"My dear Patrick,--I got your letter yesterday, and whenever I was my
lone the day I was always reading it. I wish the black war was over and
you back again--we all at home wish that, and I suppose yourself wishes
it as well; I was up at your house last night; there's not much fun in
it now. I read the papers to your mother, and me and her was looking at
a map. But we didn't know where you were so we could only make guesses.
Your mother and me is making the Rounds of the Cross for you, and I am
always thinking of you in my prayers. You'll be having the parcel I
sent before you get this letter. I hope it's not broken or lost. The
socks I sent were knitted by myself, three pairs of them, and I've put
the holy water on them. Don't forget to put them on when your feet get
wet, at home you never used to bother about anything like that; just
tear about the same in wet as dry. But you'll take care of yourself
now, won't you: and not get killed? It'll be a grand day when you come
back, and God send the day to come soon! Send a letter as often as you
can; I myself will write you one every day, and I'll pray to the Holy
Mother to take care of you."
We buried him behind the parados, and placed the rosary round the arms
of the cross which was erected over him. On the following day one of
our men went out to see the grave, and while stooping to place some
flowers on it he got shot through the head. That evening he was buried
beside the Munster Fusilier.
(Patrick MacGill tells many heart stories of the trenches in "The
Red Horizon." He tells of "The Night Before the Trenches"; "A Dugout
Banquet"; "A Nocturnal Adventure"; "Everyday Life at the Front"; "The
Women of France"--his genius is immortalizing every human phase of the
War.)