The waggon jolted along the straight white road to the cemetery, which was a little dusty acre on a plain between the hills.  We halted at the gate, and Monty, getting down from his seat, robed by the front wheels.  And, when the seven bodies had been removed in their stretchers from the waggon and laid in a line upon the road, the corporal of the Burial Party saluted Monty, and said: 

“One’s an officer, sir.  Will you take him first?”

“I’ll go in front,” answered Monty.  “Then the seven bodies, one after another, the officer’s body leading.  Feet first, of course.”

“Very good, sir.”  The corporal, seeing that the bearers stood ready at the head and foot of each stretcher, said quietly: 

“Bearers, raise!”

All the bearers bent in simultaneous motion, and lifted the stretchers from the road.

“Slow—­march!”

The procession moved off, Monty in front picking his way between the graves towards those open to receive the day’s dead.  The Greek grave-diggers rested on their spades, and bared their heads.  Some stray French soldiers sprang to attention, and saluted.  A few curious British and a tall brown Sikh copied the Frenchmen, remaining at the salute till the procession had passed.  And, when the open graves were reached, all these stragglers gathered round to form a little company of mourners.

Having seen the bodies laid by the graves, the corporal bent over the form of the dead officer, and removed from his breast that small piece of paper, which was always pinned to the blanket to state the man’s identity:  in this case it happened to be a government envelope, marked “On His Majesty’s Service.”  The corporal handed it to Monty.

I recall the moment of his action as the last quiet moment before an unexpected shock.  I seem to remember that it was a very graceful body, long and shapely, that lay there, outlined beneath the tightly-wrapped blanket.  It looked like an embalmed Egyptian.

Monty read the envelope, and frowned.  He read it again, crumpled it up, and looked down at the long, slender form of the dead officer.  Then, glancing round for Doe and me, and catching our eyes, as we watched him in curiosity, he handed the envelope to us.  We smoothed out its crumpled folds, and read:  “On His Majesty’s Service.  Lieut.  James Doon.”

This was the message that the Peninsula had contemptuously tossed to us.

Monty began the service, but I scarcely heard him.  I was staring at the blanketed form, and thinking of Jimmy as he had been:  Jimmy with all his bitter jests about death; Jimmy grumbling on the Rangoon because he would have to stay at Mudros “till the end of the world”; Jimmy leaving for the Peninsula with the words that he would be back soon.  I thought how strange it was that we should have been sitting on that G.S. waggon, without knowing that we were taking a last ride with Jimmy Doon.  I pictured again Jimmy being borne into the cemetery, feet first, at the head of his six dead men.