one side of the street. By these sandbags a sergeant had been placed on
guard with strictest orders to forbid the passing of any one, without
exception, toward the area where the wounded lay. It was certain death to
permit it. We had no men to spare, we had no men to lose, we had to
conserve every one of our effectives.

As time wore on and the enemy fire grew hotter, a Roman Catholic chaplain
reached the side of the sergeant. "Sergeant, I want to go over to the aid
of those wounded men."

"No, sir, my orders are absolutely strict. I am to let no one go across, no
matter what his rank."

The chaplain considered a moment, but he did not move from where he stood
beside the sergeant.

A minute passed and a chaplain of the Presbyterian faith came up.
"Sergeant, I want to go across to those men. They are in a bad way."

"I know, sir. Sorry, sir. Strict orders that no one must be allowed to
pass."

"Who are your orders from?"

"High authority, sir."

"Ah!" The padre looked at the sergeant....

"Sorry, Sergeant, but I have orders from a Higher Authority," and the
Presbyterian minister rushed across the bullet-swept area. He fell dead