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.
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