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.
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