THE brilliant moonlight streaming between the black clouds Which chased each other across the sky revealed a scene of pitiable desolation. The cruel storm of war had burst in all its fury over a once lovely spot, and passions of the fight had swept away the verdure of the pasture lands, and encumbered the narrow streets of the one-time village with heaps of ruins.
All day long the leaden messengers of death had flown thick as hail.’ In the yet-to-be-written history of the war the story of the Battle of ― will stand forth as one of the most bloody and hotly contested in a struggle unequaled in the world’s history for slaughter.
As the shades of evening had fallen the foe had been forced to retreat to an entrenched position, the sounds of battle had died away and a strange and uncanny silence brooded over that field of blood and horror. The Red Cross men had, by unflagging effort, succeeded in conveying the wounded to the rear of the lines, and the cries and groans of wounded men had ceased.
After the Battle
It was on this scene that the moon looked down, and as it bathed the earth in silvery radiance its beams fell on the sleeping forms of the 42nd Highlanders, among whom lay Jim Gordon, his rifle by his side, his fair curls glistening in the moonbeams which played about his head. His handsome face was pale after the exertion of the day and the nerve-racking experiences which he had undergone, across his forehead ran lines prematurely born of the hardships of the campaign, and his cheeks were spotted here and there with what, on closer examination, one would have discovered to be blood.
His campaigning blanket wrapped about him, he lay in a deep and trance-like sleep, produced by the exhaustion following four days and nights of ceaseless activity. The gallant 42nd had played their part that day, and their ranks had been sadly depleted. Many a brave lad who but a month or two before had landed in France with a light heart had already found his grave, and the casualty list soon to be issued would be a harbinger of desolation to many a homestead. So it was not perhaps to be wondered at if, after several hours’ sleep, Jim Gordon should stir somewhat uneasily, and mutter in a strange, disconnected sort of way to himself. Had anyone listened attentively they would have caught now the words of a familiar hymn, or again snatches of Scripture. As he lay there the terrible tragedy of the world-war, with the ghastly and harrowing nature of his surroundings, had been forgotten, and he had been transplanted from that Flemish battlefield to his native town in the heart of Scotland. Even the familiar khaki and trappings of military life had been discarded, and he saw himself once more as he had been in days gone by, clad in the uniform of The Salvation Army, and leading, at the open-air service on the Sunday evening, the singing of his favorite psalm, “The Lord’s my Shepherd.”
Once again he saw the crowd, as they stood around listening or joining in the singing — he saw the hand as it had been before the clarion note of war had rung through the land, and so many men had been called to the Colors, and there in the band, cornet in hand, he clearly descried his old chum and comrade, Jack Fraser, clad in his bandsman’s uniform, a bright smile on his cheery face, joining in the singing with fervor and energy. And then, the open-air concluded, he could distinctly see the march as it passed along to the citadel, and even heard the stirring music of the march which the band played, “Comrades True!”
As in his dream he heard the band play the closing strains, Jim awoke with a start. For a moment or two he looked around him with an astonished gaze, only to realize that he had been dreaming, and to be brought to a very real and vivid sense of his whereabouts by the sight of the sleeping forms scattered around him. He once more tried to rest, but found that his thoughts would linger round the scenes recalled by his dream, and that sleep would not come. “Comrades True!” Yes, his old pal Jack and he had been true comrades; they had fought side by side in God’s service for years, helping and blessing one another and enjoying a David-and Jonathan-like affinity of spirit and interest. Even after the outbreak of hostilities and the call for service they had resolved not to be parted, but military demands had to be complied with, and they had been drafted into different battalions. In the rush and hustle of active service Jim had lost sight of his old chum, though he had recently heard a rumor to the effect that his battalion was now also at the Front.
Finding sleep to be out of the question, Jim took from his pocket his Bible, which he always carried, and opening it, his eyes alighted on his much-loved twenty-third Psalm. He read it again and again, and as he read he softly sang: ―
“Yea, though I walk through death’s dark vale,
Yet will I fear none ill,
For Thou art with me, and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still.”
Footsteps approached, and he heard his name called, with orders to report at once for special duty. He sprang to his feet to await instructions. Was it to be a midnight reconnaissance, or a surprise attack on the enemy’s trenches? He was preparing for something of this sort, but soon discovered that the party was being selected for a very different object. Advantage was to be taken of the temporary lull in the firing to bury the bodies which had been brought in.
The gruesome task had to be completed in as short a space of time as possible, so that no regular funeral service could be performed, and the soldiers, armed with pick and shovel, soon had the graves ready to receive the remains of their late comrades. As the bodies were brought forward and laid on the ground ready for interment, Jim fancied he observed a red jersey protruding from beneath the khaki tunic of a Highland soldier. He recognized the uniform as that of his own regiment, and his heart gave a leap at the thought that it might be a fellow-Salvationist. Stepping forward, he turned the body over, and there he saw what seemed to freeze the blood in his veins, and nearly stopped the beating of his heart — the face of his old comrade, Jack Fraser.
Noticing the expression of anguish on the face of the soldier, and also The Army jersey worn by the dead man, the officer in command of the party asked Jim if he had known him. Jim managed to tell the officer the circumstances which enshrouded this strange discovery, and then, on the impulse of the moment, asked if he might conduct a short burial service, to which a ready consent was given.
Touching Funeral Service
What procedure to follow Jim Gordon did not know, but he pulled his Bible from his pocket, and again it opened at the twenty-third Psalm, and this he read, the men standing round giving reverent attention.
At the conclusion of the reading he asked the men to sing softly the metrical version of the psalm. How soulfully they sang it! It was evident their minds were carried back to the villages in the glens, to the peaceful kirks amid the rugged grandeur of the Scottish hills, and to the loved ones who awaited their return. There was hardly a dry eye in the little company, for by now they all knew that among those they were committing to the grave was Jim’s chum.
The song over, Jim prayed, and the graves were filled in. As he looked for the last time on the dearly-loved face of his old comrade he found comfort in the blessed assurance that they would meet in the Better Land, where pain and parting, war and death are unknown.
The War Cry.