His real name was P----, but his name must not be mentioned on account of the family who mourns for him in a corner of the County of Surrey. We will simply call him "Ronny," as his school friends, and, later on, his brothers-in-arms, used to call him. "Ronny" was barely eighteen years old when war broke out. He was full of spirit, and already had a knowledge of soldiering, so he volunteered immediately, and soon got his commission. His appearance was incredibly young. Fine features. A well-bred nose and a child's eyes. When he first appeared in mess he was bombarded with amiable chaff, all of which he took in good part and replied with witty retaliation. He could exchange a joke without malice, like the good sportsman that he was. Above all, "Ronny" was fond of his job. He threw his whole soul into the work of glory, which he accomplished with ease and grace, for he had rare gifts of leadership. You should have seen him on the barrack square with his men, this wisp of a boy. "Company, properly at ease everywhere." The moment he spoke, discipline and obedience reigned. The fact is, "Ronny" was "some" boy. His Colonel thought him too good a soldier to leave behind when the battalion was ordered abroad, even though he loved him as his son. Then followed two long, weary years of fighting, which only served to draw these two (master and pupil) closer together. On 3rd September, 1916, during the Somme offensive, the battalion was in action on the Ancre, and did gloriously. The day was won, but at roll-call there was no "Ronny." At first he was said to be dead, then wounded, but no trace of him could be found, either among the dead or in the hospitals. So Captain P----, 20 years old, appeared in the official lists as "Missing." [Illustration: 14. "MULTIS ILLE BONIS FLEBILIS OCCIDIT."] One day the Colonel received a letter from "Ronny's" parents. They had seen his name in the lists. "What does this mean? They said 'Missing.' Can we still hope?" Between men of the same county and lineage, whose heart and blood have but one pulse, there is no need to dissemble. "Your son was as my own," said the Colonel. "Our sorrow is the same." So they mourned for "Ronny." On 19th November two men, the Colonel and myself, visited, with heavy hearts, the field of the Ancre (a further edition of the same fight), still teeming with the heat of battle. The dead lay scattered around, some horribly mutilated, some struck down in the very act of fighting, with gestures of defiance to the enemy and their weapons--even to Heaven itself. Alas, for the vanity of all human ambitions! As for me--you remember, dear Colonel--I was distraught and beside myself, and could only murmur, "Poor devils! Poor devils!" You were calmer, more familiar (is it possible?) with these horrors. Yet your sad eyes were a proof to me that even soldiers do feel.