,--

"YES!"

We were in an open ditch. The rain was beating down on our faces. We were
waiting for darkness when we could go to our unpleasant work of
grave-digging. To-morrow there would be more dead bodies and more graves
to dig, and the day after, the same duty, and the day after that, the
same. Week after week we should be living like this, killing and being
killed, binding up terrible wounds, digging graves, always doing the same
work with not one bright or pleasant thing to look forward to.

These were my thoughts as I sat on the firing-bench with my head drawn
down between my knees watching the water dripping from the edges of my
puttees. But I had forgotten one important item in the daily routine:
supper. And I had forgotten Private Lemley, our cook, or, to give him his
due, our _chef_. He was not the man to waste his time in gloomy
reflection. With a dozen mouldy potatoes which he had procured Heaven
knows where, four tins of corned beef, and a canteen lid filled with
bacon grease for raw materials, he had set to work with the enthusiasm of
the born artist, the result being rissoles, brown, crisp, and piping hot.
It is a pleasure to think of that meal. Private Lemley was one of the
rare souls of earth, one of the Mark Tapleys who never lost his courage
or his good spirits. I remember how our spirits rose at the sound of his
voice, and how gladly and quickly we responded to his summons.

"'Ere you are, me lads! Bully beef rissoles an' 'ot tea, an' it ain't
'arf bad fer the trenches if I do s'y it."

I can only wonder now at the keenness of our appetites in the midst of
the most gruesome surroundings. Dead men were lying about us, both in the
trenches and outside of them. And yet our rissoles were not a whit the
less enjoyable on that account.

It was quite dark when we had finished. The sergeant jumped to his feet.

"Let's get at it, boys," he said.

Half an hour later we erected a wooden cross in Tommy's grave-strewn
garden. It bore the following inscription written in pencil:

Pte. # 4326 MacDonald.
Pte. # 7864 Gardner.
Pte. # 9851 Preston.
Pte. # 6940 Allen.
Royal Fusiliers.
"They did their bit."

Quietly we slipped back into the trench and piled our picks and shovels
on the parados.

"Got yer mouth-organ 'andy, Nobby?" some one asked.

"She's alwa