I shall always think that the finest compliment paid to Major Donovan was the devotion of John Patrick Kayes, an Irishman, very tall, very thin, somewhat stoop-shouldered, not at all young, and a servant of the rich in civil life. The Irish in him had made him a volunteer. He was put in charge of the Battalion H. Q. mess, and I used to tell Donovan that I came to visit him, not on account of his own attractions, but because of what John Kayes had to offer me. He refused to remain behind in action. He wanted to be where the Major was, though he knew that anybody who kept near Donovan stood an excellent chance of being killed. On July 31st he went forward with him on his restless rounds, which led them out of the shelter of Bois Colas into the open country. A German machine gun began firing at them and Kayes was struck in the ankle. He fell forward into the path of the bullets and as different portions of his long body neared the ground he was hit successively in the thigh, arm and face. He still had strength enough to protest that the Major should not risk himself by carrying him in. He died in hospital weeks later, his last thoughts being that Major Donovan would be neglected with him gone. The terms “hero” and “butler” are not generally associated in fiction, but they met in the person of John Patrick Kayes. Major Lawrence tells me that he met Captain P. P. Rafferty, a doctor in our Divisional Sanitary Train, who told him, “We had an original character from your outfit through here last week—a Lieutenant Connelly. He was lying on a cot and in a good deal of pain, I knew, when I was surprised to hear him laugh a hearty laugh. I thought he was going out of his head and I went over to him and said, ‘What’s happened to you that’s funny, Lieutenant?’” “‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I was just thinking about something.’ “‘Let me in on it,’ I said. ‘There is not much to amuse a man happening around here.’ “‘Well,’ said he, ‘it’s just an incident of battle. I was in command of a Company that had just about forty men left, and Major Donovan gave me orders to send some of them one way and some another and take the rest and capture a woods and Meurcy Farm. Just after I started I got into a mix-up and was put out of action and my first thought was ‘Thank God! Now I don’t have to take that damn farm.’” One of my own prayers of Thanksgiving is “Praise be! Major Lawrence is back.” When I told him so he thanked me for the compliment, but I said, “George, don’t take it as coming from me. It is only for my own peace of mind. Since the day you left I have been pestered by everybody, officers and men, who have the right to wear your red cross armlet, with the plaintive petition, ‘Father Duffy, can’t you do something to get our Major back?’”