered Barry.

"And now," said the general with a kindly smile, "I have kept the good news to the last. Your majority is coming through, and here is a letter which came in my care. Now, if you will excuse me, I'll leave you to take a bit of a rest. There's a cot, if you want to lie down. Then we'll have a bite to eat later."

"Oh, thank you very much," said Barry eagerly, taking the letter. "This is good news, indeed. My letters have been going astray somehow. I have not had one for a week."

"As long as that," said the general with uplifted brows.

One sentence in his letter made music in Barry's heart.

"And oh, my heart's beloved, God has been good to me and to you, for when the war is over, I hope there will be two of us to welcome daddy back." To which sentence Barry in his letter, written in immediate reply, said,

"Yes, dear, dear heart, God has been good to us, in that he has given us to each other, and to us both this wonderful new life to carry on when we are done."

When the general returned, he found Barry with his face on his arms and dead asleep.

"Poor chap," he said to his batman, "he is done up. Let him rest a bit."

They gave him an hour, after which they had their bite together.

"Now, general," said Barry, "I should like to run up to Battalion Headquarters. I might be of use there."

"That's quite all right," said the general. "You will be glad to know that that strong point has already been attended to. You didn't hear the row, did you?"

"No, sir."

"Well the relief is going in and your men will soon be out."

When Barry entered the Battalion Headquarters, he found only Major Bayne and Captain Neil, with a signaller and a couple of runners, completing the arrangements for the relief.

"You! Pilot!" exclaimed the major, as he gripped his hand. "Now what the devil brought you here?"

"Couldn't help it, major. Simply had to come. I have been trying to get you all day," said Barry.

"Awfully glad to see you, old chap," said Captain Neil, for the major was finding difficulty with his speech.

"How many left, major?" said Barry.

"Five officers and seventy men," said the major in a husky voice. "My God, how those boys stuck."

"I shall not be moved," quoted Barry.

"That's it! That's it!" said the major. "Not the devil himself, let alone the Huns, could move them back from that wire. What is it, Sergeant Matthews?" he inquired of the sergeant who came in at that moment. "Have you completed your work?"

Sergeant Matthews was pale, panting and exhausted. "Yes, sir," he said, "I think so. I didn't—I didn't—go quite the full length of the trench. The boys said there was no one up there."

"But, Sergeant Matthews," thundered the major, "your orders were to go to the very end of the trench. You know this battalion never goes out leaving its wounded behind."

"We had a full load, sir," said the sergeant, leaning against the wall.

"Well, you will have to go back," said the major, "and complete the job. Can you carry on?"

"Yes, sir, I think so, sir."

As he spoke Sergeant Matthews swayed along the wall and collapsed onto a bench.

"Give him a shot of rum," said the major curtly to a runner.

"Let me go, major. I'll take the party," said Barry eagerly. "The sergeant is all in. I've had an hour's sleep and a feed and I feel quite fit."

"Oh, nonsense, the sergeant will be all right soon," said the major impatiently.

"But, major, I should like to go. The sergeant is played out and I am perfectly fit. We can't take the risk of leaving wounded men up there in that trench. Besides, there's little danger now. The strong point is blown up, so the general told me before I left."

"No, Barry, I won't allow it. I won't take the chance," said the major. "My God, man! there are only five officers left. I have lost every friend I have got in the battalion, except Neil here and you. I'm damned if I'm going to let you go out over No Man's Land."

"Steady, now, major," said Barry. "I'm going to take a walk to the end of that trench, just in case one of the boys should be there. Don't say no. It must be done and done carefully."

"All right, Barry," said the major, suddenly yielding. "Better take the sergeant with you. He knows the way, and I guess he's all right now."

The major and Captain Neil followed the party up the stairs and out into the trench. It was a beautiful starry night, and all was quiet now along the front.

"I don't like it," said the major, as he and Captain Neil stood together watching the party away. "I feel queer about it, Neil. I tell you I wish I hadn't let him go, but he is so darned stubborn about what he thinks is his duty."

"By Jove! Major, he always bucks me up somehow," said Captain Neil.

"Bucks us all up," said the major, and he turned to take up again the heavy burden of responsibility so suddenly and so terribly laid upon him. The relief had been completed, and the last N. C. O. had just reported "all clear." The Headquarters Company, now reduced to a poor half dozen, were standing ready to move, when the telephone rang.

"Yes, doctor," said the major, answering it. "Oh, my God! My God! Not that, doctor! Oh, God help us all! I'll be right down. It's the Pilot, Neil," he said, turning to his friend. "Just take charge, will you please. I must run."

Breathless he arrived at the R. A. P.

"Any chance, doctor?" he asked of the M. O. who was standing awaiting him at the door.

"Not the very least, major, and he only has a few minutes. He wants you."

"Now, may God help me," said the major standing quite still a moment or two. "How did he get it?" he asked of a stretcher bearer. "Do you know?"

"Yes, sir, we had just picked up the last man. Sergeant Matthews got a wound in the leg, and we had to carry him. Just as we started, they got to shelling pretty bad and we dropped into a hole. I looked over my shoulder and there was the Pilot, the chaplain, sir, I mean, with his body spread over Sergeant Matthews, to keep off the shrapnel. It was there he got it."

"Damn Sergeant Matthews," exclaimed the major, and passed on.

Barry was lying on a stretcher, very white and very still, but the smile with which he welcomed the major was very bright.

"Awfully sorry—for you,—old chap," he whispered. "Couldn't really—help—it—you know—we—got—them all—I'm—awfully—glad—to see you—just a minute—before—before—"

The major, by this time, was weeping quietly.

"You have—been—a good friend—to me—major—. We—have had—a good—time—together—. Say—goodbye—to—the boys—for—me—and——to to—Neil."

"Oh, Barry, boy," said the major, brokenly. "It's hard to have you go. You have helped us all."

Barry fumbled with weak fingers at his breast. The major opened his tunic thinking that he needed air.

"My—my—let-ter—" he whispered.

The major took the letter from his breast pocket, and put it in his hand. Barry held it a moment, then carried it to his lips.

"Now—that's—all—major," he whispered. "Tell—her—I—thank—God—for—her—and—for—the—other. Major—tell—the boys—that—God—is good—. Never—to be—afraid—but to—carry on—"

It was his last word, and there could be no better. "God is good. Never be afraid but carry on."



CHAPTER XX

"CARRY ON"

The next day but one they carried the Pilot to his grave in the little plot outside the walled cemetery on the outskirts of the city of Albert. It had been arranged that only a small guard should follow to the grave. But this plan was changed. Sergeant Mackay, who was the only sergeant left after consulting "the boys," came to Major Bayne.

"The boys feel bad, sir," he said, "that they can't go with the Pilot, excuse me, sir, the chaplain."

"Do they?" said the major. "We want to avoid congestion in the streets, and besides we don't want to expose the men. They are still shelling the city, you know."

"I know, sir," replied the sergeant. "The boys have heard the shells before, sir. And there's not so many of them that they will crowd the streets much."

"Let them go, sergeant," said the major, and Sergeant Mackay went back with the word to the men. "And I want you to look like soldiers," said the sergeant, "for remember we are following a soldier to his grave."

And look like soldiers they did with every button and bayonet shining, as they had never shone for battalion inspection.

They had passed through an experience which had left them dazed; they had marched deliberately into the mouth of hell and had come back stunned by what they had seen and heard, incapable of emotion. So they thought, till they learned that the Pilot had been killed. Then they knew that grief was still possible to them. With their grief mingled a kind of inexplicable wrath at the manner of his death.

"If it had been the O. C. now, or any one else but Fatty Matthews," said Sergeant Mackay in disgust, expressing the general opinion. "It is an awful waste."

Under the figure of the Virgin and Child, leaning out in pity and appeal over the shattered city, through marching battalions "going in" and "coming out," the little pitiful remnant made its way, the band leading, the Brigade and Divisional Headquarters Staffs bringing up in the rear. The service was brief and simple, a brother chaplain reading at the major's suggestion the Psalm which Barry had read at his last Parade Service with the battalion.

At the conclusion of the service, the divisional commander stepped forward and said,

"May I offer the officers and men of this battalion my respectful sympathy with them in the loss of their chaplain? During these last weeks, I had come to know him well. Captain Dunbar was a chaplain in his brigade. He was more. He was a gallant officer, a brave soldier, a loyal-hearted Canadian. The morale of this division is higher to-day because he has been with us. He did his duty to his country, to his comrades, to his God. What more can we ask than this, for ourselves and for our comrades?"

Then there was a little pause and Major Bayne began to speak. At first his voice was husky and tremulous, but as he went on, it gathered strength and clearness. He reminded them how, when the chaplain came to them first, they did not understand him, nor treat him quite fairly, but how in these last months, he had carried the confidence, and the love, of every officer and man in the battalion.

"Were the Commanding Officer here to-day, he would tell, as I have often heard him tell, how greatly the chaplain had contributed to the discipline and to the morale of this battalion. He helped us all to be better soldiers and better men. He never shrank from danger. He never faltered in duty. He lived to help his comrades and to save a comrade he gave his life at last."

The major paused, looked round upon the gallant remnant of a once splendid battalion, his lips quivering, his eyes running over with tears. But he pulled himself together, and continued with steady voice to the end.

"But not to say these things am I speaking to you today. I wish only to give you this last message from our Sky Pilot. This is the Pilot's last message: 'Tell the boys that God is good, and when they are afraid, to trust Him, and "carry on."' And for myself, men, I want to say that he was the only man that showed me what God is like."

In that company of men who had looked steadfastly into the face of death, there were no eyes without tears, many of them were openly weeping.

When the major had finished, the officers present, beginning with the divisional commander, came and stood at the head of the open grave for a single moment, then silently saluted and turned away. It was the duty of Bugler Pat McCann to sound "The Last Post," but poor Pat was too overcome with his sobbing at once to perform this last duty. Whereupon the runner Pickles, standing with rigid, stony face beside his chum, took the bugle from his hands and there sounded forth that most beautiful and most poignant of all musical sounds known to British soldiers the world over, "The Last Post," ending with that last, high, long-drawn, heart-piercing note of farewell.

Then, because the war was yet to be won, they "carried on," the battalion marching away to a merry tune.

Beside Barry's grave there still lingered three men, the divisional commander, Major Bayne, and Captain Neil.

"I am thinking of that little girl in London," said the divisional commander, and for the first time his voice broke. The others waited, looking at him. "We will hold back this news for a couple of days, and I think, major, you ought to go and—"

"No, general!—My God, no! Don't ask me!" The major was profoundly agitated. "Send Neil, here. He knows her well, and his wife is her great friend."

"Very well, major, I think that will be better," said the general in his courteous, gentle voice. "You know her, Captain Fraser, and you can be better spared."

And so it was arranged. Captain Neil telegraphed Paula to meet him at Boulogne, and together they made the journey to London, carrying with them sad and fearful hearts.

They found Phyllis in a little flat which her mother had taken. When she saw them her face went white, and her hands flew to her bosom. Speechless, and with a great fear in her wide-open brown eyes, she stood looking from one to the other, waiting for their message. Paula went to her and without a word put her arms round her, and held her close.

"I know, Paula," she said, putting her gently away from her. "I know what you have to tell me. Barry is dead. My dear love is dead!" Her voice was tender, soft and low. "Don't fear to tell me, Neil," she said. "See, I am quite steady." She put out her hand that he might see that there was no tremour in it.

"Sit down, darling," besought Paula, again winding her arms about her.

"No, no, let me stand, Paula dear. See, I am quite strong. Now tell me about it, Neil—all about it. You were his dear friend, you know."

Her voice, so sweet, so soft, so perfectly controlled, helped Captain Neil with his task. It seemed an offence that he should intrude any exhibition of grief or emotion upon the serene calm of this young girl, standing so straight, so proud, and regarding him with such brave eyes.

Then Captain Neil told his tale. He began with the last service upon the Parade Ground before the battalion moved into action. He told of Barry's bitter disappointment, and of their relief that he was not allowed to accompany them to the front line. He told of Barry's long day at the casualty clearing station, and of his service to the wounded, and of how good the divisional commander had been to him that night.

"It was there he got your letter, Phyllis."

"Oh, he got my letter. I'm so glad," whispered the girl, with a quick breath and a sudden flushing of her pale cheeks. "He knew! He knew!"

"I have his letter in reply here," said Captain Neil, handing it to her.

She took it in both her hands, kissed it tenderly, as if caressing a child, and put it in her bosom.

"Please go on," she said, and Captain Neil took up his tale again. He told how the major tried to persuade him not to go out after the wounded that night.

"But, of course, he would go," the girl said with a proud little smile, at which Captain Neil's self-control quite gave way, and he could only look at her piteously through his tears.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said gently. "Can't you go on? I want to hear so much every bit, but if you can't—"

At which, Captain Neil gripped himself hard and went on, "and so he went out, and they searched the trench from end to end. They found one poor chap, whose leg was badly smashed—"

"Oh, I'm so glad they found him," whispered Phyllis.

"Then Sergeant Matthews got his wound, and the shells began to fall. They took refuge in a shell hole, and there, while covering Fatty Matthews from the breaking shrapnel, Barry got his wound."

Captain Neil was forced to pause again in the recital of his story. After a few minutes, he told of how they carried him to his grave, and laid him in the cemetery outside the city of Albert.

"The boys were all there. There were not many of them left," he said.

"How many?" she asked.

"Seventy only, out of five hundred and four who went over the parapet two nights before."

"Ah, poor, gallant boys! I love them, I love them all!" said the girl, clasping her hands together.

"They were all terribly broken up as they stood about the grave, and no wonder! No wonder! Then the divisional commander made a little speech, and then our own major gave them Barry's last message."

"Tell me," said the girl gently, as Captain Neil paused.

"It was this," said Captain Neil. "'Tell the boys that God is good, and when they are afraid, to trust Him, and "carry on."'"

"That was like him," she said. "That was like Barry! Oh, Paula," she cried, turning to her friend. "I'm so happy! It was a beautiful closing to a beautiful life. He was a beautiful boy, Paula, wasn't he? His body was beautiful, his soul was beautiful, his life was beautiful, and the ending, oh, was beautiful. Oh, Paula, God is good. I am so glad he gave Barry to me, and gave me to him. Oh, I'm so—happy—so—happy." Her voice sank into a whisper. Then after a few moments of silence, with a little piteous cry, she suddenly broke forth, "But Paula! Paula! he is gone. I shall never see him again."

Paula held her arms tightly about her, sobbing as if her own heart were broken, but Phyllis recovered herself quickly.

"No, no," she said softly, as if counselling her own heart. "I must remember. 'God is good,' he said, and so, Paula, I must not be afraid. God was good to him. He will be good to me. He will be good to his child." Her voice sank again into a whisper. She stood silent with eyes looking into the far distance. Then, in a clear, firm voice, she said, "I will not be afraid! God is good! I will 'carry on.'"

THE END