THREE RED ROSES
Inthe distance rose the spires of Ypres, and the water-tower, useless now for the purpose for which it was built, but still erect on its foundations. The silvery mist of early April hung very lightly over the flat surrounding land, hiding one corner of Vlamertinghe from sight, where the spire of the church still raised its head, as yet unvanquished. A red sun was rising in the East, and beyond Ypres a battle still raged, though nothing to the battle of a few short days before. Hidden batteries spoke now and then, and the roads were a cloud of dust, as men, transport, guns, and many ambulances passed along them. Overhead aeroplanes droned, and now and again shells whistled almost lazily overhead, to fall with a thunderous “crrumph” in Brielen and Vlamertinghe.
By the canal there was a dressing-station. The little white flag with its red cross hung listless in the still air. Motor ambulances drove up at speed and departed with theirburdens. Inside the dressing-station men worked ceaselessly, as they had been working for days. Sometimes shells fell near by. No one heeded them.
Beyond the dressing-station, down the road, the banks of which were filled with little niches hollowed out with entrenching tools, hurried a figure. He was but one of many, but there was that about him which commanded the attention of all who saw him. His spurs and boots were dirty, his uniform covered with stains and dust, his face unshaven. He walked like a man in a dream, yet as of set purpose. Pale and haggard, he strode along, mechanically acknowledging salutes.
Arrived at the dressing-station, without pausing he entered, and went up to one of the doctors who was bandaging the remnants of an arm.
“Have they come yet?” he asked.
The other looked at him gravely with a certain respect and pity, and with the eye also of a medical man.
“Not yet, Colonel,” he answered. “You had better sit down and rest, you are all in.”
The Colonel passed a weary hand over his forehead.
“No,” he said. “No, Campbell; I shall go back and look for the party. They may have lost their way, and—they were three of my best officers, three of my boys.... I—I——”
“Here, sir! Take this.”
It was more of a command than a request. The Colonel drained what was given him, and went out without a word.
Back he trudged, along the shell-pitted road, even now swept by occasional salvos of shrapnel. He took no notice of anything, but continued feverishly on his way, his eyes ever searching the distance. At last he gave vent to an exclamation. Down the road was coming a stretcher party. They had but one stretcher, and on it lay three blanketed bundles.
The Colonel met them, and with bowed head accompanied them back to the dressing-station.
“You found them—all?” It was his only question.
“Yes, sir, all that was left.”
The stretcher was taken to a little empty dug-out, and with his own hands the C.O. laid the Union Jack over it.
“When will the—the graves be ready?” he asked the doctor.
“By five o’clock, sir.”
“I will be back at 4.30.”
“You must take some rest, Colonel, or you’ll break down.”
“Thank you, Campbell, I can look after myself!”
“Very good, sir.”
As he went away Captain Campbell looked after him rather anxiously.
“Never would have thoughthe couldbe so upset,” he mused. “He’ll be in hospital, if——”
Straight back to Brielen the Colonel walked, and there he met his orderly with the horses. He mounted without a word, and rode on, through Vlamertinghe, until he reached Popheringe. There he dismounted.
“I shall be some time,” he said to the orderly.
He went through the square, up the noisy street leading to the Vehrenstraat, and alongit, until he reached a little shop, in which were still a few flowers. He entered, and a frightened-looking woman came to serve him.
“I want three red roses,” he said.
It took the saleswoman several minutes to understand, but finally she showed him what she had. The roses were not in their first bloom, but they were large and red. The Colonel had them done up, and left carrying them carefully. The rest of his time he spent in repairing as well as might be the ravages of battle on his clothes and person. At 4.20 he was again at the dressing-station.
A quiet-voiced padre awaited him there, a tall, ascetic-looking man, with the eyes of a seer.
They carried the bundles on the stretcher to the graves, three among many, just behind the dressing-station.
“Almighty God, as it has pleased Thee to take the souls of these, our dear brothers ...” the sonorous voice read on, while the C.O. stood, bare-headed, at the head of the graves, holding in his hand the three red roses. The short burial service came to an end.
The Colonel walked to the foot of eachgrave in turn, and gently threw on each poor shattered remnant a red rose. Straightening himself, he stood long at the salute, and then, with a stern, set face, he strode away, to where the Padre awaited him, not caring that his eyes were wet. The Padre said nothing, but took his hand and gripped it.
“Padre,” said the Colonel, “those three were more to me than any other of my officers; I thought of them as my children.”