I was No. I in the leading set of 4's. The man on my left was named
"Pete Walling," a cheery sort of fellow. He laughed and joked all the
way on the march, buoyed up my drooping spirits. I could not figure
out anything attractive in again occupying the front line, but Pete
did not seem to mind, said it was all in a lifetime. My left heel was
blistered from the rubbing 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.

We had gotten half-way through the communication trench, Pete in my
immediate rear. He had his hand on my shoulder, as men in a
communication trench have to keep in touch with each Other. We had
just climbed over a 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 a 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 covered with blood. I
flashed the light on his face, and in its glow a grayish-blue color
was stealing over his countenance. Pete looked up at me and said:

"Well, Yank, they've done me in. I can feel myself going West." His
voice was getting fainter and I had to kneel down to get the 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 it