THE PASSING OF McCUAIG
At Poperinghe the leave train was waiting in the station, and a
little company of officers and men were having their papers examined
preparatory to their securing transportation. Some of the officers were
from his own brigade and were known to Barry.
“A big push on at the front, I hear,” said one of them to a friend.
“Yes, major,” said his friend. “They have been having a perfect hell of
a time.”
“By the way, your men are going in to-morrow, I understand,” said the
major, turning to Barry.
“I don't think so, major,” replied Barry. “We have just come out.”
“Oh, well, I had it from fairly good authority that they were going in
to-morrow night.”
Barry hunted up Monroe, whom he found talking to a signaller of the
battalion.
“Did you boys hear anything about the battalion going up to-morrow?”
“Yes, sir,” said the signaller promptly. “We had it over the wires. They
are going in, all right, to-morrow night.”
Monroe kicked the signaller on the ankle.
“Did you hear anything about it, Monroe?” enquired Barry.
“No, sir. I don't believe these rumours at all. They are always flying
about.”
“But you say you got it over the wires?” said Barry to the signaller.
“Yes, sir. That is, sir, of course, we get a lot of messages. Perhaps
I'm mixed up,” said the signaller in very evident confusion.
“And you haven't heard anything, Monroe?” said Barry.
“No, sir, not a thing, and I think I would have heard if there had been
any truth in it.”
Something in the childlike expression of innocence upon Monroe's face
wakened Barry's suspicion.
“Look here, Monroe,” he said, “don't lie to me. Now, I'm talking to you
as your chaplain. Tell me the truth. Have you heard of the battalion
going in to-morrow?”
Under Barry's eye Monroe began to squirm.
“Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I did hear a rumour of that kind.”
“And you?” said Barry, turning upon the signaller, “tell me the truth.”
“Well, sir, it's just as I said. We had it over the wires. The battalion
is going in.”
“Very well, get my stuff, Monroe,” said Barry, quietly. “I'm going
back.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“Do you hear me? Get my stuff; I'm not going out to-night.” Barry's tone
admitted no further talk, and Monroe, swearing deeply at his friend the
signaller and at his own stupidity, and especially at his own “lack
of nerve to see his lie through,” hunted out Barry's baggage and stood
ready for his officer to return.
“Hello, Dunbar,” said the major, as he saw Barry about to mount his
horse. “What's up? Forgotten something? You'll surely miss your train.”
“I'm not going,” said Barry briefly, getting himself settled in his
saddle.
“Not going!” exclaimed the major. “What do you mean? I thought you were
on leave.”
“Changed my mind,” said Barry cheerfully.
“I say, old man,” said the major, “there may be nothing in what I told
you about the push. Anyway, you know we cannot postpone our leave until
all the fighting is over.”
“Oh, that's all right,” replied Barry. “There are lots of you combatant
chaps in a battalion, but there is only one chaplain.”
“Oh, hang it all,” cried the major, “take your leave. Well,” seeing that
Barry paid no heed to his advice, “the best of luck, old man,” he said,
offering his hand. “I guess you're all right after all.”
The exhilaration that had sustained Barry during the evening suddenly
fled, leaving him flat in spirit and limp in body. What he wanted most
of all was sleep, and morning was not so far away. He rode back to his
hut, and, bidding Monroe let him sleep all day, he tumbled into bed and
knew nothing until late in the afternoon. Monroe, too, had slept in,
and, after rising, had been busy about the hut, so that he had no
further information as to the battalion's movements. The chaplain's hut
was some distance from Headquarters and from the battalion camp. Hence
it came that while Barry was writing hard at his letters throughout
the remainder of the afternoon, he was quite unaware of what was taking
place. Monroe, however, returned about six o'clock to say that the
battalion had been “standing to” all afternoon, but that the general
feeling was that there would be no advance until late at night.
Glad of the opportunity to catch up with his correspondence, Barry paid
little heed to the passing of time. His last letter was to the V. A. D.,
in which he poured out the bitterness of his disappointment that he was
not even now on his way to Boulogne and to her, and expressing the hope
that after this “show” was over, he would be granted leave, upon
which happy event he would with all speed proceed to her. She had been
speaking of a trip to England. Would it not be a very wise and proper
proceeding that she should make her leave to synchronise with his? Now
he must be off, and so with love to her, and with the hope that they
might see London together--
Just then Monroe came with the startling news that the battalion had
“moved up” hours ago.
“Which road?” enquired Barry, springing to his feet.
“Don't know, sir,” replied Monroe, who had evidently his own opinion
about matters. “But I met a padre,” he continued, “who told me that
there was a stream of wounded passing through the Brandhoek Clearing
Station. He said they were very short-handed there, sir,” and Monroe
regarded his officer with anxious eyes.
“I hate to take you up there, Monroe,” said Barry with a smile.
“Oh, that's all right, sir,” said Monroe, hastily, “but I guess we'll
have to hurry.”
“I remember, Monroe, that your major and you would have sent me out
of this, but you know well enough that there's only one place for me
to-night, and the question is, where is the battalion--Ypres Barracks,
Chateau Beige, Zillebeck, or where?”
“I enquired at the transports, sir,” said Monroe, “and no one appeared
to know. They moved out quietly and left no word behind.”
“All right, we'll go up to Chateau Belge, and if they are not there,
we'll make a shot at Zillebeck,” said Barry. “We'll go right away. We
don't need a lot of truck this trip.”
It was a long and tiresome march, but Barry found himself remarkably
fit, and already under the exhilaration of what was before him. At
the Chateau Belge they found no word of their battalion, but they were
informed that the shelling on the Kruisstraat road had been bad all
afternoon, and was still going on. The Boches were paying particular
attention indeed to the crossroads.
“All right,” said Barry. “We'll go up and have a look at it, anyway.”
A hundred yards further up the road they were held up by a sudden burst
of H. E. shells, which fell in near proximity to the crossroads before
them.
“Well, we'll just wait here a few minutes until we can time these
things,” said Barry, sitting down by the roadside.
As they were waiting there, three soldiers passed them at quick march.
“Better wait, boys,” called Barry; “they are dropping quite a few shells
at the crossroads.”
“We are runners, sir,” said one of them. “I guess we'll just take a
chance, thank you, sir.”
“All right, boys, if you think best,” replied Barry. “Good luck!”
“Thank you, sir,” they said, and set off at a smart pace.
While Barry sat listening to the sound of their footsteps upon the
pavement, there came that terrific whine, followed by an appalling
crash, as a H. E. shell landed full upon the road. Barry sprang to his
feet. Three other shells followed in quick succession, then there came
the sound of hurrying feet and a man appeared, bleeding horribly and
gasping.
“Oh, my God! My God! They are gone! They are gone!”
“Sit down,” said Barry. “Now, where's your wound?”
“My arm, sir,” said the man.
Barry cut off the blood-soaked sleeve, ripped open his first aid
dressing, and bound the wound up tightly. Then he put a tourniquet upon
the arm above the wound.
“The other boys killed, you say?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir, blown to pieces. Oh, my God!” he groaned, shuddering. “My
chum's whole head was blown off, and the other has his belly all torn
up.”
“Now look here, old man,” said Barry, “you lie down here where you are,
and keep perfectly still,” for the man was throwing himself about, more
from shock than from pain. “We'll get you to the dressing station in a
few minutes. Monroe, run and get the stretcher bearers, and I'll go and
see how things are up yonder.”
He threw his coat over the wounded man, and set off at a run toward the
crossroads. He found matters as the man had said, the two bodies lying
in a dark patch of bloodsoaked dust, one with head quite blown off, and
the other with abdomen horribly torn.
He hurried back to the wounded man, who had recovered somewhat from his
shock and was now lying on his side quietly moaning. Barry got from him
the names and units of the men who had been killed.
“I will drop a note to your mother, too, my boy,” he said, “and tell her
about your wound.”
“Oh, sir,” said the boy quickly--he was only a boy after all--“don't
tell her--at least, tell her I'm all right. I'll be all right, won't I?”
“Sure thing,” said Barry, “don't you fear. I won't alarm her, and I'll
tell her what good stuff you are, boy.”
“All right, sir. Thank you, sir,” said the boy quietly.
“And I'll tell her, too, that you are not worrying a bit, and that you
know that you are in the keeping of your Heavenly Father. How is that?”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy in a low voice. “I will be glad to have you
tell her that. She taught me all that, sir. Poor mother, she'll worry
though, I know,” he added with a little catch in his throat.
“Now you brace up,” said Barry firmly. “You have got off mighty well.
You have got a nice little blighty there, and you are going to be all
right. I'll give your mother the best report about you, so that she
won't worry.”
“Oh, thank you,” said the boy, with fervent gratitude, “that will be
fine. And you are right,” he added, a note of resolution coming into
his voice. “I got off mighty well, and it's only my left arm, thank
goodness. I'll brace up, sir, never fear,” he added between his teeth,
choking back a groan.
Barry accompanied the stretcher-bearer back to the chateau and gave the
man over into the care of the C. A. M. C.
“Can you put a squad on to digging a grave?” he inquired of the officer
in charge. “If so, though I'm in an awful hurry, I'll stay to bury those
poor chaps.”
“Sure thing, we can,” said the officer. “We'll do the very best we can
to hurry it.”
In about an hour and a half Barry was on his way again. He dodged
the shelling at the crossroads, and following a track across the open
fields, arrived at the Zillebeck Bund without adventure.
Here to his relief he found the battalion. He made his way at once to
Headquarters, and walked in upon a meeting of officers.
“Well, I'm--” exclaimed Colonel Leighton, checking himself hard, “who
have we here! What in hell are you doing here, Pilot? I thought you
would be safely in old Blighty by this time,” he added, shaking him
warmly by the hand.
“Oh, you couldn't work that game on me, colonel,” said Barry cheerily,
going round the group of men, who gave him an eager welcome. “You
thought you had shipped me off, just as the fun was starting, but I got
on to you.”
“Well, I'll be darned,” said Major Bayne. “How did you find out?”
Barry told him, adding, “You will have to train your man to lie more
cheerfully.”
“That's what comes of a man's environment,” said the major, disgustedly.
“I was always too truthful, anyway.”
“Well, sir,” said Barry, turning to the colonel. “I'm awfully glad to
find you here. I was afraid I'd lost you.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said the colonel, “you have all got your orders. Does
any one want to ask a question? Well, then, it's pretty simple after
all. Two companies advance as far as Maple Copse, and gradually work up
until they feel the enemy, then put in a block and hold against attack,
at all costs. The other two companies are to follow up in support at
Zillebeck Village. Later on, when our reserves come up, and when our
guns return--I hear they are pushing them up rapidly--we are promised
a go at those devils. Meantime we have got to hold on, but I expect the
battalion will be pulled out very shortly.”
The flickering candles lit up the faces of the men crowding the dugout.
They were elaborately careless and jolly, but their eyes belied their
faces. Under the careless air there was a tense and stern look of
expectation. They were all sportsmen, and had all experienced the
anxious nervous thrill of the moments preceding a big contest. Once the
ball was off, their nervousness would go, and they would be cool and
wary, playing the game for all they had in them.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the colonel, as they prepared to leave the
dugout, “before I let you go, there is one thing I want to say. It's a
tradition of the British army that any soldier or officer who has lost
his unit marches toward the sound of the guns. I am proud to-night that
we have an example of that old tradition here. We left our chaplain
behind, and he didn't know where his battalion had gone, but he moved
toward the sound of the guns. That is what I would expect from any
of you, gentlemen, but it's none the less gratifying to find one's
expectations realised.”
Only his flaming face revealed Barry's emotion as the colonel was
speaking.
“Now then, gentlemen, carry on, and the best of luck.”
“Sir,” said Barry, “what about a little prayer?”
“Fine,” said the colonel heartily, while round the room there ran a
murmur of approval.
Barry pulled out his little Bible and read, not one of the “fighting
psalms” but the tenderly exquisite words of the Shepherd's song. His
voice was clear, steady and ringing with cheery confidence. His prayer
was in the spirit of the psalm, breathing high courage and calm trust,
even in the presence of the ultimate issue.
In a single sentence he commended his comrades to the keeping of the
Eternal God of Truth and Justice and Mercy, asking that they might be
found steadfast in their hour of testing and worthy of their country and
their cause.
Together they joined in the Lord's prayer; then lifting over them his
hands, he closed the little service with that ancient and beautiful
formula of blessing, which for two thousand years has sent men out from
the Holy Place of Meeting to face with hearts resolved whatever life
might hold for them.
One by one, as they passed out the officers shook hands with Barry,
thanking him for the service, and expressing their delight that he was
with them again.
“What are we going to do with you, Pilot?” inquired the colonel.
“I thought I'd stick around with the boys,” said Barry.
“Well,” said the colonel, gravely, “of course, there's no use of your
going up to the attack. You would only be in the way. You would be an
embarrassment to the officers. That reminds me, there was a call from
Menin Mill for you this afternoon. They are having an awful rush there.
Our own R. A. P. will be in Zillebeck Village, and our Headquarters will
be there.”
“I'll go there, sir, if you agree,” said Barry, and after some
discussion the matter was so arranged.
In a ruined cellar in the village of Zillebeck, a mile and a half
further in, the R. A. P. was established and there carried on during
the desperate fighting of the next three days. Through this post a
continuous stream of wounded passed, the stretcher cases all night, the
walking cases all day and all night. In spite of its scenes of horror
and suffering the R. A. P. was a cheery spot. The new M. O. was strange
to his front line business, but he was of the right stuff, cool, quick
with his fingers, and undisturbed by the crashing of bursting shells.
The stretcher bearers and even the wounded maintained an air of resolute
cheeriness, that helped to make bearable what otherwise would have been
a nightmare of unspeakable horror. Attached to the R. A. P. was an outer
building wherein the wounded men were laid after treatment. Thither in a
pause of his work, Barry would run to administer drinks, ease the strain
of an awkward position, speak a word of cheer, say a prayer, or sing
snatches of a hymn or psalm. There was little leisure for reflection,
nor if there had been would he have indulged in reflection, knowing well
that only thus could he maintain his self-control and “carry on.”
With each wounded man there came news of the progress of the fighting.
The boys were holding splendidly, indeed were gradually eating into
the enemy front. They brought weird stories of his comrades, incidents
pathetic, humorous, heroic, according to the temperament of the
narrator. But from more than one source came tales of Knight's machine
gun section to which McCuaig was attached. Knight himself had been
killed soon after entering the line, and about his men conflicting tales
were told: they were holding a strong point, they were blown up,
they had shifted their position, they were wiped out, they were still
“carrying on.” McCuaig was the hero of every tale. He was having the
time of his life. He had gone quite mad. He was for going “out and over”
alone.
The first authentic account came with young Pickles, now a runner, who
made his way hobbling to Headquarters with a message from A Company, and
who reported that he had fallen in with McCuaig by the way, and by
him had been commandeered to carry ammunition, under threat of instant
death.
“Where did you see McCuaig first, Pickles?” Barry inquired, anxious to
learn the truth about his friend.
“Way up Lover's Walk,” said young Pickles, who was in high spirits,
“under a pile of brush and trees. I though it was a wildcat, or
something moving and snarling--the light was kind of dim--and when I
went up there was McCuaig. He was alone. Two or three men were lying
near him, dead, I guess, and he was swearing, and talking to himself
something fierce. I was scart stiff when he called me to him. I went
over, and he says to me, 'Say, youngster,' just like that, 'you know
where this walk used to drop down into the trench? Well, there's a lot
of machine gun ammunition over there, all fixed up and ready. You go
and bring it up here.' I tried to get out of it, sayin' I was bringing
a 'hurry up' message down, but he turns his machine gun on me, and says,
'Young man, it's only a couple of hundred yards down there, and fairly
good cover. They can't see you. Go and bring that stuff here. If you
don't I'll blow you to hell just where you stand.' You bet I promised.
I got that ammunition so quick. Oh, of course, he's crazy, all right,”
said young Pickles, “but he is fighting like hell. I beg pardon, sir.”
“Doctor, I'm going after him,” said Barry. “He will stay there until he
bleeds to death. He is my oldest friend.”
“All right, padre, if you say so,” said the M. O., “but it's a nasty
job. I should not care for it.”
Barry knew the area thoroughly. He got from young Pickles an exact
description of the location of the spot where McCuaig had last been
seen, and with the returning stretcher bearers set off for the wood,
which was about a thousand yards further on.
The communication trench leading up to the wood, which had been
constructed with such care and of which the Canadians were so proud, had
been blown up from end to end by the systematic and thorough bombardment
of the three days before. The little party, therefore, were forced to
make their way overland by the light of the star shells.
They reached the wood in safety. Barry looked about him in utter
bewilderment. Every familiar feature of the landscape was utterly
blotted out. The beautiful ambrosial wood itself, of heavy trees and
thick tinder-brush, was a mat of tangled trunks, above which stood
splintered stubs. Not a tree, not a branch, hardly a green leaf was
left. Under that mat of fallen trunks were A and C Companies, somewhere,
holding, blocking, feeling up toward the Hun.
The shells were whining overhead, going out and coming in, but mostly
coming in. None, however, were falling on the wood because here friend
and foe were lying almost within bayonet length of each other. Only an
occasional burst from a machine gun broke the silence that hung over
this place of desolation and death.
“That's the company Headquarters,” said the stretcher bearer, pointing
to what looked like a bear den, under some fallen trees. Barry pushed
aside the blanket and poking his head in, found Duff and a young
lieutenant working at a table by the light of a guttering candle.
“For the love of God, Pilot,” exclaimed Duff, springing up and gripping
Barry's hand, “it's good to see you, but what are you doing here?”
“I came up for McCuaig,” said Barry, after a warm greeting to both.
“Oh, say, that's good. We have got him as far as the next dugout here,
the old bear. I've been trying to get him out for half a day. There's a
soldier for you! He's been potting Boches with his blessed machine gun,
scouting from one hole to another for the last two days, and he's got a
nasty wound. I'm awfully glad you have come.”
“How are things going, Duff?”
“We have got the ----s so that they can't move a foot, and we'll hold
them, unless they bring up a lot of reserves.”
“By Jove! Duff, you boys are wonderful.”
“I say,” said Duff, brushing aside the compliment, “did young Pickles
get through? That young devil is the limit. You'd have thought he was
hunting coyotes.”
“Yes, he got through. Got a blighty though, I guess. It was he that told
me about McCuaig.”
“Well, Pilot, old man,” said Duff, taking him by the arm, “get out!
Get out! Don't waste time. There may be a break any minute. Get out of
here.”
Duff was evidently in a fever of anxiety. “You had no right to come up
here anyway; though, by Jove, I'm glad to see you.”
“What's the fuss, Duff?” said Barry. “Am I in any more danger than you?
I say,” he continued, with tense enthusiasm, “do you realise, Duff, that
as long as Canada lasts they will talk of what you are doing up here
these days?”
“For Heaven's sake, Pilot, get out,” said Duff crossly. “You make me
nervous. Besides, you have got to get that wounded man out, you know.
Come along.”
He hustled Barry out and over to the neighbouring dugout, where they
found McCuaig with his beloved machine gun still at his side. The
wounded man was very pale, but extremely cheerful, smoking a cigarette.
“I'm glad to see you, sir,” he said quietly, reaching out his hand.
“Good old man,” said Barry, gripping his hand hard, “but you are a
blamed old fool, you know.”
McCuaig made no reply, but there was a happy light on his face. Under
Duff's compelling urging they got the wounded man on a stretcher and
started on their long and painful carry.
“Now, boys,” warned Duff, “you are all right up here, except for machine
guns, but don't take any chances further out. That's where the danger
is. When the shells come, don't rush things. Take your time. Now,
good-bye, Pilot, it's worth a lot to have seen you anyway.”
“Good-bye, old man,” said Barry, smiling at him. “You're the stuff. Good
luck, old man. God keep you.”
Duff nodded, and waved him away. The return trip was made in comparative
quiet.
“What do you think, doctor?” said Barry, after the M. O. had completed
his examination.
“Oh, we'll pull him through all right,” said the M. O. “When did you get
this, McCuaig?” he continued, touching a small wound over the kidney.
“Dunno, rightly. Guess I got it when we was blown up, yesterday.”
“Then why didn't you come in at once?” inquired the M. O. indignantly.
McCuaig looked at him in mild surprise.
“Why, they was all blown up, and there wasn't anybody to run the gun.”
The M. O. examined the wound more closely and shook his head at Barry.
“We won't touch that now. We'll just bandage it up. Are you feeling
pretty comfortable?”
“Fine,” said McCuaig with cheerful satisfaction. “We held them up,
I guess. They thought they was going to walk right over us. They was
comin' with their packs on their backs. But the boys changed their minds
for them, I guess.”
A reminiscent smile lingered upon the long, eaglelike face.
Half an hour later Barry found a minute to run into the adjoining room
where the wounded lay.
“Anything you want, McCuaig?” he asked.
“A drink, if you ain't too busy, but I hate to take your time.”
“Oh, you go to thunder,” said Barry. “Take my time! What am I for? Any
pain, Mac?”
“No, not much. I'm a little sleepy.”
Barry turned the flash-light on his face. He was startled to find it
grey and drawn. He brought the M. O., who examined the wounded man's
condition.
“No pain, eh, Mac?”
“No, sir,” said McCuaig cheerfully.
“All right, boy, just lie still,” said the M. O., beckoning Barry after
him.
“He is going out,” he said when they reached the dressing room, “and
he's going fast. That wound in the back has been bleeding a long time.”
“Oh, doctor, can't anything be done? You know he's got a remarkable
constitution. Can't something be done?”
“There are times when a doctor wishes he had some other job,” said the
M. O., “and this is one of them.”
“I say, doctor, will you get along without me for a while?” said Barry.
“Go on,” said the M. O., nodding to him.
Barry took a candle and went in beside his friend. As he sat there
gazing upon the greying face, the wounded man opened his eyes.
“That you, Barry?” he asked with a quiet smile.
Barry started. Only in the very first weeks of their acquaintance had
McCuaig called him by his first name, and never during the past months
had he used anything but his rank title. Now all rank distinctions were
obliterated. They were as man to man.
“Yes, Mac, it's me. Do you know what I was thinking about? I was
thinking of the first time I saw you coming down that rapid in your
canoe.”
“I remember well, Barry. I often think of it. It's a long time ago,”
said McCuaig in his soft, slow voice. “I've never been sorry but once
that I come, and that time it was my own fault, but I didn't understand
the game.”
“You've made a great soldier, Mac. We are all proud of you,” said Barry,
putting his hand upon McCuaig's. McCuaig's long thin fingers tightened
upon Barry's hand.
“I think I'm going out,” he said, with his eyes on Barry's face. “What
do you think?”
It was the time for truth telling.
“Oh, Mac, old man,” said Barry, putting his head down close to him to
hide from him the rush of tears that came to his eyes, “I'm afraid you
are, and I hate to have you go.”
“Why, Barry, you crying for me?” asked McCuaig in a kind of wonder.
“Say, boy, I'm awful glad you feel that way. Somehow I don't feel quite
so lonely now.”
“Oh, Mac, you are my oldest, my best friend in the battalion, in all the
world,” said Barry.
“Oh, I just love to hear you say that, boy. Do you know I wanted to tell
you how I felt about that time on the boat, you remember?” Barry nodded.
“Barry, tell me, honest Injun, did I make good as a soldier?”
“The best ever,” said Barry. “They all say so, officers and men. I heard
the colonel say so the other day.”
Again the smile came.
“Barry, it was you that done that for me. You showed me, and you done it
so nice. I never forgot that, and I always wanted to tell you how I felt
about it. Barry, you done a lot for me.”
“Oh, Mac, don't talk like that,” said Barry, trying to keep his voice
steady. “I did so little and I wanted to do so much.”
“Say, I like to hear you. I'd like to stay a little longer just to be
with you, Barry. I've watched you just like you was my own boy, and I've
been awful proud of you, but I didn't like to say so.”
The uncovering of the great love of this simple, humble hearted man
broke down Barry's self-control. He made no effort to check his falling
tears.
“I'm getting--kind of weak, Barry,” whispered McCuaig. “I guess I won't
be long, mebbe.”
His words recalled Barry's nerve.
“Mac, would you like me to say a prayer?” he asked. “Just as you feel
about it, you know.”
“Yes--I would--but I ain't--your religion--you know--though--I
like--awful well--the way--you talk about--Him.”
“I know you are R. C., Mac, but after all you know we have just the one
Father in Heaven and the one Saviour.”
“Yes,--I know, Barry. It's all the same.”
Barry had a sudden inspiration.
“Wait, Mac, a minute,” he said.
He hurried out to the dressing room, seeking a crucifix, but could find
none there.
“I'll run across to Headquarters,” he said.
“Say, there's a machine gun playing that street awful,” said the M. O.'s
sergeant, “to say nothing of whizzbangs.”
“Oh, that's all right,” said Barry. “I'll make a dash for it.”
But at Headquarters he was no more successful. He went out into the
garden in the rear of the R. A. P., and returned with two small twigs.
The M. O. bound them together in the form of a cross. Barry took it and
hastened to McCuaig's side.
The hurried breathing and sunken cheeks of the wounded man showed that
the end was not far. As Barry knelt beside him, he opened his eyes.
There was a look of distress upon his face, which Barry understood. God
was near. And God was terrible. He wanted his priest.
“Barry,” he whispered, “I've not--been a good man. I haven't been--mean
to anybody,--but I used--to swear--and fight, and--”
“Mac, listen to me. We're all the same,” said Barry, in a quiet, clear
voice. “Suppose I'd injured you.”
“You wouldn't--Barry.”
“But suppose I did some real mean thing to you, and then came and said I
was sorry, would you forgive me?”
“Would I--I'd never think--of anything--you did--to me, Barry.”
“Mac, that's the way your Father in Heaven feels to you. We have all
done wrong, but He says, 'I will blot out all your sins.' You needn't
fear to trust Him, Mac.”
“I guess--that's so, Barry--I guess that's--all right.”
“Yes, it's all right. Now I'll say a prayer. Look, Mac!”
He held up the little wooden cross before his eyes. A smile of joy and
surprise transfigured the dying face.
“I see it!--I see--it!” he whispered, and made a movement with his lips.
Barry laid the cross upon them, and with that symbol of the Divine love
and of the Divine sacrifice pressed to the dying lips, he prayed in
words such as a child might use.
For some time after the prayer McCuaig lay with his eyes shut, then
with a sudden accession of strength, he opened them and looking up into
Barry's eyes, said:
“Barry, I'm all right now. . . . You helped me again.”
The long thin hands, once of such iron strength, began to wander weakly
over the blanket, until touching Barry's they closed upon it, and held
it fast.
“I--won't--forget--you--ever--” he whispered. The nerveless fingers with
difficulty lifted Barry's hand to the cold lips. “Good--bye--Bar--ry--”
he said.
“Good-bye, dear old comrade. Good-bye, dear old friend,” said Barry in
a clear quiet voice, gazing through his falling tears straight into the
dying eyes.
“Good--night--” The whisper faded into silence. A quiet smile lay on
the white face. The eyes closed, there was a little tired sigh, and the
brave tender spirit passed on to join that noble company of immortals
who abide in the Presence of the Eternal God of Truth and Love, and “go
no more out forever,” because they are akin to Him.
In the sorely tortured graveyard, beside the little shell-wrecked
Zillebeck church, in a hole made by an enemy shell, they laid McCuaig--a
fitting resting place for one who had lived his days in the free wild
spaces of the Canadian west, a fitting tomb for as gallant a soldier as
Canada ever sent forth to war to make the world free.
That night the battalion was relieved. Worn, spent, but with spirit
unbroken, they crawled out from under that matted mass of tangled
trunks, sending out their wounded before them, and leaving their buried
dead behind them, to hold with other Canadian dead the line which from
St. Julien, by Hooge, Sanctuary Wood, and Maple Copse, and Mount Sorel,
and Hill 60, and on to St. Eloi, guards the way to Ypres and to the sea.
To Canada every foot of her great domain, from sea to sea, is dear, but
while time shall last Canada will hold dear as her own that bloodsoaked
sacred soil which her dead battalions hold for Honour, Faith and
Freedom.