The Church of England service had come last of all.  Late in the afternoon a youthful and red-faced chaplain had arrived on a bicycle, to find a party of officers and men lying in the shade of a broad oak waiting for him. (They were a small party:  naturally, the great majority of the regiment are what the identity-discs call “Pres” or “R.C.”)

“Sorry to be late, sir,” he said to the senior officer, saluting.  “This is my sixth sh—­service to-day, and I have come seven miles for it.”

He mopped his brow cheerfully; and having produced innumerable hymn-books from a saddle-bag and set his congregation in array, read them the service, in a particularly pleasing and well-modulated voice.  After that he preached a modest and manly little sermon, containing references which carried Bobby Little, for one, back across the Channel to other scenes and other company.  After the sermon came a hymn, sung with great vigour.  Tommy loves singing hymns—­when he happens to know and like the tune.

“I know you chaps like hymns,” said the padre, when they had finished.  “Let’s have another before you go.  What do you want?”

A most unlikely-looking person suggested “Abide with Me.”  When it was over, and the party, standing as rigid as their own rifles, had sung “God Save the King,” the preacher announced, awkwardly—­almost apologetically—­

“If any of you would like to—­er—­communicate, I shall be very glad.  May not have another opportunity for some time, you know.  I think over there”—­he indicated a quiet corner of the wood, not far from the little cemetery—­“would be a good place.”

He pronounced the benediction, and then, after further recurrence to his saddle-bag, retired to his improvised sanctuary.  Here, with a ration-box for altar, and strands of barbed wire for choir-stalls, he made his simple preparations.

Half a dozen of the men, and all the officers, followed him.  That was just a week ago.

* * * * *

Captain Wagstaffe broke the silence at last.

“It’s a rotten business, war,” he said pensively—­“when you come to think of it.  Hallo, there goes the first star-shell!  Come along, Bobby!”

Dusk had fallen.  From the German trenches a thin luminous thread stole up into the darkening sky, leaned over, drooped, and burst into dazzling brilliance over the British parapet.  Simultaneously a desultory rifle fire crackled down the lines.  The night’s work had begun.

XIX

THE TRIVIAL ROUND

We have been occupying trenches, off and on, for a matter of two months, and have settled down to an unexhilarating but salutary routine.  Each dawn we “stand to arms,” and peer morosely over the parapet, watching the grey grass turn slowly to green, while snipers’ bullets buzz over our heads.  Each forenoon we cleanse our dew-rusted weapons, and build up with sandbags what the persevering