“By five o’clock, sir.” “I will be back at 4.30.” “You must take some rest, Colonel, or you’ll break down.” “Thank you, Campbell, I can look after myself!” “Very good, sir.” As he went away Captain Campbell looked after him rather anxiously. “Never would have thought _he could_ be so upset,” he mused. “He’ll be in hospital, if----” Straight back to Brielen the Colonel walked, and there he met his orderly with the horses. He mounted without a word, and rode on, through Vlamertinghe, until he reached Popheringe. There he dismounted. “I shall be some time,” he said to the orderly. He went through the square, up the noisy street leading to the Vehrenstraat, and along it, until he reached a little shop, in which were still a few flowers. He entered, and a frightened-looking woman came to serve him. “I want three red roses,” he said. It took the saleswoman several minutes to understand, but finally she showed him what she had. The roses were not in their first bloom, but they were large and red. The Colonel had them done up, and left carrying them carefully. The rest of his time he spent in repairing as well as might be the ravages of battle on his clothes and person. At 4.20 he was again at the dressing-station. A quiet-voiced padre awaited him there, a tall, ascetic-looking man, with the eyes of a seer. They carried the bundles on the stretcher to the graves, three among many, just behind the dressing-station. “Almighty God, as it has pleased Thee to take the souls of these, our dear brothers ...” the sonorous voice read on, while the C.O. stood, bare-headed, at the head of the graves, holding in his hand the three red roses. The short burial service came to an end. The Colonel walked to the foot of each grave in turn, and gently threw on each poor shattered remnant a red rose. Straightening himself, he stood long at the salute, and then, with a stern, set face, he strode away, to where the Padre awaited him, not caring that his eyes were wet. The Padre said nothing, but took his hand and gripped it. “Padre,” said the Colonel, “those three were more to me than any other of my officers; I thought of them as my children.” ADJUTANTS If Fate cherishes an especial grievance against you, you will be made an Adjutant. One of those bright beautiful mornings, when all the world is young and, generally speaking, festive, the sword of Damocles will descend upon you, and you will be called to the Presence, and told you are to be Adjutant. You will, perhaps, be rather inclined to think yourself a deuce of a fellow on that account. You will acquire a pair of spurs, and expect to be treated with respect. You will, in fact, feel that you are a person of some importance, quite the latest model in good little soldiers. You may--and this is the most cruel irony of all--be complimented on your appointment by your brother officers. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, saith the preacher!