It was late afternoon and dusk was laying its cloak over the land when a brigadier arrived, briefly consulted with Captain McCallum, and then departed. In a moment he returned, however, and again spoke to the company commander. The latter turned abruptly and called the name of Tom Walton. Wonderingly Tom approached and saluted. “Thomas Walton,” the captain announced, in what Tom thought were terribly solemn tones, “by order of the commander of this brigade I advance you to the place of sergeant.” “What—,” Tom began impetuously, even for the moment forgetting discipline. “For the capture of a German colonel, who is also a much-wanted spy,” the general supplemented. “Young man, I congratulate you.” Tom came to a stiff salute; the general responded, turned abruptly and strode off. Tom Walton was left with his captain to be assigned to his new duties. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER IX AT REST IF one wants to know the real tragedy of war, he does not have to see the battle waged; he need not watch men fight and fall, need not hear their anguished moans, nor even witness their awful agony. He has only to be with a company, a battalion or a regiment when the tally of casualties is made to hear—when the weary struggle relaxes for a few hours, and there is comparative peace and quiet—the calling of the roll, with those fearful, ominous silences that follow name after name. One more closely visions then the human holocaust, and finds his mind wandering in dismal, useless, melancholy speculation. He wonders, and wondering, too vividly pictures to himself, what has happened “out there” to those brave men who are not present to respond to their names. He knows that sometimes the explanation lies in the fact that they have become separated from their own units in the fighting, and, unable to get back, are for the time attached to entirely different regiments. But more often the cause is all too clear; and comrades who have safely survived the terrible ordeal—who silently close up the ranks that have been left with great gaps—stand at rigid attention, their faces as fixed masks, their hearts torn by sorrow. For friends whose real worth has been tried and proved in the acid test of bloody battle and in the face of death, have “gone west”—west, as the fine but futile sentiment of an awful loneliness likes to picture it, to the place, the far distant place, where home is; west, to the land of the setting sun, where there is no war, no death, where all is peace and quiet and happiness. “Gone west!”—as one repeats it many times the tragedy of it drops away, and the expressive words take on the tranquility of a benediction.