MAJOR AS PADRE.

Press, Volume LIV, Issue 16141, 20 February 1918, Page 5

MAJOR AS PADRE.

BURIAL SERVICE OVER NEW ZEALA^DERS. AX INCIDENT OX THE WESTERN FRONT. Private Victor Grayson, formerly Socialist M.l\ for Colne Valley, Yorks. (who enlisted in the New Zealand Forces in Christchurch). writes in the liondon "Daily Mail" :— There is not an ammunition dump within a mile and :v half of our bivouac, and the very nearest- battery is probably a mile distant. \ct for oyer two hours the Uoche has been sheding oui immediate vicinity witli all tho furious cuoh'v of hate. Through the whole of this *2ecklo?s "strai'o" we havo kept, close to the mouths of our dug-outs, ■while Fritz has torn the alreadv shellploughed earth into crazier undulations. At last, with the seemingly gratified moan of tho enemy's last shell, the s ,,n sails forth from a heavy screen of sullen clouds —and a hundred or more smil'ng New Zealanders emerge from tho muddy misery of thoir wafer-logged holes. AYe spread our oil-sheots and prepare to stretch ourselves luxuriously under the warm rays of the welcome sun . . • hut our energetic sergeant appears, carrying a spade on his shoulder. "You've had a rare old spell this morning," he crie«. "Well, now, what about a funeral partyP" In loss than len minutes there are twenty of us. armed with picks and spades, following his sturdy figure towards a ridge somo of hundred yards away, on the other side of which lie the gallant victims of a recont action awaiting burial, -several heroic —oven foolhardy—attempts have been made to brina; them in, but the wntchful hate of the Bocho extends evon unto tho dead, and every effort has served but. to iucrease tho melancholy toll. Just as they were smitten down they lie. . . . Our hands tremble sligthly (for little like our task) as -we fumble for pay-books or identification discs, so that, anxious loved ones may cross the border of anguished uncertainty. Silently we ply our spades, and in crude graves, hastily made, we la.v our comrades with a tenderness that only soldier-sextons know. Suddenly our grim labours are interrupted bv the cheery voice of a young officer —a fair-liaired major whom we have not seen before. "Just one. momont, boys," ho says, in a clear voice which, attracts the attention of most of us. " "Is there no chaplain with you?" Our sergeant explains that our labours are a casual inspiration of his own, and that our padro is away with another burial party at another place. Tho major scratches his head. "Hang it all!" he says. "Wo can't put the dear lads in like this. ... It seems so shabby, somehow." There is a moment's awkward pause, in which he sosms to bo debating something with himself. "Look here," he says, brightening up, "I'm pretty sure to make a. mull of it. but there v s—er —nobody here to criticiso! . . . I'll just run"over what I can remember of the—er—Burial Service. . . . It'll make a bit of difference, somehow!" "Stand by. lads!" calls the sergeant, and the major clears his throat. A couple of shells lob near an abandoned pill-box some fifty yards away. TYo remove our steel and reverently bow our heads. The major's modesty is amply justified. Ho < does not remember much of tho Burial Service, and at times ho helps himself to stray portions of Scripture to fill in the gaps. His voice falters and stumbles, but he manfully perseveres. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dost. . . Following his example, we stoop and throw a handful, of soft earth solemnly into the respective graves. The service is over, and we notice that tho major is blushing. "Good-bye, lads," calls out the amateur padre, as ho strides away. "Good luck, sir!" wo answer, and sot to work to cover up tho anointed dead. And though the brnte-enemy is quickly getting our range, we manage, before returning to our holes, to seal our labours with a clumsy sign of the Cross.