The details when they came were scanty but enough. That early morning, the Brigade on their left being engaged in a small local attack, the Essex standing to arms had been bombarded by the enemy’s light artillery. Oscar was threading his way behind his men, all anxiety on their account, and had just asked Sergeant Clarke: ‘Is everybody all right?’ At that moment a small high-explosive just cleared the parapet, but not the opposite edge of the narrow trench, bursting close behind Oscar’s head: he died where he fell unconscious, and was buried that night by a party of the men he loved. It is not for us to add one word of our own; but with a very few of the wonderful tributes from others, we shall leave our dear son to rest in the hearts of many loving friends. Said the Eton Chronicle, in an obituary notice already quoted on the opening page: [57] Oscar Hornung came from Mr. Churchill’s at Stone House in September 1908 to Mr. H. de Havilland, and after six years left last July to go to Cambridge. His inherited love of literature made him an eager reader of books at all times. A Division Master recognised this one year when he gave him a special prize for English work. A good cross-country runner he was second in Junior and third in Senior Steeplechases. At football he played a hard game, and his energy as Captain of Games was notorious. A few days after leaving Eton, thinking that the best chance to get to the front was in a reserve regiment, he joined the 3rd Essex. At Harwich he lived until April in a farm-house on the marsh next the sea, and in April he went with his enthusiasm to France. Among other exploits he one night leading three others crept 200 yards to the barbed wire until they could hear the diggers, and then after a successful bomb throwing came back with his ear badly injured. On July 6th when behind the parapet he was struck by a shell and died in the trench without recovering consciousness. A letter from a General Officer says: ‘His platoon were wild with grief, as they worshipped him. The men said he was absolutely fearless and was employed on all sorts of jobs, machine guns, bombs, patrols, etc,’ Any one who knew him will recognise the boy at Eton. He revelled in every hour of his life at the Front just as he had in life in general. ‘He lies buried in a cemetery made by the Essex Regiment behind a farm which goes by the name of Turco Farm on the east side of the Yser Canal.’ A simple-minded and religious boy he lived the straightest of lives, always at the top of some enthusiasm whether playing games or fighting Germans. His affection for the School at all times was intense and he wrote that Eton meant more than ever to him out[58] there; every letter to the last showed the same spirit. Full of thought for others he was loved by all who knew him.