fety to
the end. They all went, one after the other. The last to go was Hugh. July,
1916, on the eleventh day he was killed. Dear old boy, it is unrealizeable
yet. You won the military Cross and you won yet another undying honor. You
were sniped in the glory of completing a fine piece of work. Your six feet
of glorious young manhood lie deep in French soil. Good-by, Hugh!

Peter was reported missing. All of us who were left alive tried every means
of which we knew and of which we heard to find a trace of him. We got none.
At last I decided that an advertisement in a daily paper would bring
replies from wounded soldiers. I advertised in _The Daily Express_. The
advertisement appeared on a Wednesday, and on the Thursday morning I had a
letter from a young Canadian soldier of the Third Battalion who was in the
Royal Herbert Hospital at Woolwich. He told me of knowing something of what
may have happened to Peter. The possibilities were that he was blown up in
company with a trench full of other soldiers. There is little reason to
doubt this awful ending to a young life; there is no evidence of anything
else.

The letter of the young Canadian soldier was kindly and frank in tone. I
answered it, and asked if he had any relations in the Old Country. He
replied that he had not, and we decided that we would go and see him in
hospital and try in some way to help him in his loneliness.

[Illustration: (C)_Famous Players--Lasky Corporation. Scene from the
Photo-Play_

"THEY LOOK BIG ENOUGH, DON'T THEY?"]

[Illustration: A close shave in Flanders]

Before seeing the soldier I received several other letters, notably from
Sam J. Peters, who came to see us, and was positive that he knew Peter as a
man who had aided him on his being wounded himself. Lance-Corporal Carey
was another who wrote, and Corporal George A. Vowel, known as Black Jack,
then of the Tenth and now of the Thirteenth Machine Gun Corps, wrote a
kindly letter.

On a Saturday afternoon we went down to Woolwich, and after a short chat
with a nurse in charge were allowed to see the Canadian who had written
first. Private Harold R. Peat was slight, small, and looked almost
emaciated. We talked for some time and he showed us several souvenirs which
he had. We liked him, and promised to come back. He agreed that he would
get a pass for the following Sunday so that we could see him in the
regulation hours.

He mentioned during conversation how he had seen the advertis