g way to grief, and at nine o'clock
that night, when in the cookhouse, I heard a whistle and someone shouted
my name. It was our O.C., Major Wright. I hastened to his dugout.

"Sergeant Grant, I want you to take a party of six and make a grave and
bury poor McLean. I know something of the relationship that existed
between you, and I know that you will spare no effort to see that he is
properly buried. While you are working I will try and fashion a cross
for him. Report as soon as you are finished."

"Yes, sir," and I saluted and went to the dugout occupied by my squad.
The men were either reading or writing letters, and not only the six,
but the ten of them responded, dropping their letters and books, and
asked to take part in the burial. So we paddled through the darkness
and the mud to where the body lay, and as we approached we noticed
several huge rats scurrying away from it. A hatred for the vermin almost
as intense as for the Hun has possessed me ever since. Of course, the
bestiality of the latter has descended to such depths of infamy that it
is impossible quite to class them with any other breed of vermin; it
would be an insult even to the rat.

We dug the grave as well as we could, assisted by such light as we got
from the intermittent flashes of the guns and the edge of the flare
gleams sent up by the enemy every little while. When the melancholy work
was almost complete, I hurried over to the O.C. and he handed me the
simple cross he had made,--just two pieces of wood with the inscription,
"William McLean, C.E.F., September 30th, 1916, R.I.P."

"When you have finished, Grant, take the party and build up the part of
your trench that was shot away this morning."

I saluted and returned to the grave. The boys had finished; there was
nothing more on earth we could do for Billy.

"O.C. says to build up the hole in the trench that was shot away this
morning; you can go, fellows; get busy and I will be with you in a
minute." They started and I was alone. Bitter tears again half blinded
me as I placed the sign of the Christ at the grave's head; I couldn't
place it at Billy's, because the shell had obliterated all traces of his
head. With a short but very earnest prayer that God would help his
mother and dear ones to sustain their loss and soften their grief, I
hurriedly rejoined my men. On the way over I could not help thinking how
lonely it would be that night in the dugout without Billy, and memories
of the h