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 of mind that was wrong; always suspecting unreality subconsciously even when he knew it wasn’t there. No, perhaps it was that fear and reverence of death that irritated; he had never been afraid of death—nor had old Andy.

“Don’t put it in so high up, boys,” he said. ‘‘They’ll see it and knock this bay to hell.” The men lowered the wooden cross till the position met with their officer’s approval. He watched it sombrely—that little cross was all they had to show for Andy; that and memory. It was a good thing Andy didn’t care about being buried properly and death and hell and all that rot.

He read the inscription again as the men wired it into position against the parapet.

His mind went back to that trench opposite this point three days ago—the yelling and the noise and the fierce excitement