The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1918-03-19
viii.
The Little Wooden Gross.

The Little Wooden Cross.
After remaining In rest billets for
eight days, we received the unwelcome
tidings that the next morning we would
"go in" to "take over" At six in the
morning our march started and, after
q long march down the dusty road, we
again arrived at reserve billets.
I was No. 1 in the leading set Of
tours. The man on my left was named
"Pete Walling," a CHEEKY sort Of fell
low. He laughed and joked all the
way on the march, buoying up my
dropping spirits. I could not figure out
anything attractive In again occupying
the front line, but Pete did not seem to
mind, said 1t was all in a lifetime. My
left heel was blistered from the rub
bling Of my heavy marching boot. Pete
noticed that I was limping and offered
to carry my rifle, but by this time I had
learned the ethics Of the march In the
British army and courteously refused
his offer.
is We had gotten halfway through the
communication trench, Pete In my i'm
mediate. rear. He had his hand on my
shoulder, as men in q communication
trench have to do to keep in touch with
each other. We had just climbed over
q bashed-in part Of the trench when
In our rear a man tripped over a loose
signal wire, and let out an oath. As
usual, Pete rushed to his help. To
reach the fallen man he had to cross
this bashed-in part. A bullet cracked
in the air and I ducked. Then q moan
from the rear My heart stood still.
I went back and Pete was lying on the
ground. By the aid Of my flashlight
I saw that he had his hand pressed to
his right breast. The fingers were COW
cred with blood. / flashed the light
on his face and in its glow a grayish-
blue color was stealing yer his coun-
tenance. Pete looked up at me and
said: WELL, Yank, they've done m in.
I can feel myself going West" His
voice vas getting fainter and I had to
kneel down to get his words. Then he
gave me a message to write home to
his mother and his sweetheart, and I,
like a great big boob, cried like a baby.
I was losing my first friend Of the
trenches.
Word was passed to the rear for a
stretcher. He died before 1t arrived.
Two Of US put the body on the
stretcher and carried it to the nearest
first-aid post, where the doctor took
an official record Of Pete's name, num-
Der, rank and regiment from his iden-
tity disk, this to be used In the cas-
ualty lists and notification to his
family.
We left Pete there, but 1t broke our
hearts to do so. The doctor informed
us that we could bury him the next
morning. That afternoon five Of the
boys Of our section, myself included,
went to the little ruined village in the
rear and from the deserted gardens Of
the French chateaux gathered grass
and flowers. From these we made a
wreath.
While the boys were making this
wreath, I sat under a shot-scarred
apple tree and carved out the follow
ing verses on a little wooden shield
which we nailed on Pete's cross.
True to his God; true to Britain,
Doing his duty to the last,
Just one more name to be written
On the Roll Of Honor Of heroes passed
Passed to their God. enshrined in glory,
Entering life Of eternal rest.
One more chapter in England's story
OF her SONS doing their best
Rest, you soldier, mate 80 true,
Never forgotten BY US below;
Know that We are thinking Of o
8! Ere to our rest We are hidden to %.